Love and Sleep by John Crowley

taught there; she had prayed hard that she might be shown where in the hospital or its outbuildings they had been put, but she had not been shown. The wooden statue of St.Wenceslaus—the only object in her partition besides the crucifix and the dresser—stood still with his face turned to the wall, having been no help at all despite Sister's specific requests, no help with her school materials or with her stomach either. Well he could just stand there a little longer.
    In the halls the nuns moved together toward the chapel, hands within their sleeves and veils drawn over, turtle-private, snail-self-sufficient, though cheerful looks were exchanged. They took their places in the little chapel, and Sister Mary Eglantine led them in a Litany while they awaited the priest:
    Queen of the Angels.
    Pray for us.
    Mountain of Mercy.
    Pray for us.
    Cave of adamant.
    Pray for us.
    Temple of Ivory.
    Pray for us.
    Wisdom of Egypt.
    Pray for us.
    Gates of the Moon.
    Pray for us.
    The tiny chapel with its miniature appointments always reminded Sister Mary Philomel of the little castles and throne-rooms of old art, jeweled closets where the Virgin or the saints just fit, elbow almost out the arched window, foot touching the doorstep. But no matter where, here or St. Peter's, the mystery proceeded identically, soothing and rhythmic, like a bandage rapidly and firmly wrapped. Incarnation Passion Resurrection Ascension. Hoc est enim Corpus Meum. Sister Mary Philomel took the food on her tongue, sweet water filled her mouth, and she nearly fell asleep again.
    At breakfast downstairs though, faced with her earthly cereal, she was once again unable. She took a few infinitesimal bites, willing herself to be cheerful and brisk, but she could do no more. Heck. And with the long long morning ahead too. She cleaned up her dishes, hoping the wasted Wheaties would not be noticed. The saintliest Mother Superior in the history of their Order had been granted the gift of inedia: she didn't eat, or need to eat, for three months, or was it years. And since she didn't eat she didn't, you know, and she ceased to have her menstrual flow as well, which right there would be a blessing. Sister Mary Philomel doubted that her own inability to eat breakfast was a gift of grace. It was too queasy a feeling, too cold in her innards.
    She went out of the kitchen the back way, where one of the kitchen sisters was punching out Communion wafers with a sort of waffle iron to send over to the church; the white rounds with their embossed letters (HIS) were stacked up in piles, reminding Sister Mary Philomel of her father's celluloid poker chips, beautiful rounds colored and white which she had used to play with. Strange the things you think of. She could remember the taste of those poker chips.
    There was no time to look further for the cardboard boxes that contained her old profession. She hurried up the back stairs, never hurry, Sisters, and down the central hall of the hospital to the dormitory stairs. In the hall, lying odd as a dragon's corpse or an executioner's mask and axe on this tile floor, against this light veneered paneling, was the Old Chest: a great worm-holed beeswax-blackened carved chest from the Old World, one of the things that had come over with the sisters, one of the things parceled out among the branches of the Order like the shares of an old immigrant's useless inheritance, to be dragged through woods and over water, never forget. Among the sisters it was said that anything lost was in the Old Chest, which was a joke since the key or keys had long been lost, and its dozen drawers and doors would not open; the sisters used it for nothing but to put a great vase of flowers on, always fresh, rising from it as from a grave. Sister Mary Philomel stopped her hurry to smell them.
    No luck again in the bathroom either.
    In her partition, she noticed that Wenceslaus had turned a shy and hopeful half-turn away from the wall where she had stood him. Oh no you