So sorry for the long wait! Honestly, so many things can come between us and updating. Yeesh. Anyway, our first dive into Cecelia's memories is here for yall's enjoyment! Hope you like it and let us know what you think. Cheers!

Chapter Three

Memory 1: The Sister's Daughter

As per Cadence's intolerant instruction, Becket began the first memory sequence. A thin arching pane of glass moved over Cadence's eyes and almost immediately it projected a display of words and numbers. She could hear Becket typing on the computer beside her and within moments the world around her was engulfed in a white light and she was in her velvety prison no longer.

-AAA-

Paris, January 1497

Winter had always been the cruelest time of year, especially in Paris. It was something every occupant of Paris agreed on, even the rich and poor. Mornings were always the same during that time of year – snow covered the stone pavements and cobblestone walkways in thick hard clumps, and icicles hung from covers and shop signs in sharp daggers. Where snow didn't cover, a thin layer of ice was there instead, causing the occasional unfortunate victim to unceremoniously slip and fall. The cold hung on the air from the night before, threatening to freeze a man's throat if he dared to breathe.

And it was on that very morning that Sister Marguerite of the Couvent Des Cordeliers suddenly felt the urgent need to take a morning walk through the streets of Paris. She rolled out of her small bed and pulled on her habit. Even through the padding of her habit, she felt the cold bite her to the bone. Frost was encrusted on the small window of her room, forming intricate patterns on the surface. Thinking quickly, she took her thick woolen cloak for extra warmth.

Closing her door behind her, she made her way down the passage way of the dormitories. She knew that soon they would all be woken up by the Mother Superior for morning prayers; Sister Marguerite had simply just woken up a little beforehand. A little morning walk would not be a problem, at least it shouldn't be. Leaving the dormitories, she entered the main foyer of the Couvent Des Cordeliers. She was somewhat surprised, however, when she passed by the Mother Superior's office and seeing that the Mother Superior herself was in there, hunched over her desk in what seemed like a monumental task – judging from her unflinching expression as she scanned the large amounts of documents littering the desk before her.

Sister Marguerite lingered at the door, momentarily debating with herself whether it was a good idea to disturb the Mother Superior at that present time. But, she eventually relented, knowing that she would be in a spot of trouble if she suddenly left without informing somebody.

"Bonjour, Mère Supérieure (Good morning, Mother Superior)," Sister Marguerite said eventually.

The Mother Superior then did something that caused Sister Marguerite to raise a brown in surprise. Her gaze suddenly snapped away from the documents in front of her, and she quickly moved to gather them all up into one pile and placed them in a drawer in front of her. This was certainly interesting, Sister Marguerite observed. She had never seen the Mother Superior behave this way, and it most certainly unexpected. But, she knew better then to question actions like these, so she simply watching with detached interest and the Mother Superior gathered her wits.

"Bonjour à vous aussi, Sœur Marguerite (Good morning to you too, Sister Marguerite)," she replied, her voice surprisingly even giving her previous fluster. "Vous êtes éveillé tôt ce matin (You are awake early this morning)."

Sister Marguerite nodded her head. "Oui. I awoke this morning with a sudden, insatiable need to stretch my legs. I decided a walk through the streets of Paris would do," she explained.

The Mother Superior regarded her with studying hazel eyes. "It is rather early in the morning. Most people are not used to seeing a Sœur (Sister) wandering the streets," she eventually replied, her voice still keeping its even tone.

Sister Marguerite thought for a moment. "Perhaps I could say I am just distributing arms to the poor," she suggested. "It is what we do, bon (right)?"

The Mother Superior thought for a moment, and then slowly nodded her head. "D'accord (Alright). Just make sure you are back before morning prayers." She reached into another draw in her desk and produced a small pouch jiggling with coins. "Just in case you feel the need."

Sister Marguerite took the pouch and nodded her head as she stowed it in the folds of her habit. "Merci, Mère Supérieure."

As she left her office, she stole a quick glance at the Mother Superior. For a moment, she wondered just what it was that had made the normally calm and collected woman to become so jumpy. For the moment, she decided to shrug it off. Whatever it was, it obviously was not her concern.

The cold was thick in the air as she stepped through the large front doors of the convent. Like every morning, snow yet to be swept aside completely covered the courtyard, causing Sister Marguerite to lift the hem of her habit to her knees and take awkwardly large steps until she reached the street. The snow on the street, at least, had been swept enough to walk properly. She made a quick decision to walk to the River Seine and back. That should be enough to fulfil her sudden need.

