We do not like them. There are three sisters, Agatha, Catherine, and Lucy, and we dislike them equally. They came last spring almost at the end of the semester. At Friday mass, they each genuflected before the Host. One fluid movement, a piece of dance that didn’t seem possible: right knee, left knee, sign of the cross, mouth opens gently, left foot, right foot, back quietly to the pew. They knelt there until the proper moment, after the tabernacle was closed again. We could only see the dove-colored ribbons streaming down their backs in hair that had seen a hundred brushstrokes before bedtime.