My toes stung on the stone. The morning frost sat in the cracks and climbed through the thin leather.

  I pressed one foot over the other for a bit of warmth and blew into my hands. It didn’t fix it, but the bell had already rung and the yard was moving.

  The yard was loud that morning—children running, dust lifting, the bell in the chapel still echoing.

  I stood in the middle of it, my fist tight at my side, while the older boys circled a puddle near the well.

  “She cleared water, so what?” one boy said. “My ma says that’s devil work.”

  Another laughed. “Ain’t no saints down here.”

  My throat burned. I swallowed once, then again, and stepped forward.

  “Stop it.”

  The bigger boy snorted. “You think she’s some saint? She’s just weird. Probably snuck clean water from the chapel.”

  I shook my head. “She doesn’t need to sneak.”

  “She ain’t specia—”

  A wet slap cut him off. Mud streaked his chin.

  The air felt thick for a second. Heat rushed up my neck.

  “T-talk less next time!” I blurted—and ran.

  The first time I saw Harl, I was sweeping the front steps.

  Sister Marelle says the Saints like a clean door. She says if I keep the stone clean, maybe the Saints will see it and feel invited. I liked that idea. Maybe a Saint would walk in while I was there and nod at me and say, Good work, Anna, like in the stories. So I was hunting a stubborn bit of mud with the broom when the big iron gate creaked.

  Two older boys came, dragging a girl out of the rain.

  She sagged between them like wet laundry. Dark hair pasted to her face. Knees scraped bloody. Her eyes were open, but they looked past everything.

  Sister Marelle rushed over. “Oh, Saints. Come in, child.”

  They lifted the girl and carried her inside. Her gaze slid over me for a heartbeat.

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  Her eyes were empty.

  Like someone forgot to light the candle inside.

  After they tested Harl for magic, things went back to how they were.

  We rose at first bell. We shuffled down the hall with our blankets still around our shoulders. Porridge in chipped bowls. Chores on the slate.

  I scrubbed the chapel steps and the front stones. I carried sloshing buckets from the well. I helped Sister Marelle fold bandages and sweep out the little infirmary room.

  Harl carried laundry.

  She moved through the days like a shadow. Up the back stairs with wet sheets. Down again with the basket empty. She answered when spoken to. She ate when food came. She slept when the lamps went out.

  Her eyes stayed wrong. Open, but far.

  One morning, the sky hung low and gray and the yard smelled like old rain. I was out by the well with a crooked broom, chasing leaves out of the path before the Sisters came through. Harl walked past with a bundle of shirts hugged against her chest.

  She stopped at the puddle near the well. The same one from before.

  Her bare toes stood right in the edge of it. Mud clung to her ankles. She frowned at the water like she took it presence personally.

  “Harl,” I called. “Sister Marelle says no dawdling on chore time.”

  She did not look at me. She crouched and set the shirts on a dry stone, very neat. Then she leaned over the puddle and held her hand just above it.

  Her fingers trembled. Only a little. Like she was cold.

  “Hey,” I said, coming closer. “You’ll be late for the line.”

  “Shh,” she whispered.

  The hair rose on my arms.

  The puddle lay there, brown and still, with little bits of straw floating. Harl’s hand hovered over it. Seconds passed.

  Nothing happened.

  My shoulders loosened. I huffed out a breath and nudged her with my elbow. “Silly,” I said. “Talk to a real Saint if you want help with laundry.”

  Her hand dropped. She blinked, like she woke from a bad nap.

  “Oh,” she said. “Right.”

  She picked up the shirts again. When she moved, I heard the soft swish of fabric and the soft drip of water.

  I glanced down.

  The edge of the puddle sat clear where her toes had touched it. The muck there had sunk. The water made a thin bright ring around her footprints, like someone had drawn a circle with a glass pen.

  My mouth went dry.

  “Harl?” I whispered.

  She shifted the bundle higher in her arms. “I need to hang these,” she said.

  Her voice sounded different. Lighter. A little tune hummed when she spoke.

  I watched her walk away across the yard. The wind tugged at her shirt. The gray sky pressed low over the roofs. Her head tilted up to it for a moment a bit smug.

  I looked back at the puddle. The clear ring spread slow along the surface, chasing the dirt to the edges.

  Sister Marelle’s voice floated from the door. “Anna! Buckets, please.”

  I grabbed the broom and ran. My heart thumped against my ribs. The Saints watched from their painted places on the chapel wall. Their gold leaves and gentle eyes followed every step.

  A thought slid in between my breaths.

  Maybe a Saint had passed by our clean stone, seen the girl with no candle inside, and decided that body looked empty enough for a visitor.

  I shook my head and set the buckets in a line. Saints spoke to holy Sisters. Saints appeared in books and in stories for feast days.

  Harl was just Harl…