The Couvent des Cordeliers was located right in the heart of Paris, and a short twenty minutes on foot to the River Seine. It was surrounded by many other buildings, usually homes for people who could afford to live and worked in the city. Holding her cloak close to her person, she walked down the narrow, cobblestone pathway. On each side of her, tall beige buildings towered over her. But she did not mind, she loved Paris. She loved the vibrancy and life that went on in it. But most of all, she loved the life she led and the good she did.

Sister Marguerite had been born Marie-Celeste Delacroix de Rouen, in the port city of Rouen. The city lay to the north of Paris and had been there since Roman rimes, when it had been known as Rotomagus. Rouen had always been a prosperous trading city and port, due to the easy access to the sea via the Seine corridor. Wheat and wine was frequently exported to England, in return for wool and timber. Sister Marguerite had loved her home. Her family villa had been built on a high cliff overlooking the harbour. Every night, she would sit near the edge and watch the sea below as the ships drew into the harbour – much to the dismay of her parents, who preferred her to remain indoors and focus on her studies and finding a suitable husband.

However, it was not like she was not spoiled for choice. In fact, she had a number of suitors who had been interested in asking for her hand. Sister Marguerite – or Marie-Celeste for that matter – had been a famous beauty in her home city. With flowing, wavy golden hair, stunning violet eyes, high cheekbones, and pale skin like cream and roses, she never failed to catch the eye of a man wherever she went. But, she knew from an early age that she had no desire to marry and man and settle down to bare his children. After all, she had two older brothers and another older sister. Did it matter what she did with her life? Either way, when she announced her intentions to join a convent to her family, they were understandably shocked. But they eventually relented when she explained her intentions. She had only been sixteen years old.

After that, she travelled to Paris, and immediately fell in love with the city and the Couvent Des Cordeliers. She felt no regret when they informed her of the sacrifices she would have to make. Neither did she regret it when they shaved off her long, beautiful golden hair (she was allowed to grow it back, they informed her), and discarded her finery and jewels. To her, it was a necessary sacrifice for her life as a woman of God.

She had been at the Convent for six years, she realised when she finally reached the River Seine. She stopped when she reached the stone fence running along the bank, and leaned against it. Below her, the water flowed along a murky brown and blue colour, and reeds grew along the surface. She began to wonder just why she had been drawn here, why she had suddenly felt the urgent need to take a walk. Was it a sign, or a calling from God? She prayed to him every morning and night, and even other times during the day when she was not required to. Just what did he want her to do? Wait for a sign from him, or rather another? Her faith in God was unwavering, as it always had been – she chose to become a nun, after all. However, there were times when she didn't understand his intentions, and wished she had insight to his plans just so she could know what to do next – just like now. She was loathed to admit it, but she found it irritating when-

"Um, excuse me?"

A meek sounding voice shook Sister Marguerite, pulling her from her rushed train of thoughts. It had her jump slightly, in fact. She realised grimly that this was probably how Mother Superior felt when she had surprised her.

Sister Marguerite turned around and found herself face to face with a young woman. She appeared to be only a few years younger than Sister Marguerite herself. Her hair was a very dark shade of brown, contrasting with her pale skin tone, and her eyes were pale blue. However, they did not shine, and seemed be glazed and distant. She wore a tattered navy cloak that had seen better days. However, it did not look nearly as warm as the one Sister Marguerite wore; judging from the way the young woman was shivering. Sister Marguerite could sense that something was deeply troubling the young woman, but she knew that she had no right to ask anything of her.

Instead, she had to be calm and comforting. Speak to the woman, and if she chooses to confide, that was perfectly alright. "Qu'est-ce que c'est, mon ami? (What is it, my dear?)" She asked.

The young woman momentarily averted her gaze and pulled her cloak closer to her body. Even under the layer of cloth, Sister Marguerite could see that the young woman was unhealthily thin. Finally, she drew in a breath and looked up at Sister Marguerite. "I . . . was wondering . . . if you could hear . . . my confession?" she asked.

