The Omega Factor(65)

“Moved somewhere else. Now who is splitting hairs?”

She desperately wanted to make sense of things, but realized that the prioress was only going to tell her the barest minimum.

“We are going to meet some people who can answer your questions,” her prioress suddenly said.

“Thank you. For telling me.”

They were headed away from Saint Bavo’s, past a row of local landmarks, strung together like rides at Disneyland. First the Belfort, the ancient bell tower lit to the night. Then the Stadshal, an odd-shaped canopy that stood at nearly the center of town. And finally two churches, the first dedicated to St. Nicholas, the second, across the river, to St. Michael. She’d walked by here many times over the past few weeks, enjoying the sights. One of the things she truly missed from before taking her vows was unlimited human interaction. Living within a convent came with limitations. Some she liked, others not so much. Being on assignment offered her the freedom to interact at will. She’d always been a social animal, unlike Nick who leaned more toward being a loner. That was another thing that had made them great together. Their strengths and weaknesses had complemented the other’s.

“Prioress, I’m sorry for my impertinence,” she felt compelled to say. “But this situation is extraordinary, to say the least.”

Which seemed like an understatement.

“I am telling myself,” the older woman noted, “that this is indeed a difficult situation. For us both. So I am trying hard to ignore your disrespect.”

There were definitely difficult aspects to a religious life. But most were not all that different from the nicks and bumps that came in all walks of life. Marriage. Career. Family. Raising children. All of it was hard. For so long she’d wanted a sign to tell her that if she joined a convent everything would be okay. Life would work itself out and she’d finally be content. But no such divine message ever came. So she’d ignored the voices inside her head and procrastinated for years. It took an impending wedding for God to finally acquire her undivided attention.

She loved the convent and living with the sisters. She missed her family, but they visited at least once a year. Either she flew home to the United States, or they came to Europe. Thanks to her restoration work she’d had the opportunity to meet all types of people and learn from them. She’d been fortunate to be part of some really fascinating projects. It seemed her place to help bring back what had been lost. Which was why the destruction of the twelfth panel had struck her so hard.

She knew several published writers in the art field and the number one question they always heard was, Where do you get your ideas? For a nun there were three equally common topics for questions. The first was superficial. Why do you cover your hair? Or why wear black robes? Why do you have knots in your belt or a cincture at your waist? The second dealt with practicalities, like what do you do all day or how do you support yourself? The third was the most intriguing. Why are there monks and nuns at all? What purpose do they serve? What good do they do? Those were the questions she’d posed to the woman who’d come to see her from the Congregation of Saint-Luke. The woman who provided her with answers that made sense and who eventually brought her to the convent. She was gone now, God rest her soul, having died five years ago. Liver cancer. Kelsey missed her. Especially right now. That woman had never, ever lied to her.

They turned off attraction row and headed down a quiet side street. She’d walked here before too. The route led to the central train station. Ahead she spotted the neoclassical building for the old law courts. It sat directly adjacent to the river, a low wrought-iron fence the only barrier from a small parking lot down to the water. Her prioress led the way toward a vehicle that sat idling near the iron fence.

The doors opened and two women emerged.

Both dressed in jeans and shirts.

They approached.

“It’s good to meet you,” one of the women said. “I’m Sister Ellen. This is Sister Isabel. We are Maidens of Saint-Michael.”

No surprise really. As these women were the only ones with answers.

“What happened to your face?” she asked Ellen.

“An unexpected fall. It looks worse than it is.”

“Sister Kelsey,” her prioress said, “the maidens are here, in Ghent, performing a sacred duty.”

“Did that include the willful destruction of a national treasure?”

“It did,” Isabel said.

She was fascinated. “Why?”

“Sister Deal,” Ellen said. “We would not have done such a grievous thing if it was not vitally important.”

“You’re talking like terrorists.”

“They are anything but,” the prioress interjected.

“Believe me,” Ellen said, “we regretted having to burn that panel. But there were good reasons for it.”

Kelsey shook her head. “A woman died.”

Ellen nodded. “Rachel. She was our friend.”

She saw the pain in both women’s eyes, which eased her anxiety a bit.

“Why not just come to me?” she asked. “Explain the problem.” She pointed at her prioress. “Or go to her, as you’re doing now. Why all the subterfuge?”

“We had no choice,” Isabel said. “None at all.”

She stayed defiant. “I have high-resolution images of that entire panel. Burning it was useless.”