Sister Agatha sighed as she fell back into her bed, her long white sleeping gown wound around her ankles, her plump hand clinging to the small prayer book that rested on her belly.
It had been a few very stressful weeks but she felt there was a dawn on the horizon, especially since the brothel girl, Karissa, no longer came to the abbey to see the priest (although she had sought out Sr. Agatha for advice) and since the Cardinal had arrived. The priest seemed to be acting more rationally. He could be a little friendlier, the sister reasoned, but all in all, he seemed better.
Sister Agatha did not condone the self-flagellation, of course–a bad habit, but one often affiliated with his order and the mindset of a young man looking for redemption, although she didn’t know from what. She hadn’t seen him use the sword in awhile, but she had avoided the catacombs. She had heard about the ruckus at the brothel. In the sister’s opinion, a priest should limit his drinking to sacramental wine.
The population at the abbey was growing. In addition to the handyman, Dom, and the Highlander, Gregor, she had acquired a few nuns. Sister Caoilainn – she still wasn’t sure she spelled that right – was the most practical and hardworking of the group. She was trained in medical treatment, which was a huge relief, and she seemed very intelligent and down to earth. Sister Mary Catherine was something of a recluse. She should have been a nun in a monastery instead of a working sister, but she did perform a number of jobs, among them working on the books and performing vestry duties.
As far as Sr. Agatha could tell, Sister Morgain had serious problems. The woman was constantly moaning and whining and lately had taken to being sick often. Sr. Agatha had yet to figure out what Sr. Morgain’s skills were and so had set her to housekeeping and taking care of the chamber pots. Perhaps if the Father got his head on straight he could better help the child.
Maybe everything would finally be alright and they could get on with the business at hand.