The request stunned Sister Marguerite. Surely this young woman was aware that nuns were not permitted to hear confessions? That was a priest's job. However, she was not about to turn down helping this young woman who was in obvious distress. She shook her head. "Non, mon ami(No, my dear)," she replied. "I'm not allowed to listen to confessions. But I can direct you to a nearby church where there are confessional booths –"

The young woman shook her head. "Non, non. C'est bien (It's fine). I was just . . ." She averted her gaze and looked at the ground. "Ce n'est rien (Never mind. Forget it)."

Before Sister Marguerite could say anything else, the young woman rushed off. By the time she had opened her mouth with her words ready and waiting, the young woman was lost among the buildings and opening market stands. Sister Marguerite closed her mouth and sighed deeply. She regretted not being able to help this poor woman. After all, that was one of the many things she loved doing with her life as a nun.

Not knowing what else to do, Sister Marguerite decided to head back to the convent. Morning prayers were about to start, and she had promised the Mother Superior that she would be back in time for them. She went back the exact same way she went, the whole time wondering just what the young woman had wanted to tell her. Was she the reason she suddenly felt the urgent need to take a walk? If so, then why did she still feel like her task from God was incomplete? Nonetheless, she had no clue as to what she had to do. All she could do was head back to Couvent Des Cordeliers for her morning prayers.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that it wasn't until she was at the foot of the stairs that led into the convent that she noticed what was resting on the very top stair. A basket, one that the florists usually used to carry flowers in, was resting there. Only, it was not flowers that it was holding. Instead, it was a bundle wrapped in a tattered navy blue . . . cloak? Intrigued, Sister Marguerite reached down and placed a hand on the bundle, only to feel it move! She snatched her hand back, as a possible thought crept into her mind. Tentatively, she reached out her hand again, and her other, and lifted the bundle out of the basket. She pulled back a section of the cloth, and then drew in a sharp gasp when a tiny face revealed itself from beneath.

Sister Marguerite spot rooted at the spot, her mouth hanging open. She had stories about things like these, children being left on the doorsteps of churches and them being adopted into the faith. But nothing like this had ever happened during her tenure. She did not know what to do, so she did the first thing that came to mind. She picked up the basket, opened the door and headed straight for the Mother Superior's office.

Not even bothering to knock, she pushed open the door, startling the woman again.

"Sœur Marguerite, quel est le sens de tout cela? (Sister Marguerite, what is the meaning of this?)" She demanded.

"Désolé, la Mère Supérieure (I'm sorry, Mother Superior)," Sister Marguerite said. She placed the basket on her desk, and positioned the bundle in her arms. "I found something interesting on the doorsteps when I returned from my walk."

Mother Superior rose to her feet and stepped over to her. "What did you find, child?" she asked sternly.

Sister Marguerite moved the cloth aside, and watched as Mother Superior's expression morphed into a near mirror image of what had been her own.

"Mon dieu (My God)," she breathed. She reverently made the sign of the cross and then glanced up at Sister Marguerite. "Was there anything else with it? Is it a boy or a girl?"

Sister Marguerite shook her head. "I did not check. And . . ." She glanced inside the bundle quickly. "It's a girl." She pointed to the basket on the desk. "I found her in that basket."

The Mother Superior checked in the basket, and quickly produced a folded piece of paper. Sister Marguerite watched at the Mother Superior read through it, and regarded to curiosity as her stern expression faded away more and more and was replaced with shock.

"Sœur Marguerite, take her to the nearest doctor. They should have wet nurses there to feed her." She said all that without looking away from the letter.

"Mère Supérieure, what did the letter say?"

"No questions. Just do as I say, s'il vous plait."

Sister Marguerite knew better than to keep asking her. So, she just nodded her head. "D'accord." She glanced down at the baby girl. "She needs a name," she mused.

"Cecilia," the Mother Superior quickly told her. "Now, Sister Marguerite. Please do as I say."

Sister Marguerite nodded her head, and left the office without another word.

The Mother Superior stood in her office amidst a maelstrom of thoughts and prayers. In her hand was the paper left in the basket, a single name etched in the lower corner.

As Sister Marguerite walked back toward the entrance, she could not help but gaze down at the sleeping child. It was not as if she had never seen an infant before in her life, she almost always saw Mothers with their children when she was out on the market. And depictions of the Virgin and Child were littered throughout the convent. But to hold one in her arms, it was a very different sensation. She would never have a child of her own, and she had long accepted that. But maybe, just maybe, this child would be a daughter to all of them.

