On the surface it had simply been another work hour in the dispensary, the task in hand the finishing of the bishop’s lozenges. However, given that it had come the day after the drama of Suora Magdalena and Vespers, with Madonna Chiara already in strict conference with the choir mistress and the novice mistress over the novice’s future, they had both been aware that it might be their last together, at least for a while.
All morning the convent had been alight with excitement over the girl’s voice. She had sung sublimely in both of the early offices, eyes bright, manner open, the transformation so complete as to be almost miraculous. Yet when Zuana had turned to find her standing in the doorway, the young woman who greeted her was reserved, almost shy, unsure how to behave, dropping her eyes as she came in quietly and took her place at the workbench.
The table had been laid in readiness for the final stages of the lozenge making, and initially neither of them referred to what had gone before, busying themselves instead with slicing the cooled treacle and fashioning it between their fingers into mouth-sized bits, which they then rolled in a sprinkling of sugar and flour to make them more palatable and stop them from sticking, ready for packing together in the rough wooden box.
They worked quickly and efficiently but whereas at other times the silence would have stilled them, now it felt messy with unspoken words. Zuana could not work out to whom they belonged, for though the girl was clearly nervous—edgy almost skittish, as if her heart were beating too fast—she could feel a tension in herself, too. As the lumps of treacle grew into a hill of smooth sugared balls, they caught each other’s eye and the contact served to break the ice. It was Zuana who spoke first.
“So, you have found your voice at last.”
The girl’s responding smile was small and hurried—“Uh, I …yes”—the words half swallowed.
“The convent’s night songbird may be struggling with feelings of jealousy today.”
“Oh, the night songbird!” She laughed nervously. “Singing to bring on the dawn, yes?” She ducked her head back to the treacle. “You were right. I am grateful to you …for telling me to sing. It has eased my turmoil, helped me to find some peace being here.”
Though there was more agitation than peace in her as she said it.
“It had nothing to do with me. The Lord has worked within you. It is His love and His mercy that we should praise.”
“Yes …yes indeed,” she murmured, her fingers moving restlessly over the balls of treacle.
For the first time Zuana found herself almost uncomfortable in the girl’s presence. The realization troubled her more than she cared to admit. How could it be that all the spitting fury and rebellion, all the pain and tears, were easier to bear than this newfound harmony? If, indeed, harmony was what she was feeling.
Zuana was fashioning some form of question that might go deeper without seeming to intrude when the girl spoke again.
“I …I need to ask you something.”
When she had used those same words less than twenty-four hours before, they had found themselves in a jungle of fabulous animals and the poetry of disobedience. It already felt like a lifetime ago.
“That old woman in the cell. Who is she?”
But this Zuana was ready for. “She is a humble nun intent on her journey to God.”
“So why is she hidden away as if in prison? And why did the abbess forbid us to speak of it?”
“I …I think that is for the abbess to know.”
“But what happened to her yesterday …the ecstasy. I mean, it was an ecstasy. You said so yourself.”
Mindful as she must be now of Madonna Chiara’s injunction, Zuana hesitated. “She was transported in some way, yes.”
“Then shouldn’t other people know about it?”
“The only ones who matter know already. As Madonna Chiara said, it is no one’s business but her own and God’s.”
“But those things …that she said to me. I mean, if she was in ecstasy, then …”
Of course. Who would not have been affected, alarmed even, by such prophetic testimony?
“Serafina, there is nothing to be frightened of. The things she said to you were full of love, her own and God’s. Of that I have no doubt. And neither should you.”
For a second, Zuana saw what she would swear was a look of anguish pass over the girl’s face before she clenched her jaw (a gesture that recalled her rebelliousness) and gave her attention back to the lozenges.
They returned to work, side by side, their hands moving swiftly over the table, cutting, rolling, finishing.
“I do feel …more loved.” The girl’s voice was quiet but firm as she pushed another sugared ball toward the box. “As if I am …am looked after.”
“Then let us pray that feeling continues. Thank Him for His infinite mercy.”
“I should thank you, too.” The words came out in a rush, though she kept her eyes fixed on the bench, her right hand palm-down on the wood. “I mean, for all that you have done. You have …well, you have been good to me.”
“I have only done my duty through God’s love.”
“You say that—but I think you have done more.”
