Saint Babette

The hours passed slowly, a perpetual cycle of each minute stretching longer than the last. The sound of the choir’s solemn hymn drifted through the chapel, soft and mournful, but Babette barely heard it. She sat in the pew, rosary coiled around her fingers like a lifeline. Father Jude stood at the pulpit as he spoke of Sister Mary’s devotion, her faith, and her service to God. 

“ And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and death shall be no more, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away. ” He praised with hands raised in reverence.

But Babette was not listening. Her thoughts were elsewhere—back to the night before, back to the open door, back to her .

Was she afraid in the end?

Her breath faltered in her throat, but she kept her face still, staring at the polished wood of the pew in front of her. Had Mary seen death coming? Had she realized, in her final moments, that she was about to die? The thought only caused bile to rise quickly in her throat. She swallowed it down, blinking against the images flashing behind her eyes.

Perhaps it had been quick. Perhaps she had not suffered. But the look in her eyes spoke of something sinister. She had suffered. She had been afraid .

A tremor overtook her as she stared ahead, not quite seeing anything. Father Jude now spoke of peace, of Sister Mary resting in the arms of the Lord, of how death was not an end but a beginning. But all Babette could think about was the way Mary’s lips had been parted. How her curled hands were as stiff as a marble statue.

Had she cried for help? Had she screamed? Had anyone heard her?

She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, forcing herself to breathe. She was spiraling. She had to stop. But as the sermon continued, as the coffin remained before them, as the candles flickered and the air in the chapel remained choked with grief— She could not shake the feeling that Mary had known .

“You look as though you have seen the Virgin herself,” The older nun laughed, lifting a brow as she took a slow drag from her cigar. The ember glowed red for a moment before she exhaled, the smoke swirling between them. Mary smirked, tilting her head. “Careful, Babette. If you stare too long into the dark, it may stare back.” her voice edged with something unreadable— amusement, perhaps, or understanding. 

She had known .

Babette flinched when she felt the touch. She turned her head just enough to see Lucia beside her, her sharp features softened by grief, her usual stern expression replaced by something quieter. 

Lucia had never hidden her distaste for Mary. They had clashed often— over chores, over scripture, over small things that never should have mattered but somehow always did. There had been frustration, resentment, even moments of bitterness. But none of that seemed to matter now. Lucia’s hand was firm over hers, squeezing just enough to pull Babette back to the present, back to the cold chapel. The funeral would end soon. The coffin would be lowered into the earth. And then? Then they would return to the convent without Sister Mary. 

♱

The nuns walked solemnly back toward the convent, their habits shifting under a sky heavy with gray clouds, the silence between them as intense as the loss they bore. Babette lingered near the church steps, hands tucked into her elbows.

“Sister!”

She did not need to look to recognize the voice calling for her. With a weary sigh, she turned, already dreading the inevitable test of her patience that was sure to follow. “Gabrijel, I am not yet a nun. You should know this.”

Gabrijel Bellefontaine stood just beyond the church gates, his frock coat drawn tightly around him, dark boots caked in mud from the road. He had the same sharp, knowing eyes as his cousin Lucia, though where hers held disapproval, his held curiosity— relentless and searching.

“I must have a word with you” he disregarded her reply, stepping closer. She looked toward Lucia, who had paused a few feet ahead, casting a glare toward her cousin before walking on, clearly wanting no part in the conversation.

Babette turned back to him. “I know not what it is you seek, but this is no time for your petty questions.” 

Gabrijel was an amateur news writer, drawn to tales of ghosts and ancient witches— stories most dismissed without a second glance. Yet, with his family owning the local printing press, he had the freedom to write as he pleased, to chase whatever story caught his interest, and to interrogate whomever he wished.

“I need only a moment,” he pressed. “It is about Sister Mary.”

Babette took a step back, her veil rustling as the wind picked up. “What of her?” she asked cautiously.

