I turned to Racheal, but hunger clouded her eyes a milky sheen. She sat straight as tears trailed down her chin and soaked her satin.
The hallway was now filled with chatter as the girls returned, their buckets clanking together.
I wanted to scream, to do something to stop it all, but I was frozen in place, unable to move. My gaze widened, moving from the small door to Racheal and the crying birds outside the window. The awful stench of their blood, like decayed meat, threatening to suffocate me.
Rachael was turning, and the children could see her. 
I wrapped the towel around Racheal's head and held her close, soothing her, and letting her feed on my conscience. For now, I'd do until I had someone to offer.
"I'll prepare a feast before I meet Father Benedict next," I said, stroking Racheal's head until she was no more.
The kids all stopped outside the door and stared. As their eyes fell on the flowerpot, they screamed, dropping their buckets and then rushing to examine the flower. When they had stared their fill, they hurriedly dressed amidst soft murmurings.
The air seemed to hang heavy, thick with dread, as if the whole world were holding its breath. My knees buckled to the ground as my hands clutched the bed's edge with my ears thumping.
A figure stood behind me, stretching something. I turned to meet Dera, all dressed for dinner, holding out my towel.
She smiled, and I smiled back, wondering if I should offer her. I couldn't. I didn't know her well enough. Rachel only took those who meant a lot. 
I took the towel and turned to Stephanie. She'd forgotten but I'll make her remember, as much she could and then I'd free her of her misery. She'd always wanted that but had been too scared to admit it.
 Dera skipped out of the room, granting me peace. Slowly, I crawled to Stephanie's bedside and gently brushed her hair to her side.
She was almost at ease.
Her eyes flickered open, the solemn glint clashing with mine. Hers as steady as what I'd imagine a place outside this confinement, mine a darker hell. 
Her lips parted but before she could recite her snarky words, I wrapped the towel around my body and hurried to the bathhouse, gripping my bucket to my side. 
The sun had stretched past the convent, leaving it in a goldish-brown hue. 
 I stretched my neck to the sky, etching to look past the woven cotton that hardly ever had a bright spot. I wondered if, maybe the cottons above would be a mix of white and blue hues. Like those in my memories. 
The bathhouse was quiet but even being in here couldn't stop the eyes that watched me. 
A boy was hidden in the tree that curved atop the exposed bathhouse's rooftop. Every day without stopping, he'd watch me scrub, memorizing the curves of my body. When he'd meet with Father Benedict, he too would see as he took the pictures. And the boy would receive his punishment during confession. 
Stephanie was sitting at the bed edge, seemingly cradling back and forth until I dropped my bucket by the door.
She paused, glanced at me then resumed. 
"We're having a cleansing," she said, an unusual amusement lingering in her voice.
The reverend would storm the hostels with several sisters. He'd stride as quietly as a ghost with a thurible in hand whilst the sisters sang a hymn in accordance. 
 It was sung in an old tongue. Latin.
Stephanie would then take short breaths, fearing the intoxicating smoke from the thurible would suffocate her.