I have not spoken to Hanny about what Lucius revealed to me. She took my letter to Gabe and sent it off, now I have received his response. I am torn. This time I checked the envelope and it is different from the one I'm sure Gabe sent me. In the past, I had always assumed that Lizzie, Gabe's wife, had addressed his mail for him. Now I know better. I wish I could compare this handwriting to that of any of the nuns.

It is not that I require further proof; I only wish to identify the true Judas. I am loathed to believe it is Hanny, but I am not a stupid girl and I would be wise to keep my guard up with her. She is at least partially, if not entirely, my betrayer.

Which leads me to the business of finding someone to accompany me. Before all of this, I would have requested Hanny. I have no desire to see or speak to my cousin, Samantha. She was always a bit closer to Lora and, since my sister's death, has expressed her disdain for me to multiple well-known newspapers. As soon as I am equipped with the proper devices I will write to Gabe and inform him of my feelings.

Hanny is opposite me at the table. She has been chattering all morning, humming hymns and being far too cheerful for a Wednesday. Since it is midweek, it is St. Agatha cleaning day—what fun. We have been banished to the dining room where we now sit and shine what little silver the house possesses.

I have kept my mouth shut for days, only speaking when spoken to and never discussing what Lucius came to say. No one has mentioned my leaving to me; there were no outward expressions of how much I'd be missed, how the house might not feel the same without me in it. And Hanny has yet to mention my leaving, but I know her opinion already.

I know she spoke to the other nuns about it, for that was the reason for my writing so late this past entry. I had to sneak from my room and perch outside of the parlor door so that I could hear what was being said. Lucius had been right, the locks on my bedroom door was on the outside, but the workers here were forgetful and lazy, which often left me to my own devices if I could remain soft-footed and silent. Three years of sneaking downstairs and I'd only ever been caught four times—and two of those times I'd used the privy as my excuse and been pardoned.

On the night of Lucius' visit, I had donned my thickest stockings and made the treacherous decent down the curved staircase (There are prominent creaks on the second, fourth, seventh and thirteenth steps), down the hall and into the coat closet that resides adjacent to the parlor. This small room's purpose was once to safe keep the coats of visitors, but since those mythical beings are rare and often keep their visits brief, the closet has been repurposed to hold linen. This is a sad thing for poor St. Agatha's but a blessing for me.

Over the past three years, I have converted the lopsided stacks of never touched cotton into a nest from which I can hear every ounce of house gossip. Because of the location of the closet and the blessedly thin walls, I am able to hear everything that is said in the parlor, while the linen keeps my own sounds from being detected. It was here, buried in fabrics that smelt of mothballs and sour milk, that I overheard the nuns talking about my situation.

"I'm sure her benefactor will be thrilled that she's being released from asylum." Sister Margret, one of the younger nuns, was saying.

"She isn't being released from asylum," Sister Angelica corrected, "she's only being moved to a more intense facility."

"Even so," Margret said, "Seems like a nice change. It appears hopeful."

"And he seems like a nice young man." Another nun chimed in, "What did you think of him, Sister Johanna?"

Hanny was quiet for a long moment and when she did finally respond I had to press my ear to the wall to hear her better. "There is something about him that makes me uncomfortable."

Sister Alberta spoke now, her voice strained. "Did he do something? Something to you or Miss Holbrook?"

"No, he was a gentleman."

"Then why judge him so harshly?" Sister Florence asked.

Again Hanny paused. "He phoned before his arrival and asked if we were a church. He seemed very concerned with it. Almost worried."

There was silence.

"Perhaps he just didn't want to go to the wrong location?" Sister Alberta suggested. "You must remember that we have many locations."

Sister Margret said, "Yes, maybe he just wanted to clarify that he wasn't supposed to go to the convent. It goes by the same name."

"Or perhaps he just isn't a believer and was uncomfortable with the idea of entering a place of God. Not everyone is as comfortable with these things as we are." Sister Florence didn't sound nearly as certain about her own words as I would have liked.

Hanny seemed to sense this as well. "I don't mean to judge, only to protect Merr—Miss Holbrook. I cannot have been the only one to hear of his wild nature."

"Men take liberties that women do not." Someone said.

"Yes, but sin is sin." Hanny explained. "And should we not want someone for Miss Holbrook who is pure of intent?"

Sister Florence spoke gently. "I have no reason to believe his intent is not pure. He is, after all, a doctor. I think we were all just taken aback by his age. He is younger than we anticipated given our usual physicians."

"But the reports about him—"

"Pray for Miss Holbrook as she leaves St. Agatha's. This has been her home for three years, adjusting to something new will be difficult for her. Let us hope, for her own sake, that what Dr. Abaddon says is true. Perhaps she can be cured of the devils that plague her."

Alberta snorted and said, "Perhaps she is just a devil herself."

I tensed, every bone in my body going ridged at once. Sometimes, when people first hear of my condition, they assume that because I cannot feel physical pain that I can also not feel emotional pain. This belief is entirely false. My heart can break just as easily as anyone else's. I ache in other ways, but I still ache.

And I felt those words in my chest, the way it tightened and seemed to freeze the air in my lungs. The way my fingers shook and my nails bit into my skin. I felt it in the way my eyes fogged, watered, seemed to flood with unshed tears. I felt those words stitch themselves into my flesh, my veins, my organs, until they settled on my soul and began to feast.

Alberta had always been the one person who had stood by the initial belief that I was a killer. She rarely spoke such words in front of me, and they had become more and more scarce since I'd first arrived at St. Agatha's. But in quiet moments, when I was huddled in a linen closet, all by myself, those words often found their way to my ears.

For someone as devout as Sister Alberta considered herself to be, what other explanation was there for a young girl being able to walk out of a burning house without feeling a blessed thing? The devil must indeed be in me.

"She is not possessed." Hanny said quickly. "She has given us no reason to believe that she is. She attends mass and does her daily study, she says her prayers—often more fervently than our other charges—and she goes out of her way to help around here. There is no evidence that she has a demon in her and I would urge you to cease spreading any more venom. The last thing Merritt—Miss Holbrook—needs is for our words to follow her from this place. If this is to be a new start for her, then let her leave such nasty accusations behind."

"Here, here." Sister Florence said. "It is not our place to cast judgment on any of the souls in our care."

"I don't mean to cast judgment—" I had stopped listening then, uninterested in hearing what Sister Alberta might have to say in her own defense.

Now, sitting here in the dining room watching Hanny scrub at a candelabra, I am tempted to ask her about Lucius, to have her explain to me what it is about him that has her so defensive. Why is she so unnerved by him? We are supposed to be friends and yet my own private knowledge of her betrayal is too great for me bridge the gap between us.

But I have no choice. I know that I have to ask her to accompany me, as I have no one else to turn to. I have no other friends here. Perhaps, I have no friends at all.

I shall report again at my earliest convenience.