Gabrijel studied her, gauging how much he could say before she would walk away. Then, his voice lowered further. “They say it was the curse .”

Babette inhaled sharply. “What? And just who speaks such folly?”

“The town talks of omens. They believe condemnation has returned.”

‘‘It is foolishness—a mere bedtime tale meant to frighten children away from sin.’’

“That is precisely what Lucia said,” Gabrijel confessed with a half-smirk, though it vanished before she could fully grasp it. Babette longed to wipe that look away with the back of her hand. Clearing his throat, he went on, “the people remember what happened the last time.”

She knew what he was referring to, of course. He spoke of a fever that had ravaged the church nearly a decade ago. A terrible fever that left death in its wake, including the aged priest, Father Matthias, who had served there for years. His death had been deemed natural, yet rumors had spread like wildfire. Whispers that he had sinned. That he had broken his vows. That something old, something hungry, had come for him and reduced the sinful old priest to little more than bone and sinew before his final breath.

She thought of Sister Mary’s face and felt the bile start to rise in her throat again. Babette stared at him, unable to answer. After a tense silence he took a step back, adjusting the tricorne hat on his head.

“The way I see it, either a young woman, who has not known illness since childhood, died without cause,” Gabrijel spoke in a hushed voice, but she wished he would be silent. “Or something else has come to St. Faustina.”

She glanced past him toward the cobblestone road, where a few townsfolk had gathered in quiet clusters, watching, whispering. The unease in her stomach twisted deeper.

“This is not the time, Gabrijel.” she said firmly.

She did not believe in curses. But as she turned away from Gabrijel and walked toward the convent, The taste of acid on her tongue would not subside. She quickened her pace, catching up to Lucia just as they passed through the convent gates.

“What did you speak of with your cousin?”

“Nothing!” Lucia snapped at her. “He arrived before the service, pestering me with tales of ghosts. I told him to silence himself lest he find himself committed to a madhouse for heresy.” Lucia's usual composure was frayed. Her shoulders were stiff, her jaw set. She was not just annoyed— she was angry. 

“He says the town believes condemnation has returned.” Babette urged.

“Condemnation?” Lucia scoffed, “this city has always believed in nonsense. Give them a sudden death, and they will weave a tale of divine punishment before the body is scarcely cold. You must not listen to a word my cousin has to say about Sister Mary’s passing.”

Babette blinked, surprised by the harshness in Lucia’s words. “But Lucia, surely he—”

Lucia cut her off, shaking her head firmly. “Gabrijel is a news writer, and you know well enough how they twist the truth. He will spin tales and none of them will honor what truly happened here.” She paused, her eyes hardening. “Do not let him feed you lies or half-truths. He seeks only to make a spectacle of tragedy.”

Babette hesitated, then spoke the thought that had been clawing at her since the funeral. “Do you believe there is any truth to it?”

Lucia stopped walking. She turned to Babette, her dark eyes sharper than ever. “And you? Do you believe there is truth to it?” No , she desperately wanted to say, But the words lodged in her throat.

Lucia looked at her for a moment longer, then sighed. “The curse is but a story, Babette. And Gabrijel is a fool for stirring up fear when we should be mourning our sister.” Without another word, she turned and continued toward the convent.

♱

Babette sat by the window in her room, staring out at the cemetery where Mary now lay. The sorrow inside her was relentless, an unyielding feeling that twisted deeper with each breath. She had lost more than a sister in faith— she had lost a companion, her friend. 

A memory surfaced, unbidden and painful. She remembered a summer afternoon, they had been children then, two girls in the cloistered halls of the convent school. Mary had dared her to climb the apple tree in the convents' orchard, and Babette, ever eager to prove herself, had scrambled up, only to lose her grip and tumble into the dirt below. Mary had burst into laughter, her eyes crinkling with mirth. Babette had been humiliated, her pride bruised more than her body.