-AAA-

Paris, November 1500

It was a little after her third birthday that Sister Marguerite realized that she would not be the quiet, demure little girl that most young women were expected to be. Cecilia had barely learned to speak properly, but already she was causing trouble around the Convent. Unfortunately for Sister Marguerite, she was the one who got the most of the other Sisters' and the Mother Superior's wrath, as she had insisted that Cecilia be left in her charge.

When she awoke one morning, a few weeks after Cecilia's third birthday, she sighed exasperatedly when she noticed that the little girl was not lying next to her. This was going to be on her neck, Sister Marguerite knew.

Sure enough, the moment after Sister Marguerite dressed herself in her habit, she heard a knock on her door. When she opened it, she was greeted by a very cantankerous looking fellow sister, and a three-year-old girl covered in at least an inch worth of dirt and grime. The girl gazed up at Sister Marguerite with nothing but innocence in her deep blue eyes.

"Look who I found climbing among the rafters under the roof this morning?" The question was rhetorical and dripping with stern scorn.

Sister Marguerite sighed again. It was going to take a very long bath in order to wipe away all the dirt and grime and cobwebs that covered the little girl. She hoped that the Convent had the water to spare such a task. "Je suisdésolé, Sœur Catherine (I am sorry, Sister Catherine)," she said. "Cecilia must have slipped out sometime this morning while I was asleep."

But the other sister was not done yet. "It is the fourth time in the past two weeks that the child has caused some kind of trouble!" Sister Catherine complained. "You need to discipline the girl if she is to learn proper manners; to say nothing of her own safety!"

Sister Marguerite fought the urge to defend Cecilia, but she knew that I would have been unwise for her to do so. In addition, Sister Catherine did have a point – the child was behaving very recklessly. She and the rest of the Sisters all did care about her well being.

She nodded and placed a hand on the little girl's shoulder. "Ne vousinquiétez pas, Sœur Catherine (Do not worry, Sister Catherine)," Sister Marguerite told her. "I will give Cecilia a good talking to."

Sister Catherine huffed. Her dark eyes were still flashing with anger. "You had better. You allow her far too much freedom. I swear to God himself, if that girl one day falls and breaks her neck, it shall be upon you." And with that, she spun around on her heel and left.

Sister Marguerite smiled and shook her head. She knew that what her fellow Sister had said was not true, they all loved Cecilia. They all cared deeply about her; otherwise they would not be so concerned about her safety. If the little girl did happen to one day hurt herself, there would be no doubt that they would all be deeply worried about her, and would pray till they could pray no more that she would recover.

She then felt a tug on her habit. Sister Marguerite glanced down and found Cecilia's deep blue gaze meeting hers. The Sister sighed. Right, there was the matter of disciplining the girl.

She took the little girl by the hand and led her out of the room they shared. "Let's get you cleaned up, Cecilia," she said tiresomely.

They made their way to the lavatories at the very end of the dormitories. She filled a bath of heated water and scented salts, stripped Cecilia out of her grubby night shift, and wrestled her in. As expected, the little girl protested and struggled, but eventually calmed down. Sister Marguerite wet a cloth in the water, rubbing it against a bar of soap, and began using it to clean the dirt and grime off of her.

"You really are a handful, ma chérie (my dear)," Sister Marguerite muttered as she rubbed Cecilia's scalp, trying to remove every speck of dirt out of her tangled hair. "I swear you are going to give me grey hair before my time."

Cecilia's high pitched laughter echoed in the lavatory. She had forgotten about her aversion to bathing, and was instead seeming to have the time of her life splashing about in the warm water. Sister Marguerite did not expect the little girl to understand what she was saying – Cecilia had barely learned to speak properly, after all.

Sister Marguerite sighed again and starting cleaning behind the little girls' ears, she noted grimly to herself that she had been doing quite a bit of sighing lately.

"Just what were your parents like? Were they as wild and you are?" she asked for no particular reason. Realizing that asking the question was pointless, she dropped her gaze and dipped the cloth into the water.

She gazed down at the little girl again, who by now was ducking her head under the water and pretending that she was a mythical sea creature from her storybooks. Every day, Sister Marguerite grew more and more certain that the young woman she had encountered by the River Seine on the fateful day was the little girl's mother. It seemed obvious and she had been suspicious at first, but she had written it off as a coincidence. Yet she had long been told that there existed no coincidences, but the will of God. If anything, it made her feel even guiltier about her inability to help her. Was she in so much trouble that she had to resort to leaving her new-born child on the steps of a church?

