If Antoinette were here, they would have sneaked out together by now. They would have ended up at some cafe, drinking chai lattes, laughing while they thought up excuses for why they had left. That was the way she was. Antoinette would never have stayed somewhere she didn't want to be. She always said that Adrianne was too soft and should assert herself more. Tears rolled down Adrianne's cheeks before she could wipe them away.

Men in orange jumpsuits drove onto the field in golf carts, rounding the horses back into the doors from where they came. Helen returned with a large tub of popcorn and maneuvered inelegantly through seats partially filled with other spectators. She plopped herself down next to Adrianne, shoving the tub into Adrianne's arms. Adrianne returned it with a wave that said she didn't want any.

"I didn't let them put too much butter on it," Helen said and munched happily on a couple of kernels.

"No thanks," Adrianne said.

A display of women dressed in white, taking their seats in a skybox, came onto the giant screens. Adrianne could almost make out their tiny white shapes, moving in the distance.

"Who are they?" Adrianne asked.

"Them?" Helen said. "They help officiate. You'll see."

All four jumbo screens now showed the oversized face of a smiling, squinty-eyed man with a lipless grin. He waved energetically to a barely acknowledging crowd.

"His majesty the mayor has gotten off his high horse and is here today," Helen said, "God, I can't stand that guy. He'll never get my vote again."

"Helen," Adrianne said, "I think I want to go home."

"What? We just got here," Helen said, dipping into the popcorn.

"Yeah, but ..."

"Hey, they're about to start."

A side door opened and a sizable elk trotted onto the field of artificial green. Its tall head of antlers spread wide and pointed in all directions. It pranced about, clearly stunned. Adrianne had a nasty, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It soured still more when another door opened. Something from the darkness growled angrily, then snarled. All went quiet. The elk stood stock-still. A large cat sprang out, maybe a mountain lion. It eyed the elk and ducked low, slowed its motion to small graceful steps. Adrianne wanted to yell to the elk to run. Instead she remained frozen in her seat. Her mouth went dry and her heart pounded. With incredible speed and to the cheers of the enthusiastic crowd, the cat pounced. The elk galloped, but the lion was too quick. It pulled down the elk with its mighty paws. The audience jumped to its feet and applauded wildly.

Adrianne screamed.

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Adrianne's brown skin contrasted with the white linen of her chemise and the matching veil draped about her head that tied snugly under her chin. She had a perfect view of the stadium from the luxury box. Two large flat-screened televisions displayed up-close images of the carnage below. Several other women dressed in white sat in rows around her as if in a small movie theater. They had been lightly applauding at the image of the bloodied carcass of an elk, but all stopped to stare at Adrianne.

"Come on, Adrianne, it wasn't that bad," Helen said with popcorn in her mouth. "You better calm down. Mother is watching." And indeed she was. A stern older woman several seats back - her jaws set so tight that they protruded through her cheeks - was staring down.

"She hasn't been feeling well," Helen said to the others. The ladies nodded and returned to their murmuring.

"Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for me to come out today," Adrianne said as she wiped her moistened eyes. She put her hands in the inner pockets of her stola. A little man descended the stairs and presented a tray of Champagne glasses. She refused. Another server offered her a tray of finger sandwiches. She waved him away, and he stepped back without hesitation.

"I want to go home," Adrianne said.

"But it's just started. At least wait until halftime. ..."

"No, I think I should go home now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Adrianne held back a sniffle.

"Okay, well, let's go home then."

"No, you stay and enjoy the rest of this. Thomas will see me home."

Thomas escorted her out of the stadium. He was a muscular man and would protect Adrianne with his life. He would never attempt to touch her, though. He was of the kind that loved other men.

Thomas commandeered a cab. A man in a business suit wanted it (and deserved it because he had actually been there first). He was about to argue with Thomas when Adrianne appeared. Her white robes hemmed in delicate purple flowed in the afternoon breeze like a sail. Business Suit backed away as Thomas held open the door for her.

The yellow cab smelled of stale cigarettes and sweat. Adrianne pressed the button to open the window. Thomas gave the cabbie directions, and they were off. During the ride she concentrated on the speeding road, her mind adrift in her sorrow. Thomas touched her hand. She turned to face him, and a drop escaped her eye. She folded into his chest. He held her there. No words. Just sorrow.

"I take it you didn't like the games."

Adrianne laughed through her sniffles.

"No, I didn't," she said.

"People expect you to like it."

"I know ... I can do only what I can do ... I think Mother is mad at me."

"You probably have some explaining to do tonight."

"Great."