But then, the laughter had softened. Mary had knelt beside her, brushing the dust from her skirts. “I am sorry,” she had said, “I did not mean to laugh so much. Are you hurt?” 

Babette had sniffled, then managed a smile. “No more than my pride.”

“You will always be braver than me. I would never have attempted it.”

That moment, that kindness, had defined Mary for Babette— quick to laugh, quick to love, and even quicker to mend what she had broken. And now, she was gone.

The grief was suffocating her, yet she clung to the memory, unwilling to let it fade. Because as long as she remembered, Mary was still with her, even if only in spirit. And that, for now, would have to be enough. Every remembered smile, every shared tear—was a reminder of the delicate beauty found in human connection, a beauty that had faded with Mary’s passing. The thought of never hearing her laughter again made Babette’s chest tighten unbearably.

She wiped a tear from her cheek and rose to push the window open. The wind stirred her auburn hair, carrying the scent of damp earth after rainfall. The cemetery stretched beyond the convent’s brick walls, a patch of moonlit land where the dead rested in quietude. Her gaze settled on the fresh grave at the far end of the yard—the final resting place of Sister Mary. She could almost hear the echo of that long-ago laughter, carried by the wind.

Lost in these recollections, Babette almost missed the subtle movement down in the cemetery. There, among the neat rows of headstones and weathered monuments, she noticed a solitary figure. The person moved with an unhurried, almost spectral grace, standing near a cluster of graves.

She leaned forward and clutched the iron frame of the window. Who would visit the cemetery at such an hour? The funeral had been small, attended only by the sisters and a few parishioners. Could it perhaps be a relative mourning in solitude? Babette hesitated. To wake the Reverend Mother at this hour would risk a scolding, but to leave the convent alone—

Her grief drowned out reason. If it was someone who had loved Mary, they should not wish to be alone in their sorrow. Even as apprehension prickled at her spine, she wrapped a linen shawl around her shoulders and made her way through the silent halls of the convent.

The heavy wooden door creaked as she stepped into the cold night, her breath visible in the frigid air. The cobblestone path leading around the convent was slick with dew, and the candle she carried flickered weakly against the wind. Babette turned the corner— But the cemetery was empty.

She halted abruptly, the wind stirring the grass between the graves, slipping through the trees that lined the churchyard. But there was no one, no mournful figure kneeling by Mary’s grave. Had she merely imagined it? Babette shivered in the cold. Something about the stillness of the cemetery unsettled her. The headstones, worn and crumbling with inscriptions barely visible in the moonlight. She took a tentative step forward, peering between the graves. But there was no one.

A gust of wind howled through the yard, rattling the iron gate at its entrance. Babette turned sharply, her shawl whipping around her shoulders. Enough. Whoever she thought she saw, they were gone now. She turned back, walking briskly toward the convent, her steps quickening as she reached the door. Once inside, she bolted it shut behind her and pressed her back against the wood. Sleep would not come easily that night. 

♱

“I do not know how to grieve for her, Father.”

The priest looked at her with sympathy. “Grief is not a thing that follows rules, child. It is not something perfect. You loved her deeply, and now you miss her. That is the way of it.”

She shook her head. “I cannot escape the feeling that it is not enough.”

The priest paused, “Do you remember the day you fell from the apple tree?”

“Of course,” she recalled fondly. “Mary laughed at me, but then she helped me up…I was reflecting on the very same last night”

A small smile touched the priest’s lips. “Yes. But did you know she came to me afterward?”

Babette looked at him, shocked. “She did?”

He nodded. “She was wracked with guilt. She told me it was her idea for you to climb the tree, and she felt responsible for your fall. She wanted to confess it, to make it right, even though you had already forgiven her.”

She had not known that. Mary had never told her. Not only had she lost her sister, but there were pieces of Mary she would never fully know. She missed her so terribly.

Father Jude placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “She carried her love for you in every action, even in guilt.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks as she lowered her head in sorrow. “I miss her,” she whispered.

