She looks around the room. There are five beds empty now. Perhaps those suffering from the infection would be better tended here, where she could watch them more continually. But what if they infected the others? Three of the four remaining old women will probably die of natural causes soon enough—they are asleep most of the time, anyway—and even Suora Clementia seems to be fading. With the arrival of the pestilence, Zuana has been forced to keep her restrained to prevent her from wandering the cloisters at all hours of the day and night, and the old nun has taken it hard. She spends most of the time now muttering into her bedclothes, but as Zuana passes she raises herself up, suddenly agitated, trying to get off the bed.
“Oh, you are back. The angel of the gardens is waiting for you. She is with us again,” she says, waving her arms in the direction of the dispensary, straining against the straps around her chest.
“Shhh. There is no need to shout. I can hear you well enough.”
“No—but I think she is wounded. She came in so quietly. Her wings must be broken. You must let her fly again. We need her to keep us safe at night.” Since the restraints went on, her mind has been fracturing into even smaller pieces.
“Don’t worry.” Zuana is by her now, gently pressing her down onto the bed. “There are angels enough already to guard over you.”
“No, look. There! I told you she had come. See—see—the night angel is returned.”
Zuana turns in time to see Serafina coming out from the dispensary door, her newly washed headscarf a white halo against her head. An angel with broken wings? Hardly. But a novice with broken rules, certainly.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh. I have been waiting for you. I looked everywhere but no one knew where you were.” She pauses. “I …I brought you back the book I borrowed. I wasn’t sure where to put it so I left it on the workbench.”
“You should never have gone in there on your own. You are no longer working with me, and it is strictly against the rules.”
“Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Suora Clementia said it would be in order.”
And the girl smiles at the old woman, who waves back happily, madly. “The angel—I told you—the angel is returned to us.”
“Be quiet, sister. You will upset the others,” Zuana says tersely. “And you”—she nods at Serafina—“I will speak to you inside.”
With the door closed, Zuana casts a quick glance around the room. Everything seems in its place, apart from the book, which is on the worktop. Clementia’s celebration continues in muted tones through the wood behind them.
“What did you say to her?”
“Nothing. Nothing, I swear. I thought she was sleeping so I came in quietly, but then she woke up.”
“Why are you here, anyway? You should be in choir.”
“Suora Benedicta let us go early. She is working with the lute players on some new arrangements. She is very excited about them.”
So excited that she, too, thinks nothing of bending the rules. “In which case you should have gone back to your cell.”
“I am sorry. Please—I meant no harm. I told you. I just brought back the book. I thought you might need it now.”
Zuana stares at her. Ten weeks ago she did not even know of the existence of this young woman. She worked alone amid her plants and her remedies and kept her thoughts, such as they were, to herself. But now her whole life—even that of the convent, it seems—is full of her, as if the journey of this single novice is somehow a test in which they must all participate.
“The dispensary is out of bounds to everyone but myself. What you have done is a reportable offense. You could find yourself with grave penance upon you again.”
“Then you must report me for it,” she says quietly, the slightest of tremors in her voice. They stand for a few seconds in silence. “I know I did wrong but …I mean …I also came because I wanted to ask if I could help. So many people are ill now. I know there is just you and the conversa, and you cannot do it all alone. I could tend them with you. You have taught me something of fevers and vomiting.”
Zuana sighs. “It is charitable of you to think such things—”
“No, it isn’t charity. Well, I mean, I hope it is. But you helped me. Now I would like to help you.”
If I felt better would this be easier? Zuana thinks. What am I do to with her? What is for the best?
“I …I wondered if you had thought of using the cochinilla.”
“What?”
“The dye. We talked of it, remember? About its powers. Wasn’t that one of the things you said? That as well as turning the world red it could be used to break fevers.”
“You have a remarkable memory, Serafina.”
The girl bows her head. “The things you said interested me. Is it a good idea?”
“No, it is …it is an untried remedy. But I thank you for the thought. You have the makings of a good dispensary assistant.”
There is the beat of a pause before Serafina looks up and says, “I wondered if you might have asked for me again.”
Only now is Zuana visibly taken aback by the pride implicit in the comment.
