Maeve lay in bed, unsleeping. Doubting that she would ever sleep again. Knowing at least that there was no work to face in the morning, only Mass, if she had the strength. She wondered briefly if she should confide in Father Forsyth, then remembered how he had allied himself with Patrick Reilly in sending Kate to the Conroys. She turned in bed and looked over at her sister.
Kate was sleeping, apparently peacefully, the traces of earlier tears just visible on her perfect cheek. Her chest rose gently with each breath and her hair was spread on the pillow. Next to Finola’s dark head, Kate’s burnished tresses shone in the dim light from the window, and had it not been for the lack of space she could have been a reclining model posed for the artist’s brush. A lovely picture, but beauty, in her
