Black Narcissus.

It is the first time that Mr Dean notices that Sister Clodagh is a beautiful woman. As she stares out across the valley with the usual firm set of her chin, he notices a slight quiver at the corner of her mouth. A little frown creases between her eyebrows which are a reddish brown. Beneath the white habit, he imagines suddenly a cascade of red hair, befitting her Irish background. He feels as if he is holding his breath, waiting for her to move, to speak to him. It is almost as if all the angst and troubles they have experienced at the convent were just a cloak for something else, deeper, hidden between them. Self-consciously he drags a hand through his hair and waits, staring at her profile and wondering why it has taken him so long to realise something so obvious.

"I showed Con that I loved him but he went to America," she says, "and he didn't take me with him. It was a funny way to join the sisterhood, but God moves in mysterious ways."

When she turns to look at him, she blinks back tears, her cornflower blue eyes glittering in the lamplight. So, she is human after all. She has loved a man who had let her down, abandoned her. He wonders what she meant when she said that she had 'shown Con that she loved him.' Beneath the white pure habit, did a real woman exist who had loved a man? Had she felt carnal pleasure, tasted the forbidden fruit all those years ago in Ireland in the land of saints and scholars? He felt a sense of indignation for this woman and anger for the man who has left her, why would anyone want to leave a woman such as this?

"I can't stop the wind from blowing," she said weeping openly now, tears falling down her porcelain white cheeks, "I can't move the holy man and I can't stop a baby from dying."

He reaches forward, unnerved by her emotion and holds her upper arms, almost shaking her.

"You must leave this place, all of you," he pleads, "before something bad happens."

He feels out of his depth, not used to the feeling that washes over him, of wanting to protect her, to wrap his arms around her and take her away with him, away from this danger.

To his surprise she leans forward and sobs into his shoulder. Awkwardly he pats her on the back, feeling her warmth through the thick cotton of the habit, then when she doesn't move away, he puts his arms around her holding her closer to him. For a second his mouth brushes her forehead near her hairline and she immediately stiffens and moves away.

"I'm sorry," she apologises, blushing and wiping away her tears.

"Here," he says after a moment, offering his handkerchief, "it's clean."

She brushes his hand away.

"Thank you, but I will be alright."

He frowns at her, not believing her.

"Thankyou for everything you have done Mr Dean," she says in her usual formal manner, folding her hands into the sleeves of her habit. "I must fix this myself."

"You can come to me whenever you like," he says hurriedly, not caring how it sounds. "I care about you, not just as the overseer, but as your friend."

"Thank you."

She nods and tries to smile.

He doesn't want to leave her. He longs for a sign from her, an acknowledgment that she realises something has happened between them, something momentous, but she turns away, always pulled back to her flock, her duties.

"Goodbye Mr Dean!" she calls over her shoulder and he is dismissed, just like that.

He feels a familiar burst of anger, almost of humiliation as he watches her departing figure, her veil billowing around her head in the wind.

Hidden from sight, Sister Ruth watches him, watches Sister Clodagh. Her hands are so tightly clasped that she doesn't notice that she has dug her nails into her palms so hard that they are bleeding.

"Clodagh! Clodagh, Sister Clodagh!" she whispers harshly.

Mr Dean turns one last time to look at the now empty doorway which Sister Clodagh has disappeared though, then he puts his hat on his head and walks down the steps. Sister Rush leans heavily against the wall, breathing deeply, consumed with jealousy. She has seen it all. Clodagh wants Mr Dean all to herself, it is obvious now.

The wind howls through the building suddenly and the heavy bell set high up in the convent wall lets out a dull ring. Sister Ruth tilts her face upwards to look, thinking that it is a sign. Her eyes are dark, rimmed with red. She hasn't slept in days. He is all she thinks about.

Sister Clodagh makes her way back to her cell. She is trembling, unsettled and for once it has nothing to do with the wind. All those thoughts of Ireland, of home, of the life with Con that she could have had, have all come back. She has spent years trying to forget and now this place has brought it all up to the surface again. It has nothing to do with Mr Dean, the way he held her in his arms, the way his mouth grazed her forehead for a second.

"Oh God help me", she mutters as she turns left to pass down the corridor, past the statue of the Goddess of Love, one arm provocatively outstretched through the muslin fabric that covers her.

Then in the sanctuary of her own room she throws herself onto her bed and buries her face in the pillow. It is not Con's face she sees, or the face of Christ. It is Mr Dean's. His steely grey eyes in the kind face, the dark curly hair. She doesn't want to feel like this. It is like there is a coil of wire wound tightly around her heart that threatens to spring open. She mustn't let it defeat her. She cannot.