Consequently, none of that mattered anymore. The child had still been left on their steps, and the mother had been long gone by then. She had left a note, however. But so far, only the Mother Superior had laid eyes on it. There were a few times when Sister Marguerite had wondered just what had been written on it, and what it contained that had suddenly caused the usually calm and collected Mother to suddenly become distressed?

Sister Marguerite had been forced to come to her own conclusions. She had figured that the child had noble origins – that her father was some high ranking, rich man who had no use for an illegitimate daughter. It was common knowledge that most noblemen had at least a few bastard children. However, in most cases, they only chose to recognize sons as their illegitimate offspring. They at least had their uses as bodyguards, squires, and would-be knights of the King's army. Bastard daughters, however, had little other use besides pawns in their parents' political appetites. But even that was a difficult thing to arrange when one realizes the most fundamental question: who in their right mind would marry a bastard?

Sister Marguerite then felt a small amount of comfort when she broke away from her thoughts and gazed down at the little girl. The dirt and grime no longer clung to her skin and instead floated around in the now lukewarm water surrounding her. She felt solace in the thought that little Cecilia did not need to worry about the possibility of having to sell herself or be married off at an absurdly young age. She was now a child of the church, named after St. Cecilia herself, the patron saint of music. She was likely to follow in Sister Marguerite's footsteps and become a nun. At least, that was but one of many destinies that she could see in Cecilia's future. She was loathed to admit it, but that thought of the girl's mother one day showing up and wishing to claim her back caused her a fair amount of grief. Perhaps she had grown almost too fond of the girl. Was such a thing allowed in her station? She did not know; which is why she kept it to herself.

She pulled the giggling three-year-old out of the bathtub and dried her down with a clean cloth. She then dressed her in a simple blue gown she had recently purchased. Sister Marguerite liked dressing her in blue, as it brought out the vivid hue in her eyes. At times, she often caught herself likening her appearance to a younger version of the Virgin Mary herself, save for a dark hair rather than the common golden blonde she was usually depicted with. She had to always to scold herself for thinking those thoughts; it was completely blasphemous to compare a mere mortal (regardless of her feelings for said person) to one as revered as the Virgin Mother.

Sister Marguerite then began the audacious task of attempting to tame Cecilia's wild and unruly curls. They had become even more due to her morning activities in the Convent roofs. As expected, the little girl whined and whimpered in pain as Sister Marguerite mercilessly tugged and pulled at the knots.

"Why do you have to have so much hair?" Sister Marguerite muttered exasperatedly.

By the time she had finished smoothing out most of the tangles in her hair, the brush had gathered a rather large amount of loose hair. The little girl really was going to have thick hair when she is older. She either did have some kind of noble origins, or she just happened to come from a pair of good looking commoners. Either way, she was going to be very popular with boys and men upon becoming of marrying age.

The thoughts still troubled her, but Sister Marguerite reminded herself that the little girl was only three. She had a number of years left before Cecilia will be able to choose whether she wishes to leave them and marry or pledge her life to God. While she never once regretted her own life's choice, her prayers were often consumed with hope that Cecilia would be met with a bright and wondrous future.

Sister Marguerite brushed those thoughts aside when she heard bells in the distance. It was time for morning prayers, and neither of them could afford to be late. They had been in the past due to the little girl's tendency to become fascinated by something and wander off to inspect it. Such occurrences had caused Sister Marguerite to erupt into a state of panic and assume the worst. Once or twice, the girl had even managed to climb onto the stone railing running alongside the bridge over the Seine. How she had managed to balance herself and walk the entire length of it mystified all the Sisters in the Couvent Des Cordeliers. All except Sister Marguerite, who was always too busy scolding the little girl for her reckless behavior to be amazed by anything at that moment.

But now, it was time for prayers. Peaceful, calm and stress free prayers. It was one activity that Sister Marguerite knew Cecilia could behave herself for.

She took the little girl by the hand and led her along their way. "Come along, child. We shouldn't keep the Lord waiting."