The priest nodded. “I know, but love does not end, even in death.”

Death came for them all, this she knew, but not like this. Not to a woman who had been full of life, whose health had not once wavered. Acurse. The word itself felt like blasphemy on her tongue. She had turned the matter over in her mind again and again, seeking another explanation, a logical truth to grasp onto.

The prospect of speaking to Father Jude about it knotted her insides, not with fear of reprimand— no, he was a kind man— but with the dread that he may not listen. That he might dismiss her concerns as nothing more than grief and superstition. Would he even hear her? Would he see the same threads of darkness weaving through their halls, or would he smile gently, remind her to pray—  because fear was a test of faith, and send her away with an empty reassurance?  She had to try. Even if her voice faltered, even if he met her with disbelief. Because if Gabrijel was right, if something wicked had slithered its way into St. Faustina, then silence would be the greatest sin of all.

“Father, may I inquire of you?”

The priest turned his gaze fully upon her. “You may.”

“When first you arrived to tend to our parish, after the passing of Father Matthias… did you hear of what the townsfolk whispered amongst themselves?”

He was silent for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. “Yes, I did hear talk of superstition. Idle talk, bred from fear and folly.”

“They speak of a curse,” she insisted. “They say it comes for those who walk in sin, even those bound to holy vows.”

Father Jude sighed. “The people are given to such superstitions, Babette. They see tragedy and seek to explain it with tales of darkness. But I tell you, evil does not step foot upon consecrated ground. The walls of this church are sacred. If Father Matthias fell, it was not to some wandering darkness. It was to the hand of the Almighty Himself.”

“And yet, Is it not God's desire for His children to repent and live? If Father Matthias was indeed taken for his sins, then was it not evil that claimed him?”

“No.” The word left the priest’s lips with a harsh certainty. “If he was guilty of transgression, then it was not the work of any curse, but the will of God. The Lord sees into the hearts of men, and if He found Father Matthias unable to resist the snares of temptation, then He took mercy upon him and spared him from a fate worse than death. He knew Matthias could not resist sin, so He delivered him from it."

A quiet tension settled in the space between them, the only sound the gentle flickering of the candle flames. Then, Babette spoke again, more gently than before but with just as much conviction. 

“Father,” she said, “I fear that Sister Mary, God rest her soul, mayhap suffered the same fate.”

The priest regarded her with quiet intensity, the weight of his station evident in his measured posture. “You speak with certainty. Do you mean to say Sister Mary was… guilty of sin?” The very suggestion seemed to unsettle him, as though the notion of impurity within their holy walls was an offense to the heavens themselves.

“I do not know,” she admitted, voice laced with doubt. “But she was strong, well in health… and yet, she perished without cause, just as Father Matthias did before her. If there is truth to the whispers, then—”

“You must still your tongue, child,” He interrupted, his voice stern but not unkind. “To cast suspicion upon the dead without knowledge of their wrongdoings is to tread upon dangerous ground. It is not for us to judge what we do not know.”

“And if what they say bears truth?” she implored. “And if not, then what if this is indeed God's judgment, as you say?”

Babette watched as he turned toward the altar, his eyes settling upon the crucifix. His silence made it clear that the conversation had ended. He had spoken his piece and there was no more to be said. The golden candlelight flickered over the carved figure of Christ upon the cross, His sorrowful eyes cast downward, as though He, too, pondered the same questions as she.

Mary had always been stern, often unyielding in her ways, her tongue sharp as the edge of a quill. But a sinner? Surely not. She had been strict, perhaps even unkind at times, but nothing deserving of divine punishment. Babette frowned. If the so-called curse, or Christ Himself, only condemned those guilty of sin, then what had Sister Mary done?

Again, she thought of the visitor from earlier— the news writer, Lucia’s cousin. She had dismissed much of what he said at the time, unwilling to entertain such dreadful speculation. But now, with Father Jude offering no help, she needed answers. She had to speak with Gabrijel again.