There was shouting. Then a sharp knock on Lucia’s door to keep quiet. Then another round of teeth-clenched hissing before Lucia stormed out of her room, leaving V and her booklet: Behavior of Fire and Control Methods.

  Her boots slapped against wood, then stone, then sand. With the sand came the night chill and the moon’s pale, colorless light. She was heaving, steaming head to toe. Only when the cold bit her scalp did she realize she’d run out bare-headed. Somehow, in her anger, she’d grabbed her veil. She twisted her hair quick, and pulled it on.

  Fire? Set the convent on fire?! Her throat burned with words she couldn’t scream, fury ricocheting in her skull. Of all of V’s impossible requests, this was the most absurd.

  She pressed her forehead, an ache blooming. Water, she thought. I need water. Something to cool the fire inside, to keep her from ripping her own hair out. Every time Lucia remembered saying I’ll help you, to V she twisted a knot in her tunic. She had brought this on herself.

  She blinked and found herself at the kitchen doors. The doors were unlocked. The kitchen was empty, candles snuffed, skylights leaking only the ghost of moonlight. She slipped inside, snatched a glass, and turned the faucet.

  As the water rose, her eyes caught a jar of deep red liquid on the counter. Wine? With the joint recruitment ceremony days away, of course the kitchen would be preparing the best bottles, especially with the Mother Superior in residence.

  The jar had a third left. Lucia had tasted wine before, once when she turned eighteen. But never after. The young nuns were not allowed.

  “It’s barely anything…” she whispered, fully aware of what she was about to do. Fully aware of the consequences.

  In a snap, her water was dumped, the faucet closed, and wine poured into her glass. A quick swirl, Teresa’s old habit. Then a sip.

  The sting of the alcohol lit her throat, sour fumes biting her nose. Before she’d decided what she thought of it, she was already gulping, again, and again, until the jar was empty.

  Guilt bloomed, but a jolt of laughter escaped her lips, too loud. She clapped her hand over her mouth, startled by her own voice. Her feet felt lighter, her chest less tight. The storm in her mind dulled.

  Her gaze swept the counters, searching for more. None. But she knew where to look.

  A candle appeared in her hand, lit without memory, and soon she was descending the cellar stairs, humming a tuneless note. The basement air was cold, moonlight spilling thin through slit windows. The flame flickered against racks upon racks of wine, stacked glorious and endless.

  “Wow,” she announced to no one, grabbing a bottle, then gripping the cork like a weapon.

  She pulled. Nothing. Pulled again. Her hand slipped. She groaned.

  Suddenly, the basement door banged open.

  Lucia froze. She snuffed the candle, dropped to her knees, bottle pressed to her chest, back against the wall.

  Footsteps descended, each one louder. They reached the threshold, then paused. A shadow stretched across the floor. Then retreated at once. The door slammed shut.

  She waited for silence, then exhaled raggedly, rising, only to shriek when a voice hissed from the dark.

  “Sister Lucia?”

  Roman stepped into the flicker of moonlight, his face sharp. “Stealing wine?”

  Her knuckles whitened. “I—I am not,” she stammered. “I came for a… a routine check!”

  “From a nun who doesn’t work in the kitchen anymore?”

  Her pulse stopped. Blood turned to water. She was caught by a Brother working for the High Priest.

  Roman scoffed. “I’ll be sure to send your regards to Sister Claudia when I report this.” He turned to leave.

  Panic jolted. Lucia swung in front of him, arms out. “No, wait! I—I can explain.”

  “There’s no explanation needed—”

  “Wait, hold on…” She paused. Roman’s face curled in confusion. “…What are you doing here? A Brother in the cellar of a convent, at this hour?”

  His color drained. “Out of my way!”

  She instinctively grabbed his hand. Skin brushing against cold fingers. But he jolted at the touch, reaction far harsher than expected.

  Lucia recoiled, still holding the bottle. Roman’s gaze seared into her. A clear warning.

  He turned to climb back out when a sudden thud from outside halted him on his tracks. “What was that…”

  Another thud and Roman froze. He turned right back, pushed Lucia into a corner of a shadow, crouching beside her.

  She blinked at him. Waited. Then leaned over his shoulder.

  “Ah! So you’re not supposed to be here too then?” A sinister giggle left her lips. Her breath too close, Roman winced.

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  “You’re drunk and paranoid. Stop jumping to conclusions.”

  “Oh but my conclusions…” Her grin widened. “…are correct.”

  Another loud thud. Roman reeled deeper into the shadow.

  “But why?” Lucia continued. “Perhaps, a Brother is also searching for…wine?” Lucia couldn’t help but snort a laugh.

  “I’m not here to fulfill such urges. Unlike you, I’m here on business.” Roman spewed before he realized.

  Lucia gasped then inched to him, her mind slipping along with her tongue. “Business? Is it the High Priest? What does he want—No wait, is it Sister Claudia? Are you one of her…henchmen?”

  Roman glared at her, lips as tight as can be, eyes scanning as if searching for the reason Lucia ever uttered such words, such pointed words.

  Another loud thud, Roman flinched.

  “Damn it, when will they leave?” Finally, Roman was asking the right questions.

  “Why? What would be so terrible if they caught you in here? What are you hiding, Roman?” Lucia retorted.

  “How dare you address me that way. You are a lowly nun in a convent. I am a high ranking Brother working with the High Priest. I can have your life ruined.”

  Lucia’s foolish smile faded. He was serious and she was only playing, a side of her that never saw the light. She crouched disappearing into the shadow. Yet with her small voice she spoke again, one last nudge.

  “I know a way out,” she offered. “But only if you agree never to speak of my presence here tonight.”

  Roman hesitated. Another thud. “Fine. And you’ll never speak of mine.”