-AAA-

Paris, April 1501

Cecilia awoke before Sister Marguerite, as she did every morning. She then silently slipped out from under the covers and threw a woolly cloak over her think night shift. Even at four years of age, she was aware of why dressing warmly during the dead of winter in Paris was important. It was something she prided herself on, being more aware and wise for her four years. She had heard Sister Marguerite say that many times, in a way that sounded rather pleased with herself, Cecilia thought. But she was on suspecting, in all tip toed over to the wooden door, opened it only a crack, and then slipped out like a cat without making a sound.

As it was every early morning, the dorm area was quiet and deserted. Cecilia knew that the Sisters were always early to rise, but it was currently early even for them! The little girl quivered with excitement, knowing exactly where she was going to go first. She left the dorms in under two minutes – it was another thing she prided herself on, her surprising speed for her four years, and made her way to the refectory kitchen. The smell of porridge and bread hit her nose, causing her stomach to rumble in response. She patted her stomach, promising it that she would satisfy it soon.

Peering in from the door, she spied the cook hard at work mixing the large quantity of porridge in a giant pot. Glancing quickly in another direction, she spied a leg of ham, obviously for lunch later on. That would be perfect, Cecilia thought. She kept her attention on the cook, knowing that he was the important target at the moment. He was an old man, possibly in his late thirties, and he had been cooking for the Convent for years. Cecilia did not know how long, Sister Marguerite had not told her and she had never bothered to ask herself.

The cook was humming a tune to himself as he worked, one that Cecilia could not name. Instead, she crouched down where she was standing and watched him closely. He had arrived a little while ago, she judged from the amount of progress he had made, so he was due for his short privy break soon. Then, she would be safe to make a grab for some of the food. It would have proven more of a challenge for her to swipe some of the food whole he was there, but even she knew that that was too much of a risk. Goodness knows what the Sisters would say or do if the cook caught her; they already saw her as a bit of a nuisance.

She almost missed her chance when the cook finally left the kitchen, on what she suspected was his privy break. She gathered her wits and then finally braved the kitchen. Cecilia pulled off her cloak and formed it into a bag around her waist. She climbed onto the counter and grabbed a few pieces of cut ham, not daring to touch the sharp knife lying almost innocently close to the leg. She stuffed them into the cloak folds and then hopped off the counter. Next, she stole a bit of bread from another counter and stuffed it into her cloak. She gazed up at the large pot cooking over the furnace. She wondered if it would be worth for her to climb onto the counter next to it and take some of the porridge, bread and ham would not be enough to fill her up. After pondering it for a few moments, she decided for it.

Grabbing a bowl, she climbed onto the counter opposite the large pot. She felt relieved when she found the she was just tall enough to reach in without touching the scalding surface of the pot. She reached her bowl over the bubbling porridge and then slowly lowered it into the mixture. Lifting it out, she saw that it was nearly full to the brim.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. She realised that they were coming from the door that the cook had left through. He was coming back! Thinking quickly, she swiftly lowered herself to the floor and then dashed out the door she had entered through.

She did not stop running until she was out of breath. Leaning against a wall, she inhale and exhaled until she felt her heart begin to calm itself in her chest. Then she observed her stolen booty: a handful of bits of chunks of meat wrapped in the front of her dress, a few bits of bread, and a serving of steaming porridge in a small bowl. Grinning with satisfaction at her prize, the little girl walked on, while eating her breakfast of porridge by the handfuls.

Near the dormitories, there was a small alcove built into the stone walls. It was just tall and wide enough for a small child to slip into, but it was inconspicuous enough for your average pass byer to not give it a second thought. Every one of the Sisters knew that the Convent was old, so it was bound to have a few holes from aging bricks.

Cecilia had discovered the alcove a little after her third birthday. That morning, she become bored during a Sunday Mass and had successfully managed to slip away from Sister Marguerite's side. Like the rest of the Sisters, Cecilia had thought nothing of it. After all, the Convent was very old – or so she had been told. This time, however, she had decided to explore it. She was in inquisitive child, after all – a trait that was a never-ending concern of Sister Marguerite.

Cecilia had discovered that the alcove actually led to a tunnel. Feeling a sense of adventure overcome her, she went down on her hands and knees – oblivious to the fact that her pure white gown (Or "Sunday Best" as Sister Marguerite called it) was slowly building up layers of dirt and grime – which gradually grew bigger the more she pressed on. Eventually, it led to a small circular room with no ceiling. The air was heavy and musty; indicating that she was the first person to enter the room is possibly decades. Scoping out the room with keen eyes, she saw that the walls held the crumbling remains of old stone stairs, ascending the room in a circular fashion. Thinking nothing of the few missing steps, and the possibility of them falling out from beneath her, she began climbing.