Adrianne sat up. She pulled back her veil and took off her vitta, the headband that bound her hair together, and released her dreadlocks. She shook them loose, then finger-styled them to drape over her shoulders. The cab driver shot a dirty look at her through his rear-view mirror. Women of Adrianne's generation were demanding more freedom in the way they presented themselves, and some were openly showing their hair. Not everyone was comfortable with that. She leered at him through the mirror, daring him to challenge her. He returned his attention to the road. Adrianne sat back and closed her eyes.

Antoine.

She believed they had a connection that spread over space and time. No matter the distance, she thought that somehow, they would always find each other. Then, just like that, the dream was over. There was a barrier they could not cross, a place he could go where she could not follow. He was gone.

The cab pulled up to the entrance of the Cloisters and Thomas helped her out.

From the time she was a little girl, Adrianne wore white. White veils, white dresses, white panties and then white bras. Whiteness was purity. Whiteness was good. Whiteness was strength. It was her shield and armor. Her brown skin covered always in white. It granted her access to all places unhindered. Even when she didn't realize it, there was always someone moving out of her way, opening a door, giving up a seat. This privilege - this honor - was given to her in exchange for a promise. A promise that she would inwardly be as innocent and pure as she appeared. A promise to remain a woman-child. A promise she had kept for fifteen years, half of her appointed period of time. But Adrianne had a secret.

The soft sounds of her sandals scraping the stone-tiled floor resounded beneath the high ceilings of the Cloisters' inner hall. She was alone. Thomas had gone to his room in the lower levels. Everyone else was at the games. Adrianne had the place to herself. It was a monastic hall filled with centuries-old art collected by diligent and discerning hands. Her favorite room was the one with the tapestries. A room with ceiling-high, hand-embroidered wall hangings that depicted an elk hunt. Each panel showed a different stage of the game played by noblemen of old, in search of the mystical creature who seemed to elude them at every turn. Adrianne had been told that these images held a metaphor for virginity, that the elusive elk was a symbol of the strength to withstand the temptation of copulation. It always seemed like such a thin explanation. Every time Adrianne looked upon these beautiful tapestries she thought of sacrifice and marriage.

She entered the next room. Before her the marble statue of Vesta, the veiled virgin goddess herself, looked down with maternal eyes. Within her hand was carved an oil lamp burning stone flames, and etched at her feet were stalks of wheat and barley. The image overshadowed everything. Its gaze went into far-off places. The statue had been brought here from a garden in lands overseas. It was said that it had once been painted - sienna, burnt umber, olive, ochre. Its alabaster appearance was all that was left after years of exposure to the elements.

She saw this statue on the first day she arrived in these halls. It was so long ago and her memories were hazy, as if it had all happened to someone else and not her. But that night, when she was still a child and the cold pricked her skin with needles, Adrianne and her mother came here.

They rode up on the train. It was late. The only other passengers in the car were asleep with their eyes open. Purple bruises marked her mother's chin and around her left eye. She held Adrianne close as they drifted between sleep and wakefulness to the hum of the engine and the occasional rumble and scraping of metal on metal over the tracks. They passed many stations. The doors opened and closed, opened and closed. Finally they reached the end of that part of their journey, and her mother ushered Adrianne to her feet and out into a desolate subway station, a labyrinth of hallways and stairs and corners that smelled of pee.

Their heels clicked and echoed in the silence. They came to an elevator so old Adrianne was afraid to go inside. When she hesitated her mother pulled her along as she was not playing any games that night. Up and up and up, then out onto the street above. Ahead of them was an entrance to a dark place full of trees and a sign with arrows. Adrianne could read the letters, but not the words. Then, when she had no idea where she was, it had seemed the scariest of all medieval forests. A place where goblins and trolls and duppies lived. The hoot of an owl. The cry of a wolf. The growl of a cougar. She heard them all in her imagination. But it was just a garden path leading to the Vestals' hall.

Her mother's desperate pull dragged her through the park until they came to the Cloisters. Her mother pounded on the door. Everyone was asleep because of the hour. But that did not deter her. Purple bruises gave her strength. Purple bruises made her determined. She pounded on the door until it was finally opened. A woman in white greeted them and let them inside. There was a stillness in the hall. A calm. A silence. Only the crackle of the burning wood. That's when Adrianne saw Vesta for the first time. The perfect alabaster marble statue gleamed in the light of a hearth, a slight smile on her face.

