Even Zuana, who knows nothing, knows that at night the chief conversa—a light sleeper—keeps the keys under her own weight beneath the mattress. Were she in a fever, however, how easy would it have been to slip one’s hand under …But her illness was almost two weeks ago. If the keys had gone missing, everyone would know by now. Could she have had them copied? How? By whom? The more Zuana thinks, the less she understands. But something is happening here. The girl’s absence and the wrapped body of clothes are proof enough. That and the rolling panic in her stomach.
By the time she gets back to the refectory, the spectacle has finished. The nuns are lighting candles all around and there is excited chatter and laughter as the audience mingles with the performers. The chief conversa is nowhere to be seen but the abbess is prominent enough, basking in the glow of success with two or three finely dressed women grouped around her. While this is hardly the time to announce that they may have lost a novice over the wall, it is clear she has to know.
A good abbess has eyes in the back of her head, and long before Zuana reaches her she has registered her arrival in the room, flicking a glance and then a frown in her direction. As she approaches, Zuana hastily wipes the sweat from her face.
“Suora Zuana.” The abbess turns and welcomes her easily.
“Lady Paolo, Signora Fiammetta, this is our beloved dispensary mistress. It is she we have to thank for the health of the convent and the splendid aromas that rise up from our pomades and hanging baskets.”
The women glance at her, politely uninterested. They are both so thickly painted that the slightest smiles would crack their faces. Ambergris and honeysuckle, Zuana thinks. And a hint of musk underneath. It would cost the convent a small fortune to produce their smells. She bows her head.
“I ask forgiveness for the interruption, Madonna Chiara, but I need the keys to the river storehouse.”
“The river storehouse?” The abbess’s voice is light. “What? Are we in need of more supplies at this time of the evening?”
“Yes. Something for one of the …younger novices.”
She watches the abbess’s eyes narrow. “I see. Of course, then. Do you need help? I …I am not sure whom I can spare for you at this moment.”
“No. No, I …I’ll be fine alone.”
The abbess moves her hands inside her robe to the belt that she wears underneath, always, whatever the occasion, and from it unclips a ring with two solid iron keys.
“Here. At this hour you will need a candle and a taper. Take one from the stage.” She continues brightly. “And come back to us soon, yes?”
The flash in her eye belies the comfortable smile she gives as she turns back to her painted guests.
ONCE DOWN THE stairs and across the courtyard, Zuana quickens her pace, the taper protected in her hands, until she is half running through the second cloisters, out by the herb and kitchen gardens, but then bypassing the stones to go instead around the pond and out across the small orchard toward the river.
Do not make your observation too obvious. She has worked hard these last few weeks, and I would not like her to think we do not trust her. The abbess’s words, thrown over her shoulder as they descended the stairs of the tower, had been casual, almost an afterthought.
Except how was one supposed to watch over someone who must not know she is being watched? Dear God. The girl had been out of her sight for—what, five? — maybe ten minutes at the longest. Zuana’s skirts catch on brambles and she has to wrench them free, feeling the material snag and tear. Had the abbess herself known something when she said that? Suspected, even? In which case, who is not trusting whom here?
In the gloom she misses her step and almost trips. She forces herself to slow down. Running within the convent is strictly forbidden except in the case of fire, as the very act gives birth to panic. More important, she cannot afford to sacrifice the light of the taper, for the dusk is fast turning to night.
The brick façade of the storehouse comes up ahead of her, the convent walls rising behind it. At the doors she bows her head. Dear God, she begins again. Dear God, I give myself into Your— But the prayer is interrupted by what is definitely the sound of something moving on the other side.
She slips the key into the hole and feels it bite against the lock, then turn heavily. There is a flat clunk as the bolt moves and the door cracks open. The noise sounds enormous. She pushes the door farther and steps inside. The yawning gap reveals only darkness. She stands for a moment, registering the silence. She feels stinging like a thousand needle pricks running through her body and knows it is fear. If there is someone in here—