By the midway point, a few turns of the staircase up, she noticed light flittering in from above in between the gaps of boards. She was near the top, Cecilia realised excitedly. She sped up her movements. By the time she had reached the top, she saw that there was a doorway leading into another secret room. It was hot stuffy, and the air carried with it dust. She could hear the sounds of peddlers and merchants from the streets below, however, in this room, it was as though time stood still while the outside world changed and progressed. Entranced by the stillness, the little girl took a single step forward . . . only walk face first into a giant spider's web. Momentarily blinded, she instinctively thrashed her hands over her face and head, trying to peel the sticky webs off. Then suddenly, she shrieked when she heard a snarling hiss and the sharp pains of teeth and claws on her leg. The shock restored her eyesight, and she looked down only to discover a black and white mature cat clamped around her leg. She then realised that her foot was over the cat's tail.

"Un chat?" (A cat?) The little girl said to herself.

Taking her foot off its tail, she reached down to pet its head. The feline however, lowered its head away from her hand. It did, however, unclamp itself off her leg. It turned its attention to a pouch tied to the little girl's waistband.

Cecilia grinned. "Voulez-vous ma tourte à la viande, petit chat?" (Do you want my meat pie, little cat?) the little girl asked teasingly.

The black and white cat sat on its hind legs before her, whipping its long skinny tail to its right side. It gazed at Cecilia threw bright green eyes, pupils large and black in the dim light. It opened its mouth and let out a long, low me-ow.

The little girl chuckled and pulled the cut of meat pie out of her ouch and held it out to the cat. "Jesuppose quecelaveut dire 'oui'" (I suppose that means 'yes')

The cat sniffed the pie, and the snatched it out of her outstretched hand. It turned and bounded over to a pile of old rags on the other side of the room. Quietly, the little girl followed after the cat and hid behind a pile of old bricks. The adult cat dropped the piece of food on the floor in front of it. Cecilia watched with amazement as, from out of a crevice in the cliff of rags, five small kittens emerged. They immediately attacked the meat pie, each one grabbing as much as they could before the other.

Transfixed, the little girl quietly moved out from her hiding spot and slowly made her way over to the rioting feeding kittens. Being a young girl, she did not expect them to instinctively back away to take refuge back under the rags

"Non! S'ilvousplaît! Ne fuyez pas!"(No! Please! Don't run away!) Cecilia exclaimed. However, she watched, crestfallen, as the kittens retreated back under the rags. The little girl felt her small body shake and her face flush. Hot tears welled, two escaping and run down her cheek. "S'ilvous plait . . ." (Please)

She did not notice at first, but the black and white adult cat, the Mother of the kittens, had not moved from its spot. But then, it stood back up on all fours. The little girl felt it brushed itself up against her leg, and then walk over to the crevice. Drying her eyes, Cecilia watch as the cat meowed one, twice, three times. One by one, the kittens emerged from their refuge and gathered around in front of it. Crouching down, the little girl offered out her hand.

Instinctively, the kittens flinched and began to slowly back into the hole, only to be stopped by a shirt, curt growl from the Mother cat.

"Il estbien," (It is alright) Cecilia cooed calmly. "Je ne vais pas vous faire de mal." (I will not hurt you.)

The kittens gazed up at her unsurely. For a moment, it seemed none of them were willing to accept the little girl as a friend rather than foe. Cecilia felt her spirits slowly fall as none of the kittens dared to move. She was about to withdraw her hand, when the small black kitten – the smallest one of all of them – took a tentative step forward. The little girl remained perfectly still, her fallen spirits slowly rising with each small step the kitten took. Eventually, the tiny creature gingerly sniffed her hand. A smile stretched across her face as the kitten grew bolder and rubbed its face against her hand.

The only trivial thought to enter her mind was the prospect of having to make up an excuse for Sister Marguerite about the scratches on her shin.

Six felines bounded toward Four-year-old Cecilia as she entered the abandoned room. Five of them were only a little over a year old, roughly adults in human years now. They all rushed around her, rubbing themselves affectingly against her shins. Cecilia chuckled and threw the bits of ham out in front of her. They all followed the rain of food and greedily pounced on the scattered pile of ham. Cecilia plopped herself down and leaned against a wooden post, absentmindedly chewing on the pieces of torn bread.

