"Sister Clare, I need . . . your help."
     The soft voice on the phone fade, quivered a little.
      "Sister Anthony?" Clare said.
      "Ah, I see you haven't forgotten everyone connected with the religious life."  The voice was no longer soft, but strident.
      "Sister Anthony, I--"
      "My comment was rude.  To leave the order was not easy.  I never offered support.  Now I beg your grace."
      "Are you all right?"  Clare remembered Sister Anhony's slight figure.  Age had burned away everthing exept her spirit, Clare thought. 
      "I've been relocated."
      "Where?  Where are you?" Care asked.
      "It was difficult to phone."  Sister Anthony's voice droped to a whisper, and Clare strained to hear the words.  "The Watcher is everywhere."
       Clare Mullin, ear pressed firmly against the receiver, now heard ony a dial tone.  She couldn't have heard Sister Anthony correctly.  Over the years she'd almost convinced herself that The Watcher was only a frightening tale.  A tale trapped in the years and repeated by the wind that whispered through the ancient stone wall surrounding The Mother House.
      She dropped into a chair and removed her gardening gloves.  Sweat tickled her brow.
       She'd call the Mother House, Clare decided.  Maybe Sister Anthony suffered from some type of dementia.  There wer few phone numbers Clare knew by heart, but she dialed the number to The Mother House without checking.  She could picture the phone offering its muted peal to that quiet world protected by thick walls and strict rules.
      As the phone rang Clare imagined the serenity of Mother Superior's office disturbed by this modern intrusion.  She listened so intently she could hear the past:  the soft rustle of fine woolen robes and booted feet moving silently down long dark halls.