As soon as they're outside, Patrick pulled out his cigarette case, removed one, and placed it between his lips. Without thinking, he removed another. After he'd lit them both, he handed the second to the petite blonde beside him.

Their walk was as aimless as their conversation. They began with Shelagh's inquiries about Timothy, but the conversation settled on the clinic and work. Eventually, random bits of life took over the flow. Most of the time, the topic was about nothing of consequence, even though both desperately wished to ask a real question, a personal question.

Sometime during their conversation, they found dinner and enjoyed their way through each course, through dessert, even through a bottle of wine.

Afterwards, as they struggled to find a more direct route to the inn, they heard music filter into the streets.

Patrick smiled when he noticed Shelagh humming along, trying to catch the melody.

"I miss singing," she admitted after the song petered out. "And dancing. Michaelused to take me all the time. I loved it."

Patrick smiled at the wistfulness of her voice. "So, where's Michael now?"

Shelagh steps slowed until she brought them both to a halt. He saw her frown and watched as she looked up into the evening sky.

"He died. Somewhere in Germany, I was told."

Patrick looked down and rubbed the back of his neck. He felt like an idiot for asking. After so many years of peace, it had become almost easy to forget the devastation.

Her voice was calm, soft, almost painless, but her face told an entirely different story: the grief, the pain, the loss. Patrick watched her watch the sky and the emotions shifting across her features nearly broke him.

Suddenly, to shake her from her reverie, he pulled her towards the source of the music.

"Doctor, what are you doing?"

He just smiled at her and said, "Trust me?"

And he knew that she did. Moments later, they found themselves in a dance hall. They were hardly dressed for it, but they didn't care. Patrick bought them both a drink and they hung back in the corner briefly, getting a feel for the place, before jumping in to join the dancing.

He could see it in her eyes, in the way she smiled, in the way she lost herself in the music and began to sing when she knew the words. He heard it most in her laugh. Certainly, he had heard Sister Bernadette laugh before, but he realized now that her mirth had always been restrained, conservative or cut short. Here, in this unknown dance hall, with her hair in loose curls around her face, she laughed full from the belly until her eyes teared up.

When a slow song came on, Patrick didn't hesitate to pull her to him. She was stiff against him for just a moment, until the singer began to sing and the words calmed her. She tucked her chin into his jacket and rested her ear right against chest; he feared she could hear his heart pounding despite the loud music. Patrick took a chance. He splayed his hand over her lower back and dropped his chin against the top of her head.

Then he closed his eyes. For just a moment, he imagined that he was out on a holiday with his young wife, their children tucked away at home with their grandmother. He took note of her soft figure against him and imagined cuddling, warm and safe in bed, with this lovely creature. He felt some feeling blossoming in the pit of his stomach – some combination of contentment and lust – and he held onto that feeling until the music stopped and his dancing partner slowly pulled away.

/-/-

The cool evening air doused the warmth burning in her cheeks.

Shelagh was grateful for it. Inside the dance hall, the air had grown humid and stale and her chest had started to feel tight.

Outside, she looked up at the starry night and smiled.

"Has this holiday been helpful?"

They were the first words either had spoken in what felt like hours.

They walked side-by-side, but there was space between them – she couldn't feel the warmth radiating off his hands as she could inside the dance hall.

She considered his question for a moment. She'd had almost forgotten; his words seemed to shatter the fragile veil of make believe.

"Yes," she said slow, her accent naturally elongating the word as she continued to think about her answer. Then she looked up at him. "And no."

He wasn't looking at her, but rather down at the pavement as they walked. She hoped he would speak – ask some kind of clarifying question; somehow focus her thoughts for her. But he just waited for her to elaborate, waited and gave her space to speak.

She looked down at her hands, caressed the familiar metal in an unfamiliar place, and sighed.

"It has brought very little clarity to the issue itself," she admitted. "But tonight has reminded me who I used to be, before I was Sister Bernadette. I feel like I'd completely forgotten her – or, rather me."

Dr Turner didn't say anything. He didn't look at her. In fact, nothing about his manner seemed to change. And yet she knew, instinctively, that her words struck him.

They were silent for a long while as Dr Turner led them back to the inn. They turned a corner and the inn came into view. The thought of their shared room flooded back and Shelagh felt her stomach twist in anticipation.

But Dr Turner's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Can I ask…" His words trailed off breathlessly, like he knew he shouldn't ask, but couldn't stop himself.

Shelagh slowed her gait and Dr Turner brought them to a halt until a streetlamp. He turned so they faced each other. He looked down at her hands for a moment, then found her eyes. "Can I ask what you really needed the holiday for?"

It struck her that he wasn't really asking what she was feeling. He was asking what had led to this. What had changed and disturbed her steady confidence.

She wet her lips and found it difficult to look away from the black button on the top of his waistcoat.

"Lately," she said, so softly that Dr Turner hunched down a little to hear her better. "I've been wondering if I joined the order for the right reasons."

It was a hard admission, but once she spoke the words – once the words had become real – she knew them to be true.

But that was just the surface of her thoughts.

"Do you remember a few months ago, when Timothy cut his arm at school?"

Dr Turner nodded. Perhaps afraid to speak and scare her sudden ability to speak.

"He reminds me so much of Michael. Seeing Timothy that day… well it brought on so many thoughts of what could have been. It reminded me of what I had wanted for myself, so long ago. A life that ended – that I thought had ended with Michael."

She felt more than she heard Dr Turner's breathing change – slow and deep and steady, each exhale disturbing the strands of hair against her forehead.

Then he spoke. "You mentioned Michael earlier. Who was he to you?"

"My whole world." She really tried to picture his face, but all she could produce was Timothy's freckled features, his messy brown hair, his kind smile. His father's smile. Shelagh looked up to see Dr Turner gazing steadily down at her.

"He was my fiancé. We had so many dreams together – five kids and a farm and a wonderful life. But the war took it away – it took everything from me."

She had to look away from him. She had to swallow, to regain her composure. But she also had to finish speaking.

"The religious life brought so much peace back to my life and I don't know how I would have survived without my faith. But recently… recently I've felt a sense of loss that is unlike anything I've felt before. It's not grief, just an emptiness that I can't fill with prayer or work."

She thought she would almost break down and cry, but when peered back up at him, she felt her feet steady under her.

"Tonight was like glimpsing what might have been," she admitted. "It was very lovely."