  Roman waited for her word. Only her hand extended, holding out the bottle, tapping the cork. “Open this, and I’ll consider.”

  Roman snorted out in disbelief. Regardless he grabbed the bottle then struggled for a moment before managing to find a corkscrew pinned to the side of the cellar wall. The cork finally popped out. Fermented fruit flooded the cold air.

  “Deal?” he repeated. She took a swig then smiled wide, teeth coloring in red.

  “Deal!” She grabbed his elbow, pulling him out of the shadow and up towards the cellar door.

  Roman jolted, holding her back. “What are you doing?”

  Lucia laughed. “That noise wasn’t staff in the kitchen. That’s the old pump pulling water from the Mega Cluster supply. Water necessary for our survival.”

  ***

  Lucia thought it was the end of seeing his smug face.

  But he followed her into the kitchen and grabbed the bottle from her.

  “You tricked me,” he said, glaring.

  Lucia snorted. “No, no, you got tricked. That’s your fault. You walk around so high and mighty—maybe you should consider yourself lucky it was me who tricked you and not someone like Irene. She’d have you scrubbing the entire convent. Inch by inch. She almost made me once.”

  The mention of Irene shut him up. He remembered the courtyard. The time when Irene was laying it on Lucia for being a terrible mentor.

  He was about to contest it. The feeling of being slighted never sitting well. Yet as he watched Lucia go quiet, sadness engulfing her once lit face, he reluctantly handed the bottle back. “Fine. Since we had a deal. You may only drink half a glass.”

  “And you may leave,” she said, pointing to the doors.

  He didn’t. He watched her sniff the bottle, smile returning. His face soured, then, before she could start chugging, he took the bottle again, grabbed her by the elbow, and steered her to the counters. Only when his grip kept her from smashing her knees did she realize she was wobbling.

  There, he poured a measured half glass, and tucked the bottle behind a few jars. All the while delivering a slow, steady lecture on drinking habits and substance control. Lucia heard none of it. Especially not the part where he made her repeat after him that she wouldn’t speak of this night to anyone nor bring it up between them after tonight. She clapped back on the fourth round, “Shouldn’t I be the one that’s drunk and paranoid?”

  Her mind only focused when he slid the glass toward her.

  “I need access to the vegetable gardens,” he said, pointing to the far door. “It’s locked. How do I get out there?” He spoke louder and slower than usual.

  “Ah! That’s why you are still hanging around. Why? What does Claudia want that’s out there? Carrots?” Lucia was becoming sour. She was edging toward spewing it all out. Asking him directly what he knew of Teresa.

  Roman leaned in and repeated. “How do I get out there?”

  It upset her that he wasn’t taking her seriously. She blurted, “The same way you got in. Through a door.”

  Roman groaned.

  Yet somehow, after a grueling fifteen minutes, he convinced her to help anyway.

  Soon, they were out in the gardens. Lucia teetered along the bunds of the lettuce field, glass clutched to her chest, humming a tune the moon invented for her. The night air cooled her throat. The world felt like it had soft edges again.

  “How long has the garden operated?” Roman called from near the greenhouses, watching her stumble then steady herself.

  “How would I know?” she sang, then softened. “It has been here as long as I remember. Ten years ago it was a small patch. Tiny little babies.”

  She suddenly waddled toward him, conspiratorial. “Do you know the garden supplies ten percent, maybe less, of what we eat, here in the convent?”

  She snickered as if she was revealing a secret. “No one brings it up. No one talks about it. The gardens—” she chuckled once more, “—are for display. To keep the illusion of analog intact. To pretend we can plant the old world back.”

  Roman straightened, stepping away from the topic. He didn’t want it. But Lucia could not help herself. She passed him and pointed to the carrot patch.

  “The seeds we plant do not flower,” she said. “They are refined. Edible artifacts imported from the South. No need for birds. No need for bees. No sun, and they’d still look fine. The sprinklers keep dust and heat off leaves.”

  Right then, the sprinklers flipped on. The water fluttered across the beds, casting a thin mist. Lucia drained the last sip of wine and sat on a bench near the greenhouses. Roman walked the perimeter, face carefully blank. Something in his hand flickered, glinting. But Lucia was too far gone to care.

  She watched him and felt something quiet inside her. The nuns’ labor wasn’t a lie, hands in soil never were. But the larger promise, that the convent lived apart from the thread of ones and zeros running the world, was a play. How cut off could one be from a world written in code, that renouncing it still leaves you within its bounds? The same supply lines fed both faiths. The same water ran through both veins.

  Perhaps V was right. Perhaps, they should be fighting the enemy they so vehemently disagreed with, the digital God, instead of…this.

  Lucia lifted her gaze. The alcohol still moved through her, but slower now. She was glad Roman had poured just a half glass and hidden the bottle. She saw her tendency to lean into the substance, almost second nature, almost genetic. The nauseous calm had its own gravity. She had seen what it did. Her mother always drank, always slept on the tiled floor. Lucia knew the exact number of bottles between joy and rage. She knew the sound of glass breaking against the wall. She was grateful she stopped here tonight.

  The sprinklers hissed, slicing her thoughts. Behavior of Fire and Control Methods. The title floated back.

  Her eyes moved across the beds. Miss a single session and the topsoil dries to a film. Miss two, and the stems toughen into tinder. In her early days Lucia had misread the pressure dial and the cycle skipped. By morning the lettuce had gone paper. Irene had found her, pointed at the crackling leaves, and said in a voice sharp enough to cut the air, “Enough time to set the convent on fire.” No one treated the system casually after that. It was both holy and dangerous.

  Set the convent on fire…

  Lucia watched the mist hang in the calm moonlight. Maybe there was a solution. A way to let fire speak without burning her home to the ground.