MARIA: (sitting on the edge of her bed, hands fold

MARIA: (sitting on the edge of her bed, hands folded) He said he loved me in the garden by the wall. He said that God had made me beautiful, and tall, And that a body such as mine was not a sin But something holy — so I let him in. He said he’d marry me before the autumn came. He said we’d leave this place and I would take his name. But when the sickness started and my waist grew wide, He said he never knew me. And my mother cried. And now I’m here. And he is somewhere warm and free. And all I have Is what he put inside of me. (Silence. The cello holds a single low note. CLARE sits up.) CLARE: (grounded, chest voice, direct) I don’t have a love story to tell. No garden, no promises, no wishing well. A man I knew, my father’s friend, Came to my room. That was the end. I told my mother. She turned away. I told the priest. He said to pray. I told the guards. They laughed and said, “You must have wanted it. Look how you’re bred.” So I hit one. Hard across the face. And that’s the reason I’m in this place. Not what was done to me, you see — But that I had the nerve to disagree. (She lies back, staring at the ceiling. Silence. ELIZA shifts on her bed, uncertain.) ELIZA: (open intervals, slightly off-center phrasing, as if finding the melody as she goes) I don’t know why they say I’m slow. I know the things I need to know. I know which birds come back in spring. I know the songs my mother used to sing. But I can’t read the words they write. And I can’t name the saints by sight. And when the doctor came to call, He said I wasn’t right at all. My aunt said, “Better she’s put away Before she shames us.” And that day They drove me here and left me at the gate And no one’s come to tell me when I’ll leave, so — I wait. (She pulls the blanket to her chin. A pause. Then RUTH.) RUTH: (syncopated, percussive, controlled defiance) A girl in my town asked a question out loud: Why do the brothers eat well while we’re bowed? Why does the bishop ride a car through the lane While my mother walks six miles in the rain? I was that girl. I asked again. I asked the sisters. I asked the men. I asked until they called me “wayward” and “wild” And “dangerous influence on every child.” My crime was not a body or a bed. My crime was every single word I said. They couldn’t make me sorry. Couldn’t make me still. So they sent me here to break my will. (A beat. The four girls breathe together in the dark.) ALL FOUR: (a whispered unison, fragile) Four beds. Four walls. Four girls. And all the world outside goes on. (The cello fades. Moonlight narrows to a single bar across the floor.) (Silence.)