A few hours later, awake with my eyes half-opened on the ceiling, images of the chapel and Bleu populate my thoughts once again. The suite’s atmosphere is calmer, the odor faded, but frankincense and myrrh cling to my consciousness. I laze between the firm mattress and soft bedding, one arm angled above my head, fingers twisting and uncoiling my hair, anxiety fluctuating between disquiet and excitement. Mardi Gras can"t distract my mind now that Bleu’s shown herself.
The laughter of long-deceased orphans replays in my mind as I glance around the room where nuns and orphans likely slept centuries ago. Their spirits prowl renovated halls, eternal ghosts. It explains why other guests hadn’t opened their doors to investigate, except the woman who spotted me rushing back to the suite. She look
