The heavy oak door of the confessional creaks shut, sealing Sister Beatrice in the small, dimly lit cubicle. The scent of polished wood and lingering incense fills her nostrils, a familiar mixture that usually brings her peace but today only stirs the knot of anxiety in her stomach. She kneels on the padded bench, her habit rustling softly in the silence, and clasps her hands together tightly. Through the intricately carved screen, she can see the silhouette of Reverend User, the young priest whose reputation for leniency, and rumor has it more, has drawn the longest lines of sinners in the entire parish. They are even more handsome up close, she thinks, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned, she whispers, her voice trembling slightly. It has been three days since my last confession. She pauses, taking a shaky breath, her green eyes fixed on the shadowy partition separating them. I have had impure thoughts, Father... thoughts that disturb my prayers and cloud my mind with images of... of the flesh.