She found herself wondering if she was the only one aware of this secret attic, as well as the hidden passage that was need to traverse in order to reach it. In all honesty, she was strongly for the possibility that was the only one. No one else but a small child could fit through the alcove and the tunnel. It meant that the attic was her own personal space for her and the cats.

The black cat, the one that had been the first to trust Cecilia, left the rioting rabble and brushed himself against Cecilia. She ran her hand over his back, emitting a loud purr and causing him to arch his back in pleasure. Sister Clarice had once told her that cats were untrustworthy, and that all black cats were witches familiars. Sister Marguerite had been quick to object, saying that just like humans; cats are God's creation as well – despite the fact that like all animals, they lack souls. Cecilia, however, felt strangely attached to cats for a reason even she was unable to answer.

When she turned her attention back to the hungry cats, she saw that they had dispersed and were now off doing their own thing. She watched as the brown and white tabby she had named Minette make a daring leap from one crumbling stone and brick pillar to another almost three and a half meters apart. She found herself wondering if she could ever make such a jump. But then, she inwardly scoffed at the idea. How could such a thing be humanly possible?

The young black soon crawled onto Cecilia's lap and curled into a ball. He was even still purring. Cecilia smiled and scratched him behind his years. Cats were quiet and aloof most of the time, but they were also deadly hunters – quick and silent. The little girl again imagined that she was able to be cat-like. But she inwardly scolded herself at the thought. After all, it was not humanly possible.

-AAA-

The world which had consumed Cadence quickly faded away and was replaced by a blank sheet of white nothingness. She had only begun to grow accustomed to the virtual world that was engulfing her. It was a difficult feeling to have to endure, unfortunately the reality was inescapable. She knew the dream which she had been forced to live through was ending, yet she was unable to pry herself from it. It was as though she was still shackled to something she couldn't touch or smell.

"WHAT?!" Cadence roused from her electronically induced slumber rather anxiously. She looked about while her heart raced incessantly. The glass pane before her eyes rotated away and out of sight. Her hands moved to her temples as she tried to make sense of what she had just seen.

"What are you doing, Becket?" Said a faraway voice.

"Corruption has occurred," said Becket. "We cannot progress any further for the time being. Her senses need time to rest and recuperate."

"Her senses be damned!" Declared the foreign voice. "We need our answers now! If the animus is unable to provide them, then a full brain biopsy may give us just the insight we need."

"That is inadvisable. The human mind is far from being completely mapped. Cadence Bennet is still more valuable alive and unspoiled!" Becket's protest was sharp and unyielding.

Cadence's eyes opened and the blurry image of Becket looking up at the large screen above her bed came into focus. Feeling utterly drained, Cadence found she could barely keep her fingers to her temples let alone rise from the animus. She lazily looked about as Becket continued his debate with the other voice.

"Dr. Vidic made things perfectly clear, 'no unnecessary risks'! This one is my charge and I shall stand by Dr. Vidic's words with regards to her progression."

"Very well…" the voice reluctantly conceded. "We'll begin our search with her little hiding place. But bear in mind our time schedule; we can ill afford any delays."

Becket returned to his console. "You mind your job and I'll mind mine." With a stern tap on his display he ended their conversation. His attention was then drawn to Cadence when she let out an elongated groan. Becket quickly stepped over and helped up into a sitting position.

Cadence tried to speak "Wha….Why do I feel-"

"I'm sorry, but the animus can have this effect. Some experience it more potently than others." He had no trouble in guiding her to her feet and helping her lie down on her bed. "We have yet more to explore of Cecelia's memories, but we can't risk overstraining your body."

"I….I don't…belong.."

He silenced her by placing a hand on her shoulder. "No more. You need to rest now. I will see you again in the morning."

Cadence had no strength to argue or protest. All she could do was quietly submit and begin to fall fast asleep. In the moments before her mind slipped into unconsciousness, she tried to think of all that mattered to her. How was her mother doing? Where was Holly, and was she being forced to do the same thing as her. Would she ever see either of them again?

….Would she ever see home again?

Cadence's breathing steadied and she finally blacked out into a deep slumber...

Well that's gonna have to be it for now, but not to worry! This will kick up all the more next chapter! Stay with us folks, we're glad to have ya. See ya next time!