Sister Francesca knelt in the chapel, head bowed as if in prayer. In reality, she was considering the conversation she'd had with Beatrice earlier.

She wasn't bound by the vows of the confessional. But she sought an excuse not to betray Beatrice's confidence. You probe my heart, Lord, and examine me...you test me, yet find nothing...has my mouth ever sinned as most men's do?

Beatrice was popular with both girls and staff. She was a good teacher and colleague; the music in chapel was thriving, and the end-of-year combined concert with the boys' school in Helsham had been a great success. There was no doubt that the school, and the convent, would continue to benefit greatly from her presence in their midst.

Sister Francesca did not begrudge Beatrice her happiness with Raphaela, either. It was good that they had found – or re-found – each other, and she was certain that both their lives were enriched and fulfilled in a unique way by their relationship. She felt honoured that she was the only person at St Benedicta's who knew its true nature. It was not for her to judge where or how they found their hearts' true content; it secretly pleased her that it had been granted to two of her favourite pupils (who had been such firm friends in school) now to find a more holistic companionship with each other.

It helped that their respective commitments meant they only saw each other when they were able, rather than so regularly as to draw undue attention. That they kept it to Beatrice's cottage – or indeed off-site completely when Beatrice was able to travel to Raphaela – meant that the necessary degree of discretion was easily maintained. Sister Francesca was aware that Beatrice was perfectly attuned to the potential for scandal, and perfectly capable of taking measures to avoid it.

Sister Amata, poor child, had in truth died unexpectedly, but no-one had seen fit to be surprised at the time; Sister Francesca was not yet persuaded that it was her place to be surprised now, a decade later. There had been no call for a postmortem, and Amata had been decently and correctly buried in her home convent. Sister Francesca could but hope that her troubled soul had at last found the rest it had been so consistently denied here on earth – by whatever means that rest was finally granted. She could well believe that the poor woman had indeed begged Beatrice to help her on her journey to meet the Lord and St Clare...

As the doe longs for the running stream, so longs my soul for you, my God.

Who knew what the fevered mind of an unwell visionary was capable of?

At the time, Beatrice was a damaged, shy, eighteen-year-old, recognised in that convent mainly as one of the background figures who helped the place function – perhaps in a cleaner's tabard, pushing her mop around the wards after dark. The one person who might have recognised her for herself was an even more damaged, fragile soul with a tendency to experience hallucinatory visions. No-one would have guessed at the anger simmering within Beatrice – even as that anger was in some respects righteous – nor at whom it was so very particularly directed. And no-one would have believed the poor deluded target of that anger anyway.

Sister Francesca understood that, as ever, the Good Lord in His wisdom had seen fit to allow events to play out as they might.

Beatrice had been angry, but desperate to please her former lover; Amata, paradoxically, had perhaps found release from her deeply troubled existence. Her soul sought peace, and who was qualified to judge, if she had seized the opportunity to set down the cross of earthly toil and touch the hem of His purple robe? To drink, like the doe of the Psalms, from that blessed stream?

The old nun crossed herself, fixing her gaze for a moment on the crucifix on the altar, and offered her thoughts humbly up to Him who was both Beginning and End.

Not from the east nor from the west, not from the desert nor from the mountains, but from God the judgement comes: lowering one, raising another.

If her life and experience had taught her anything, it was that the Lord preferred to work in His own, usually mysterious, way. In that He knew, saw and understood all, He was no doubt somehow continuing to guide his servants Francesca and Beatrice to fulfil His designs as best they could.