I hushed her but rubbed my tennis shoes together self-consciously. Would there be much sport at the academy? Part of the social purpose of art history was its decidedly indoors quality, ruling out moments of jollity that inspired casual games of tennis.
“Hello,” Nancy said. “Let’s go, shall we? Sister Teresa will show us the way.”
We all nodded. Nancy walked down the stone steps with brisk purpose. We crossed the hill and turned left, away from the lake and toward the convent. We followed a well-worn path past the orchard and around the front of the chapel, where white pigeons were roosting in the mesh of the bell tower. Nancy began to climb the slope and we trailed behind, dodging stinging nettles. The grass was coarse and golden and smelled rich as buttered popcorn. Crickets sang in the weeds, and my ankles itched, tickled by bristly wildflowers. I wished I’d worn proper pants and not my capris.
“It’s so hot,” said Isabella, pouting. “This was a dreadful idea, Briddie.”
My pulse shot into my throat. I balled my fists. Greta’s breath was heavy, her cheeks pink with concentration as she searched for safe places to tread. It had been a dreadful idea. Why had I agreed to it?
Ahead of us a nun standing by the convent gate turned, and I saw she was one of the black nuns I’d noticed in the refectory. Nancy waved, and to my surprise, the nun raised her hand and gave her a thumbs-up. I’d not realized before, but the sister was quite beautiful. Her skin was dark brown, with freckles under her eyes. She had a high forehead and fine cheekbones. Her jaw was sharp like the bottom of a heart.
Nancy and the sister began talking in rapid Italian; then Nancy waved at us. “Hurry up, slowpokes,” she yelled.
Isabella groaned and broke into a trot. Greta and I followed, loping over uneven hillocks.
“This is Sister Teresa,” Nancy said as we approached. “The speaking liaison.”
“How do you do,” we murmured politely.
“Where would you like to tour today? The lake’s beautiful, but perhaps you’d rather visit where our founder originated?” Sister Teresa said.
All three of us blinked at the sister.
Nancy grinned. “Wow. Your English is swell!”
Sister Teresa smiled. Her front two teeth were larger than the others, which gave her a vaguely rabbity look. “As is your Italian. You must’ve studied for many years.”
“Gee, thanks.” Nancy blushed.
“But how on earth did you learn English?” said Greta. “You don’t even get to speak Italian, do you?” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
Sister Teresa was still smiling. “Don’t apologize. I learned English in my infancy.”
Isabella stared at her. “Jeez—how long have you been here?”
Nancy frowned. “Look. Never mind that for now. We have plenty of time to get to know each other.” She folded her arms. “So. Lake or shrine?”
Given the heat, I had no interest in climbing the hill, but it seemed impolite to say so in front of a nun. And since Sister Teresa was looking at me, I said, “The shrine, I guess?”
“Great. Lead the way, Sister,” Nancy said, pointing up into the distance.
Sister Teresa walked ahead of us. She was slim and tall, even taller than Nancy. What I had taken for a habit was merely a white tunic over linen pants. She was wearing heavy black boots, scuffed at the toes. Nancy took a few long strides and joined her. They wove through the deep grass, and Sister Teresa spoke to her, pointing into the apple trees down below.
“Do you think they can all speak English?” Greta was whispering. “Like, secretly?” The color in her face was hectic. “Can they understand our phone calls?”
“I don’t know—maybe.” I shrugged.
“Could they read our mail?” she said, her voice strangled.
Isabella pushed her arm through mine. “Is she afraid they might read the thrilling secrets about her pony?” she muttered.
* * *
We followed Nancy and Sister Teresa over a stile and farther uphill, away from the orchard. From above, the apple trees looked puny, stunted even. Then I realized they must be cut deliberately short, to make picking the fruit easier for the nuns. Even up on the hill there was the odd apple tree, leaves already blotchy with ginger freckles. Smaller fruit lay concealed in the grass, sodden and browning, attracting wasps. Every now and again, Isabella or I slid on the peel of disintegrating fruit or stamped straight into a crust of mushy caramel pulp.
Sister Teresa brought us to a stone ledge, which we clambered over one by one. The path became narrow, passing through blackberry hedges studded with blind stars where berries had already been plucked. I took a deep breath of the air, coppery and sweet with rotten fruit, like old pennies dipped in honey. Isabella tipped her head back so the sunlight caught her face. She opened her eyes and found me staring at her. She smiled.
“OK, maybe not such a dreadful idea,” she said, lacing her fingers through mine. I traced the outlines of her ragged thumbnail, my stomach jittering. We walked along the bramble path, swinging our arms. Isabella began whistling tunelessly. The light ruffled through blousy dog roses and towering pine trees, swallows fluttering in alarm from the branches as we passed. After half an hour we approached another crumbling wall dotted with stringy weeds.
“Shall we visit the spring?” Nancy said, pointing farther uphill to the left.
“Um.” Greta swallowed. “Is it a detour from the shrine?”
“A short one.” Sister Teresa wiped her forehead with her sleeve. I felt vindicated that even she was sweating, and she must have to climb up the hill all the time.
“Thanks, but we’ll wait here for you guys,” Isabella said. “Us indoors pets aren’t used to being let off the leash.”
“We shan’t be long,” Sister Teresa said, giving her a thumbs-up. Where had she learned that? Perhaps the bikini-wearing chapel-smoking alumni had tutored her.
Isabella and I balanced on the uneven slate wall and Greta sat heavily on the ground, wiping her grass-stained hands carelessly on her linen pants. “We should’ve brought a picnic,” she said, smiling at me. “Next time you can be our expert picnic adviser.”
I laughed. “My true calling.”
Greta twirled a hollow piece of grass between her fingers. “How long will your mom stay at your summerhouse?”
A jolt of electricity ran from the base of my spine to my skull. “What?”
“Is that where the big Labor Day party is?”
Isabella stared at her. “Um. No.”