They lingered outside for a while. Patrick went to lean against the lamp post and lit a cigarette as he watched his companion step out of the light and look up at the stars.

He had never noticed, with her wimple in the way, just how lovely her bone structure actually was. He could see now, how delicately angular her cheekbones were, how her glasses softened her features. A little breeze picked up and Patrick watched it play through her hair, taking a few strands flying forward and catching her lips. He studied the strands as they fluttered, until she brushed her hair back behind her ear. Then, he contented himself with studying her lips. They were pale. Parted slightly in her distraction. The corners curling back in a wistful smile.

The breeze returned, this time a quick, cold gust. He noticed her shoulders shudder and her lips part to inhale a shaky breath.

Oh, Patrick, he though. What are you doing to yourself?

Patrick exhaled the last of his cigarette and tossed the butt to the ground. He glanced up over his shoulder at their inn. Somewhere on the second floor was a solitary room waiting for both of them.

When he looked back at her, she had wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself against the chill.

"Shall we head in?" he spoke quietly, nervous to disturb the night air. She hummed her agreement, but didn't look away from the stars. Patrick pushed off the streetlamp and approached her. He wanted to say her name to get her attention, but when his tongue tried to form the words 'Sister Bernadette', they didn't seem right. Instead, he gently placed his hand just above the small of her back. The slightest of pressure, just enough for her to know that he was there. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the blouse. He could feel the shiver run down her spine.

He'd startled her; she snapped her head to look at him.

"Shall we go in?"

There was a shadow of some emotion that cast itself over her face. Patrick wasn't sure what he had said wrong, but she bowed her head and was quiet a moment. "Yes," she finally said, "that's probably best."

Inside, the innkeeper greeted them with a drowsy, "Good evening, Dr. Turner, Mrs. Turner. How was your dinner?"

Mrs. Turner. What a foreign phrase now to Patrick's ears. Had it really been two years?

Beside him, she spoke. "We had a lovely time. Thank you for the recommendation." Patrick thought her accent seemed thicker, fuller in the vowels – perhaps this was a usual sign of her tiredness.

Back in their room, he stripped off his jacket and vest and carefully folded them onto the back of a chair. Then he took his toothbrush and left for the toilet down the hall, silently giving her the privacy to change. As he stood over the sink, mechanically moving the brush across his teeth, a conversation with Sister Bernadette came back to him.

Months ago, he had been concerned for Timothy and the boy's need for a mother. He had been thinking about companionship, about dating, about marriage – for a while, he had been grappling with the notation that he wanted a new companion. He missed Marion. There was a little ache inside of him every time he thought her name, every time he looked at Timothy. The ache had transformed a lot in two years. It used to be all consuming, debilitating. Now it was like an old memory.

When he returned to their room, he found her kneeling beside the bed, hands clasped in prayer. He wasn't sure what to do. He felt awkward having intruded. He closed the door as quietly as he could and stood just in front of it, looking at his feet and trying not to watch her. Then he heard the rustle of clothing and a squeak from the bed. He looked up to see her smiling at him, even as she wrapped her bedgown tighter around her.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said because he didn't know what else to say.

"You didn't." Her smile grew even brighter. He couldn't remember ever seeing her smile so freely. It made her eyes light up. They were a blue-grey – he wasn't sure he'd ever notice that before.

She excused herself to toilet and Patrick stood near the door, staring at the place she had just abandoned.

He was feeling something very confusing to him. An ache, right in the pit of his chest, one different entirely from when his mind dwelt on Marion. Different from the guilt of disappointing Timothy.

Patrick shook himself from his reverie and quickly changed into his pajamas.

By the time she had returned, he'd already taken a pillow off the bed and tucked himself into the couch. He winked at her playfully when she shook her head at his chivalry, but she crawled into the bed without saying a word.

/-/-

A beam of light peaked through the curtains and struck Patrick directly between his eyes. He scrunched his face and shifted deeper into his pillow. Then he noticed a cramp in his calf. His stretched his legs, but his feet quickly fell over the edge of the bed. He reached up and rubbed his face and gradually cracked his eyes opened. Something was wrong, but he couldn't quite tell in the darkness.

He looked up in the direction of his alarm clock. But there was no clock, no nightstand, in fact no wall. Instead, his eyes fell upon a young woman kneeling before her bed, the bit of light illuminating the room around her. He went still, trying to be as quiet as possible so she wouldn't know he was awake. He closed his eyes.

He wondered, vaguely, how often the sisters prayed every day. He wondered more what Sister Bernadette prayed for. What was she praying for now? Clarity over her thoughts, guidance for what to do next, forgiveness for their "holiday"?

His neck was stiff and he suddenly realized his butt was hanging off the edge of the chaise lounge, but he didn't want move.

Finally, he heard rustling and assumed it was her standing up from prayer. Patrick opened his eyes and saw, very much to his surprise, her standing in just her nightgown. She had her back to him, but he could tell she was working the buttons on the front. It took his sleepy brain too long to realize that she was dressing for the day while she assumed he was still asleep; he saw the cotton sweep over her shoulders and watched it fall – down her shoulder blades, grazing the small of her back, slowing slightly around the curve of her bottom, before disappearing from view. He told himself to close his eyes, to look away, but he was too nervous about making any sound at all.

So he watched her dress. Her milky skin was quickly covered, but the knowledge of her was now captured in his mind's eye, down to a cluster of freckles on her right shoulder.

While she buttoned her blouse, he closed his eyes and made a show of shifting onto his back. He heard her quicken her movements and, a few moments later, heard her sneak out the door and down the hallway. By the time she had returned, he was awake and mostly dressed.

/-/-

Patrick went down to check them out while she remained and tidied up the room. And, because she didn't want to be seen wearing yesterday's outfit, Patrick waved her down while the landlady popped into the back room.

Then Patrick loaded their cases into the car and they were off.

For the first half of the drive, they enjoyed the sunny morning and chatted about the conference, trading notes about the lectures they each had attended. The conversation was light and flowed easily. It gave Patrick hope that his gift, this holiday, had gone well.

But as they neared London, reality seeped into the car. His companion got quieter and soon he realized they needed some opportunity for her to change before they made it much farther.

There was nothing around for miles – just open pastures and a long, straight road. He pulled over and she seemed to know what for without either having to say anything.

They both got out of the car. Patrick retrieved her case from the boot and passed it to her. For a moment, they both held the handle, just a step away from each other. She looked up at him. She wore a sad sort of smile, but there was a certain calmness about her that unnerved Patrick a little.

"Thank you for yesterday. I feel…" She stopped and searched for the right word. But, when she couldn't find one, she looked back up and said, "There's still – It gave me the space to think honestly."

She didn't give him a chance to respond. Instead, took her case and ducked into the back seat. Patrick sat on the boot and watched for other cars, but none came. It felt like no time at all when he heard the car door shut.

When he turned around, gone was the woman he had just spent a day with, who he had danced with and laughed with and watched pray. Gone was her lovely hair, the full dimension of her features. All replaced by Sister Bernadette.

And yet – the thought snaked into view – he knew precisely what lay beneath the thick, formless wool, knowledge that made her more enchanting, more alluring, more a woman than she ever had been to him before.