Page 77 of The Diávolos: Part Two
Don’t get too comfortable, Ang. Remember what you’re here for,I remind myself. And this woman could very well agree with the doings of the establishment.
I put on my fakest bright smile. “My father suggested I come by to look at some old photos of my stay here. Is this a bad time?”
“It’s never a bad time for a Kouvalakis, dear. Come with me to the library. We have albums of all the girls who’ve been here over the years.”
The woman leads me down a narrow hallway lined with mirrors and ornate moldings. There's a distant sound of laughter coming from somewhere.
Curiosity overcomes me, and I cautiously peer inside a partially open door. Rows of small desks are neatly arranged, each occupied by little girls. I check over my shoulder and see that the sister has gone ahead without me. I look back at the children and realize they all have slightly vacant expressions. Their eyes are fixed on the front of the room where a teacher, with a stoic demeanor, stands at the chalkboard.
The girls appear engrossed in their activities, seemingly content, yet there’s an eerie uniformity to their behavior that sends a shiver up my spine. The walls are adorned with colorful drawings and cheerful decorations, but something about it all feels…off.
This place doesn’t look or feel like a breeding ground for underage girls, which disgusts me more than it relieves me.
How much will these girls remember of their time here? What will be their fate if we can’t stop all this? I can only imagine how many other helpless girls are stuck here waiting on their doom.
I want to gag just thinking about it.
“Ms. Kouvalakis?” I startle at the voice of the sister who greeted me and whirl round. I find her giving me a tight smile and extending her hand to me, inviting me to follow her. “Please, let’s move along, we don’t want to disturb the classes.”
She leads me to a room lined with bookshelves that reach from floor to ceiling. The old, leather-bound books emit a faint smell of aged paper.
The nun pulls out a few albums from a long shelf. “You don’t look a year over thirty, so I’m going to assume you’re in one of these.”
“I’m twenty-five,” I tell her.
“This one, then,” she says, putting the book on a desk in front of me. I’m terrified to open it, but I convince myself to be strong. If I want to remember my time here, I’ll need visuals.
I flip through the many pages and pictures of girls in both habits and plain clothes, before I finally land on one that has a group photo. They all look around the same age. I roam over the faces to see if I’m there. As I’m about to turn the page, I notice a small figure in the corner of the photo. There, in a blue dress, is a much younger me, standing against the wall, my eyes void of any emotion. Beside me, there’s a woman, her hand resting on my shoulder.
I point to her. “Who’s this?”
“Ah! That’s Lydia. One of the longest standing nuns at the Sisterhood,” the sister says with pride.
Oh my god.That’s my mother’s best friend. And she’s standing right next to me in the photo. Did she know who I was?
I can’t hide the shock from my face. The nun gives me a puzzled look and I clear my throat.
“Does Lydia still work here?”
“Sadly, no. She retired years ago.”
Shit. Any hope of being able to speak to Lydia today and finding more about my mother goes down the drain.
I continue looking through the album, but I don’t see myself in any other pictures, which seems odd.
“Has there ever been a boy at the Sisterhood?” I ask, hesitantly, remembering what Aria told me about an ex-student called Atlas. I never got the chance to look further into his involvement, so now’s the perfect opportunity to do some digging.
The woman shifts uncomfortably, as if contemplating her response.
“Well, yes, there was a young boy who once lived amongst us, but he was one of the leader’s sons.”
My heart grinds to a stop. Does she mean my father?Do I have a brother I don’t know about?
“What was his name?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Atlas.”
“His last name?”
