Then she began, quietly, to think about who in the house had access to what.

Because a locked room entered at night meant one of two things — a passage she didn’t know about, or a person she trusted more than she should.

She did not yet know it was both.

She spent that afternoon walking her own convent as though she had never seen it before, which in a sense she had not — not with these eyes, the eyes of a woman looking for the way a predator moved rather than the way a household ran.

She counted doors.