She heard her mother speak in hurried tones. Words, words, and more words. What was said made no sense. Leaving ... Take her. ... She's a good girl. ... She's yours now. ... Keep her. ... Raise her. ... I can't take her with me. Not one more day. Not one more hour. Not one more slap. Not one more kick. ... I'm not coming back.

Her mother placed Adrianne's hand into the hand of the woman in white. Then one last hard look. Was there sorrow? A whimper. A cry. A wail. Who made those sounds?

"Hey," Thomas said. "You okay?"

His sudden appearance jolted her out of her dream.

"I'm okay. Just thinking about the past."

Thomas held her close. This was not allowed, especially while she was still in her robes. But this was Thomas. An exception for him could always be made. Within their embrace she heard him choking back tears. Then he pulled back and kissed Adrianne on the cheek.

"You be strong," he said.

She felt a twinge of guilt. For a moment she had actually forgotten her recent loss. For the first time in a long while, her mind was on someone other than the person Thomas assumed she was thinking of.

She went to her cell on the upper floors - a small cubical area in one large shared room for all the girls. She curled up in bed, and drowned in her sheets. Sleep did not come easily. She tossed and turned until she found herself lying in bed staring at the high ceiling, listening to the silence until the sun went down and the room went dark, then the lights turned on. The silence was broken by the movement of careful feet as the others returned home from the games.

There were twelve Sisters. Four were the Sisters who were best friends (who now attended the flames). Two were Sisters who were more than that. One was the-girl-with-the-curly-red-hair-that-was-slowly-turning-auburn. One was Stephanie the brave. One was Helen. One was the-girl-with-the-gray-eyes-who-didn't-speak-too-much. One was the Mother. The last was Adrianne.

In the night, the wind howled. Adrianne listened to the rain come down. It calmed quickly. It was if someone had opened a faucet, then shut it again. She fell asleep and wrestled in her dreams. In her sleep she was herself, but not herself. She went to the in-between space, neither here nor there, moving in and out of her body with ease, being herself, then staring at herself. It felt real. So fluid and natural, she was herself - just different.

Adrianne woke the next morning at the pre-dawn hour. In the cool of the morning she realized how odd her night had been. What felt natural in her dreams was now strange. Adrianne was herself and no one else. Reality was reality. And reality didn't change.

Today it would be her and Helen and the-girl-with-the-gray-eyes-who-didn't-talk-too-much and Stephanie tending the fire in Memorial Park. They ate a light breakfast, a little fruit, tea with no sweetener, and a piece of bread.

"Come on, girls, let's get this one started," Stephanie said, and the four stood up, scraping their chairs across the hard stone floors.

Adrianne hurried to the baths for her ritual cleansing. She put on her best starched white frock, bundled up her locs into the six traditional braids, and tied her hair up with a clean vitta, completing her look with a veil with a delicate purple-threaded hem. It draped loosely over her head. On the days they tended the fire they were expected to be formal and proper. One never knew who might make an appearance. Dignitaries. Film celebrities. Mourning mothers.

The wind was bracing as it came over the water. The long stone paths along the river's edge were wet from the night's rain. The four of them walked together in the customary two-by-two square. They had lobbied hard for the privilege to walk in public without an escort.

Through the park to the elevator, down into the subway, then onto the train. Adrianne always thought of her mother when she stood among the sleepy passengers on their way to work. Those not asleep moved out of their way and offered them seats. Only two girls accepted, Stephanie and Helen. Adrianne and the-girl-who-didn't-talk-too-much stood nearby holding the poles like everyone else. A wide bubble of emptiness surrounded them in the otherwise crowded car. Adrianne loved this time of the day when she could make believe she was like normal people.

An early morning mist lay over Memorial Park, the center of the city, another world, almost another place in time. And so quiet. The gentle crush of grass under sandaled feet, the swish of dew across the hems of dresses, the flap of wings overhead as a large bird flew into the trees and disappeared from view were sounds that scarcely disturbed the silence. With pathways and walkover bridges spanning slim, slinking creeks and cascading river falls, this place of green was designed to be more like a forest than an urban manicured garden.

In the old days, a small town had been located here. The city forced the residents out when it decided that the public needed a place where every citizen could sit on a spot of grass or under a tree. The park became also the place for the essential ritual of which Adrianne was a part, the keeping of the eternal flame. In the center of the park, encircled by a colonnade of Corinthian columns, stood a marble structure open to the elements with the cauldron of Vesta at its center.

The previous shift of sisters bowed gracefully to them. They looked so tired. Adrianne said hello, but none of them seemed interested in reciprocating. The rain and wind from the night before must have made their time tending the flame difficult. They quickly left, their white cloaks waving in the wind.