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As Sister Anita knelt before the altar, she trembled, chafing her knees on the floor. The young nun bit her lip, eyes fixated on the dark, polished wood before her. Shaking, she lifted the skirts of her habit, the cool fabric trailing along her thighs. In the shadowy, deserted chapel, Anita moaned. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling, reverberating off cold stone and unyielding wooden pews.
Anita was the youngest nun in the convent by at least thirty years. Her pretty face and deep brown eyes had captured the hearts of nearly half the young men in her village, and musical voice had attracted most of the rest. But there were no young men to sing her praises here. Not in a nunnery. The moonlight, filtered through stained glass windows, gave her pale a skin an unearthly, ethereal glow as she bent backward.