Sister Luke held the spoon aloft, gazed at her distorted image in the reverse side, and smiled. It was a brief smile, a smile meant only for her, maybe for God, if He was looking, which she suspected He was, but the fact that she sought out even a distorted image of herself, was an infringement of the Rules of the Order, something to be confessed, something to mar her day, something to ruminate in her cell after lunch. She lowered the spoon, a French spoon, one handed down from nun to nun after the death of the previous owner, and placed it down on the scrubbed wooden bench. She looked around to see if any of the other nuns had seen her infringement of the Rule, but none had, none looked, none seemed remotely interested in her or the spoon. Not even Sister Ambrose, who usually had the eyes of a hawk, and noticed things that others wouldn't have noticed in an eternity of looking, even she had not seen, or if she had showed no sign that she had. Sister Luke did notice Sister Ambrose had a boil on her chin; not a particularly large one, but at least noticeable, one able to be seen, if one got close enough, as she was now, sitting at the refectory bench, gazing at the chin, not listening to the nun who was reading from a raised chair at the other end of the refectory. The words floating over her head like a small wave of words, leaving no impression whatsoever. She stopped gazing at the chin, tried to focus on the words that were in the air. Something from the Rules, some aspect, some item about not running or rushing to or from a place. She never rushed or ran, not anymore; not since she was a novice, and had been seen and chastised by old Sister Agnes whose tongue could chisel through stone. She smiled briefly at the memory, a slight spreading of the lips kind of smile. Then it was gone, the smile. Vanished as soon as it had appeared. She sighed. Sensed Sister Ambrose look at her, a slight tut-tutting coming from her lips. The serving nun laid a bowl of soup in front of her, steaming hot, the steam rising, the smell of onions in the air around. Sister Luke lifted the spoon, gazed at the reflection of her distorted self briefly, then dipped it in the soup, and slowly, with no more thoughts raised it to her lips and tasted the onions, sensed the hotness, and felt the warmth enter her like the time her cousin Francis had kissed once behind the woodshed, and with that thought and image she closed her eyes and savoured the soup.