Excerpt from The Ninth Hour by Alice McDermott, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Sister Jeanne, the bucket in one hand and the broom in another, and the cold, for the first time this morning, whipping into her open cloak, turned somewhat gratefully to a woman who was passing on the sidewalk and saying, "Good morning, Sisters." She was a young woman bundled against the weather, a dark blue shawl wrapped around her broad hat, another thrown over her shoulders. She was pushing a baby carriage. A thin line of snow had gathered on the hood of the carriage, and there was a frosting of snow on the knuckles of her black gloves as well. She was pregnant under her man's overcoat. The nuns said, "Good morning," with a bow, and Sister Jeanne moved to peer into the carriage. She felt Sister Lucy, reluctantly, bending to look as well. The baby inside was so swaddled in plaid wool there were only two placid eyes and a tiny nose and the dash of a pursed, thoughtful mouth. "Oh, lovely!" Sister Jeanne cried. "Snug as a bug in a rug."

"He likes the snow," the mother replied. She was rosy-cheeked herself.

"He's watching it come down, isn't he?" Sister Jeanne said.

Sister Lucy also smiled. It was only a small, tight smile, but mighty, considering the weight of the anger it had worked itself out from under. She turned the smile toward the child and then the mother. Once more, the snowflakes began to gather in her yellow lashes, and she narrowed her eyes against them. "Is your husband good to you?" she asked.

Sister Jeanne briefly closed her eyes. Her cheeks grew warm. The young mother gave a short, startled laugh. "Yes, Sister," she said. "He is."

Sister Lucy raised her bare hand, one red finger in the air, and Sister Jeanne thought of General Washington again—or perhaps it was Napoleon. "Has he got a good job?"

"He does," the mother said. She straightened her spine. "He's a doorman at the St. Francis Hotel."

Sister nodded, barely placated. "Do you live nearby?" she asked.

"Yes, Sister," she said. She nodded over her shoulder. "Just at 314. Since last Saturday."

Now Sister Lucy turned the finger toward the woman's heart. "You come to see me," she said, "if ever he's not good to you."

"He's good to me," the girl said again, laughing.

"We're in the convent on Fourth. I'm Sister Lucy." She swung her hand. "This is Sister Jeanne. You come see us if need be."

The woman gave a little curtsy, but began to move the carriage nonetheless. "I will," she said. "Good morning, Sisters."

The woman was only a few feet away when Sister Lucy said, "If he was good to her, he might let her catch her breath before starting another child." She blinked at the snowflakes that were trying to cover her eyes. "He might think of her health instead of his pleasure."

All joy was thin ice to Sister Lucy.

Sister Jeanne bowed her head and studied for a minute the tips of their identical shoes. Under the skim of cold on her cheeks she could still feel the rising heat.

"I'll go in, then," Sister Jeanne whispered, and turned to the steps.

"I'll try to get the word out," Sister Lucy called after her. "I'll talk to Mr. Hennessey, who knows all the motormen. But there's hardly time to gather a decent crowd, the way she's rushing things. And only one night for the wake."

Sister Jeanne nodded without turning, going up the steps. She had quite forgotten God was in the snow around her, in the cold and the wide sky; she had quite forgotten her pleasure in the day's work ahead. She was thinking instead that they were well rid of Sister Lucy.

* * *

A POLICEMAN AND A FIREMAN were conferring with another gentleman in the hallway by the stairs. They all turned and nodded to the young nun as she came through the vestibule. The door to the apartment was ajar and she let herself in. In full, if weak, daylight, the room seemed nicer than it had last night, if only because now, with the curtains in the big picture window opened, it had the view of the snow to make it cheerful. There was still the smell of smoke, but the smell of cleaning ammonia was now cut into it—the smell of the day going on. She crossed the living room and entered the narrow corridor that was lined with two portraits of dour peasants and found Sister St. Saviour in the tiny kitchen. Sister Jeanne placed the broom against the door and carried the bucket to the table where the old nun sat. The kitchen had been well scrubbed, the only trace of the lady's interrupted dinner was the newspaper that had been folded beside her plate. Sister St. Saviour now had it wide open before her.

Excerpted from The Ninth Hour by Alice McDermott. Copyright © 2017 by Alice McDermott. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.