Serafina passes the entrance to the infirmary. She has not seen Suora Zuana since the morning, after chapel. The wax seal needs a safe home, but if she is quick she might check on her now. And also perhaps manage to replace the syrup on the shelf. Once in her cell she will not be allowed out again except for Compline.
Inside, she is amazed to find the dispensary sister not only conscious but propped up in the bed, her head resting heavily back against the wall. She finds herself smiling, even laughing a little, as she hurries toward her.
“You are awake?”
Zuana stares at her as if trying to orientate herself. “Serafina? I …what are you doing here?”
“I have dispensation from the abbess. I …we were fearful for you.”
“What happened? Did I faint?”
“I think so.”
Her skin is almost gray, though her lips are a rich scarlet. Not the mark of God’s love but of her own experiments, Serafina thinks, as she pulls the cover over her.
The move upright seems to have exhausted her. “It was the cochinilla,” she says wearily.
“Yes. You threw it up all over the floor. We thought you were bleeding to death. Everyone was very worried. You had the most terrible fever.”
She shakes her head. “I …I remember drinking it, then feeling very ill.”
Serafina hesitates, then reaches out her hand tentatively and places it on Zuana’s forehead, first with the back and then with her palm, as she has seen the older woman do with other patients.
“Oh!” She takes her hand away, then puts it back again to confirm, as if she cannot quite believe it. “But you are cool! The fever has gone.”
Zuana frowns up at her, touching her own forehead. She locates the pulse on her wrist, registering it for a few seconds. “So it would seem.”
“But how? I mean—it couldn’t be the cochinilla. You vomited it up.”
“You said there was some on the floor. Did it smell as if it had passed through my stomach?”
“I …er, I don’t know. It smelled”—and she tries to remember—“musty? There was a little left in the bowl. That’s how I realized what it was.”
“I didn’t drink it all. As I fell, the rest must have fallen with me. Did you give me anything else?”
“No, no, just bathed your head with the mint and vinegar. I was scared to do more in case you vomited it up again.”
“What time is it?”
“The hour before Compline.”
“What day?” she says impatiently.
“Oh, still today.”
“So—six hours. The remedy takes six hours. I have to write it down.” And she makes a move to get up.
“No. I mean, you’re not well yet.”
But she is still moving. “I am well enough.”
“Wait. I’ll get the book for you.” She gets up. Then hesitates. “Am I allowed to go into the dispensary alone?”
Zuana puts her head back against the wall and smiles weakly. “It seems you have been there anyway.”
“Oh, only with the ab—” She breaks off. No, that is not true. She was there before the abbess. But she does not want to draw attention to it now.
Inside the dispensary she spots the stain on the floor and feels—what? — almost joyful? Yes, joyful. Suora Zuana is better. She will not die. Had she really been so worried for her? It seems that in some part of her she must have been.
But there is no time for that now. She takes the bottle of syrup out of her robe, quickly transfers some of it to the waiting empty vial, then slips the original back onto the shelf. The row of bottles nestle up to one another again. It has been missing for barely twenty-four hours. She can only hope it was really not noticed. Now she still has to get back to the cell with the wax imprint, for the bell is ringing for private prayer, and the cloisters will be deserted soon enough.
“How is the convent?” Zuana says, as soon as she returns with the book. “What of the chief conversa?”
“Her fever is high. I gave her a dose of basil and eau-de-vie a while ago.”
“You?”
“I told you. They gave me dispensation to help. The novice mistress said it would be good for me.”
Zuana stares at her. “Well. We will make a dispensary mistress of you yet.”
But Serafina’s duplicity is now so far advanced that the compliment makes her uncomfortable rather than pleased.
“Santa Caterina doesn’t need another healer,” she says quietly. “It already has you.” The feeling is made worse by the awareness that the block of ointment wax under her robe is growing ever warmer from her skin, and she cannot afford for the imprint to be less than perfect.
Zuana starts to pull herself out of the bed again. “Give me the book. I will write the notes while you prepare another draft.”
“I …I must go. The bell is ringing.”
“It will only take a few minutes, and I will make sure the abbess knows why you are late. Come. Help me get out of here before Clementia realizes she has a new companion.”
