Chapter Two
I PERCH MY ARMS ON THE COLD WINDOWSILL AND watch the snowflakes fall from the dark sky and settle
on the side of the mountain, which is dotted with pine, cork oak, and beech trees, with patches of
craggy rock mixed throughout. The snow hasn’t let up all day, and they say it will continue through
the night. I can barely see beyond the edge of town to the north—the world lost in a white haze.
During the day, when the sky is clear, it’s possible to see the watery blue smudge of the Bay of Biscay.
But not in this weather, and I can’t help but wonder what might lurk in all that white beyond my line
of sight.
I look behind me. In the high-ceilinged, drafty room, there are two computers. To use one we must
add our name to a list and wait our turn. At night there’s a ten-minute time limit if somebody is
waiting, twenty minutes if there isn’t. The two girls using them now have been on for a half hour each,
and my patience is thin. I haven’t checked the news since this morning when I snuck in before
breakfast. At that time nothing new about John Smith had been reported, but I’m almost shaking in
anticipation over what might have sprung up since then. Some new discovery has been uncovered each
day since the story first broke.
Santa Teresa is a convent that doubles as an orphanage for girls. I’m now the oldest out of thirty-
seven, a distinction I’ve held for six months, after the last girl who turned eighteen left. At eighteen
we must all make the choice to strike out on our own or to forge a life within the Church. The birthday
Adelina and I created for me when we arrived is less than five months away, and that’s when I’ll turn
eighteen, too. Of all who’ve reached eighteen, not a single girl has stayed. I can’t blame them. Like
the others, I have every intention of leaving this prison behind, whether or not Adelina comes with me.
And it’s hard to imagine she will.
The convent itself was built entirely of stone in 1510 and is much too large for the small number of
us who live here. Most of the rooms stand empty; and those that aren’t are imbued with a damp, earthy
feel, and our voices echo to the ceiling and back. The convent rests atop the highest hill overlooking
the village that shares the same name, nestled deep within the Picos de Europa Mountains of northern
Spain. The village, like the convent, is made of rock, with many structures built straight into the
mountainside. Walking down the town’s main road, Calle Principal, it’s impossible not to be
inundated by the disrepair. It’s as though this place was forgotten by time, and the passing centuries
have turned most everything to shades of mossy green and brown, while the pervasive smell of
mildew hangs in the air.
It’s been five years since I started begging Adelina to leave, to keep moving like we were instructed
to. “I’m going to be getting my Legacies soon, and I don’t want to discover them here, with all of
these girls and nuns around,” I’d said. She had refused, quoting La Biblia Reina Valera that we must
stand still for salvation. I’ve begged every year since, and every year she looks at me with blank eyes
and talks me down with a different religious quote. But I know my salvation does not lie here.
Past the church gates and down the gently sloping hill, I can see the faint dimness of the town
lights. In the midst of this blizzard, they look like floating halos. Though I can’t hear the music from
either of the two cantinas, I’m sure both of them are packed. Aside from those, there is a restaurant, a
café, a market, a bodega, and various vendors that line Calle Principal most mornings and afternoons.
Towards the bottom of the hill, on the southern edge of town, is the brick school we all attend.
My head snaps around when the bell dings: prayers are five minutes away, followed directly by bed.
Panic sweeps through me. I have to know if anything new has been reported. Perhaps John’s been
caught. Perhaps the police have found something else at the demolished school, something originally
overlooked. Even if there’s nothing new at all, I have to know. I’ll never get to sleep otherwise.
I fix a hard stare on Gabriela García—Gabby for short—who sits at one of the computers. Gabby’s
sixteen and very pretty, with long dark hair and brown eyes; and she always dresses slutty when she’s
outside the convent, wearing tight shirts that show off her pierced navel. Every morning she dresses in
loose, baggy clothes, but the second we’re out of sight of the Sisters she removes them, revealing a
tight, skimpy outfit underneath. Then she spends the rest of the walk to school applying makeup and
redoing her hair. It’s the same with her four friends, three of whom also live here. And when the day
ends, they wipe their faces clean during the walk back and re-dress in their original clothes.
“What?” Gabby asks in a snotty voice, glaring at me. “I’m writing an email.”
“I’ve been waiting longer than ten minutes,” I say. “And you’re not writing an email. You’re
looking at guys with their shirts off.”
“So what? Are you gonna tell on me, tattletale?” she asks mockingly.
The girl beside her, whose name is Hilda but who most kids in school call La Gorda—“the fat
one”—(behind her back, never to her face) laughs.