No. She glances around the cell. It had been here all along, everything she needed to know. The fury and the lushness of that young body as she carried her to bed that first night, the love madrigals hidden away in the breviary, the man’s voice singing behind the walls, that single Brava after Vespers, the way the girl’s eyes had grown large as she recited the poem found in the scriptorium manuscript. Tell me, little sister, do you have a fever or are you in love?
Oh, yes, this conflagration of the flesh had been there from the beginning, burning fiercely enough for Serafina to risk everything—disgrace, social exile, even death—to find a way back inside its flame.
Zuana looks down at her. A slight frown flickers over the girl’s forehead. What will she do with all that fire now? All the despair and shredded dreams?
Love. There is no illness like it, or anything in her herb garden or her notebooks to address it. No, this disease must be left in God’s hands, to kill or cure as He sees fit. Instead of comfort, the thought sends a shiver through her. She bows her head in prayer, but the bell for chapter interrupts before she can find the right words.
As she crosses the courtyard she passes Umiliana, her novice flock trotting behind her. A few of them stare openly across at her, a mix of admiration and curiosity on their faces.
“WITH GOD’S GRACE we gather in this the first chapter of Lent to prepare ourselves for the beauty and discipline of abstinence. But before we speak of what we will give up, let us for a moment celebrate what we have.”
The abbess rests her hands lightly on the carved lions’ heads and looks out over a sea of eager faces. The room is full to capacity—choir, nuns, novices, even converse—all in their place. The only ones missing are the old and the infirm, most notably the oldest and the most recently ill.
“In the last days I have received letters from guests and benefactors thanking us for our hospitality. To read them all would spark a contagion of pride that would take another period of Lent to address.” She smiles to allow the humor to penetrate. “However, a few words, I think, are in order. They come from no less a personage than the duke’s sister Leonora, who rose from her sickbed to attend with members of her family.”
Clearing her throat, she lifts her body a little higher in her chair. The small touches of flamboyance encouraged by Carnival are put aside now: the full petticoats have been removed, her wimple is severe, with no lace trimmings to it, and a plain silver crucifix is substituted for the jewel-encrusted one. She looks for all the world like a woman who can take care of her flock.
“To all the holy sisters in your care, please convey the joy and deep spiritual sustenance felt by myself and my companions during your Carnival concert and theatrical performance. We left the convent gates secure in the knowledge that our beloved city is in safe hands with such loving and holy women interceding on our behalf.
“It goes on with the same glowing sentiments, before ending thus: I must also say that while my soul sings, my lips are still rosy with the taste of wild strawberries. If it does not take you away from your duties to God, I would be grateful for the recipe, so I might instruct my own kitchen to deliver such delicacies. Suora Federica, I believe that is directed to you.”
The kitchen mistress, however, is less than delighted. “Must we tell her? She has a niece at the convent of Corpus Domini. If the recipe goes to her, it will also go to them, and by next year everyone will have it.”
“In which case perhaps you might modify it a little to ensure our primacy is retained.” The abbess gives a small tinkling laugh, and the room answers in kind. Zuana glances toward Suora Umiliana, who is watching the others though not joining in herself. She is handling her impatience gracefully.
“Meanwhile, Suora Scholastica, I am to send two copies of The Martyrdom of Santa Caterina to sister convents in Venice and Siena who have heard that we were performing a new work. And Suora Benedicta, I have received a letter from Rome, from no less a figure than Cardinal Ippolito d’Este.”
In the second row, the choir mistress’s face lights up like a star.
“It seems that news of our settings for Saint Agnes’s feast have reached his ears, and he is sending as a gift to the convent a score for The Lamentations of Jeremiah, commissioned from the renowned Giovanni da Palestrina, with the hopes that we might perform it during Easter week.”
Benedicta shakes her head, but whether in disbelief or to tease up some new threads of music it is hard to tell.
“In terms of donations received and promised, assuming that the new dowries come in on time, I can now confirm that we will be able to start work on The Last Supper for the main wall of the refectory next winter.”
