Chapter 4: The Breath of the Storm

After I finish speaking with Sister Kira, I turn to leave, but Julian’s voice stops me in my tracks.

“Sister Clara,” he says, his tone low but commanding. “I would like to have a word with you regarding the mural timeline.”

I nod, my heart already picking up its pace. We move away from the noise of the workers and Kira’s watchful eye, settling into a quiet corner near the stone foundation of the new wing. The fog is starting to turn into a heavy, dark mist, signaling a coming storm.

He doesn’t ask about the art. Instead, he leans against the cold stone and looks at me with an intensity that makes me want to shrink and expand at the same time. “How long have you been here, Clara?”

“Two years,” I answer, my voice steady despite the flutter in my chest.

He quietens for a moment, his dark eyes searching mine. “Have you ever sinned against God?”

The question hits me like a physical blow. I startle, my breath catching in my throat as I stare at him. “I… I try to live a life of devotion, Father.”

“You should seek penance,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “The mind is a treacherous place.”

His hypocrisy stings. I find a sudden spark of courage and take a step closer to him, my eyes narrowing. “Then you should do the same, Julian. I saw you. I saw the way you were staring at my lips while I was talking to Sister Kira.”

He doesn’t look shocked. He doesn’t even blink. Instead, he steps into my personal space, his shadow falling over me. He looks down at my mouth again, and this time he doesn’t hide it.

“With lips like yours,” he says, his voice like velvet over gravel, “I can tell that you are a virgin.”

A sudden, violent wave of heat rushes through me, settling deep between my legs. I feel my face catch fire. “What?” I gasp, my head spinning at the sheer boldness of his words.

He pulls back abruptly, the professional mask snapping back into place as if he hadn’t just shattered every rule of our station. “Never mind. I have a meeting with the bishop. I need to leave.”

He turns and walks out into the thickening mist without another word. I stand there frozen, my hands trembling against my habit.

Maya walks up to me a moment later, her eyes darting between me and the direction Julian went. “Clara? Is everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a flame.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. “Everything is fine.”

I don’t wait for her to ask anything else. I turn and hurry back inside the house, the heat of his words still burning through me, more terrifying than any storm Maine could throw at us.

I hurry back to my room, the silence of the walls a sharp contrast to the chaos brewing in my mind. It is already getting late in the night, the shadows stretching long and thin across the floorboards. I freshen up quickly, splashing cold water on my face to try and wash away the memory of Julian’s voice, but the heat of his words still clings to me.

Suddenly, the heavy, urgent tolling of the bell rings through the house. It is the signal for an emergency meeting.

I quickly tie my robe and rush out of my room, my heart skipping a beat. I run into Sister Rose and Sister Ann in the hallway, their faces tight with worry.

“What is going on?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

“A heavy storm is coming,” Rose says, her eyes wide. “It is supposed to hit the school and the site within the hour. The Bishop wants everyone to report to the hall immediately.”

When we reach the hall, the atmosphere is frantic. My eyes find him instantly. Julian is standing near the front, deep in conversation with Father Max. Father Gabriel stands like a statue beside the Bishop, watching the room with his usual cold suspicion.

The Bishop raises his hands for silence. He apologizes for disturbing our night, but his voice is grave. He explains that the coming storm is strong enough to destroy the progress on the school wing. This community depends on the church for everything, and we cannot let the students’ building be leveled. We are all told to head to the site to move lumber, tighten the scaffolding, and secure the structures before the wind turns dangerous.

As we are dismissed, I move with the crowd toward the door. I try to catch Julian’s eye, a part of me desperate for some kind of acknowledgement after what he said to me earlier. But he won’t look at me. He focuses on the blueprints in his hands, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. He is obviously avoiding my gaze, treating me like a stranger as he disappears into the darkness of the yard.

I walk out into the cold air, the first drops of rain beginning to fall. I pick up a heavy wooden post, my muscles straining. The site is a blur of shouting men and nuns rushing to secure the loose materials. The wind is picking up, whistling through the half-finished walls.

I struggle with the weight of the wood, my feet slipping on the slick mud. I look toward the shadows of the storage area, trying to see through the rain. The storm is coming, and as I battle the wind, I realize that the distance Julian is putting between us is far more terrifying than the gale.

The rain turns into a punishing wall of water, soaking through my habit until the heavy wool clings to my body like a second skin. I struggle against the gale, trying to drag a tarp over the exposed lumber, but the wind is too strong. My feet slip in the mud, and just as I think the storm will take me, a pair of heavy, powerful hands lock around my waist.

Before I can scream, I am yanked backward into the darkness of the small storage shed.

The door slams shut, cutting the roar of the wind down to a muffled howl. I gasp, spinning around to see who grabbed me. It is Julian. He is just as wet as I am, his black shirt plastered to his muscular chest and his hair dripping into his eyes. He doesn’t let go of my waist immediately; his grip is firm and steadying.

“What are you doing?” I breathe, my chest heaving.

He finally releases me, stepping back just an inch. “The storm is too heavy now, Clara. You can’t be out there. You need to stay inside until the worst of it passes.”

His voice is low and thick with a protectiveness that makes my heart throb against my ribs. He is right beside me in the cramped space, the air smelling of wet earth and his sandalwood scent. The shed is tiny, barely offering enough room for the two of us among the bags of cement and tools.

Suddenly, a violent thunderclap shakes the entire structure. The force of the wind slams against the shed, and the ground seems to tilt. I lose my balance, my hands flying out to find purchase, and I fall directly against Julian’s chest.

My arms wrap around him instinctively, clinging to his wet shirt. Because of the cold and the thin, soaked fabric of my habit, my nipples are hard and pressed firmly against the solid heat of his chest. I can feel the thud of his heart beneath my palms, fast and heavy. He doesn’t push me away; his hands find my back, holding me close as the shed rattles.

When the wave of wind finally calms, I realize what I am doing and scramble backward. “I’m sorry,” I stammer, my face burning despite the chill. “The wind… it just pushed me.”

Julian watches me, a small, dark spark of amusement in his eyes. He leans back against a stack of wood and crosses his arms. “You always seem to be panicking whenever I am around, Sister,” he teases, his voice a low vibration in the small room.

“I am not panicking,” I lie, trying to wring out my sleeves. “I am just cold.”

“You shouldn’t have been out there,” he says, his gaze softening as he looks at my shivering frame. “The Bishop is old-fashioned, but he shouldn’t risk your safety for a few planks of wood.”

“It is my duty to help,” I argue, though my voice is weak. “Just as it is yours to build.”

“I build things that last,” he says, stepping a little closer. “But people are fragile, Clara. You are fragile.”

The way he says my name makes the air feel thick again. I look up at him, at the way the dim light from the single window catches the sharp, perfect angles of his face. The water is still dripping from his hair, tracing the line of his cheek. My mind feels clouded by the heat radiating off him, and the filter between my thoughts and my tongue disappears.

“You know,” I whisper, my eyes locked on his face. “You have a very sinful jawline, Julian.”