To make matters worse, the next day is convent visiting.
It is not the first time Serafina has had to sit in her cell while others entertain (novices are forbidden outside contact for the first three months, a rule with some kindness in its cruelty, since meeting loved ones too soon can rip raw the wound of missing before new skin has had time to grow), but the growing excitement over Carnival gives this visit a special energy. The day afterward is the Feast of Saint Agnes, when there will be a special meal and a court audience for Suora Benedicta’s new psalm settings for Vespers. The parlatorio is fulclass="underline" almost two dozen nuns gathered in separate small groups, playing host to mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, nieces, aunts, and cousins, with such a noisy exchange of gifts and gossip that the casual passerby in the street might think they were eavesdropping on some court function rather than the visiting day of the holy order of Saint Benedict. Zuana, working alone in her cell (what little family she has left is in Venice and has long since left her to her fate), can make out individual sisters’ laughter, and even after the gates are closed and the convent is silent again, those who have played host to the outside world seem lighter, a little more radiant than the rest.
That night, somewhere on the other side of the walls, a perfect lone tenor sings of a woman with hair like a cloud of gold and cheeks like rose petals. The serenade lasts only a few verses, followed by the trill of a nightingale, and then the night silence returns.
THE DANDELION TEA is already brewing in the pot as the girl walks, eyes down, limping slightly, into the dispensary. Zuana pours out a bowl of it and puts it down next to a spiced ginger ball at her place on the workbench.
“Welcome,” she says brightly, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “Sit and refresh yourself. We have a lot of work to do today.”
The rules of the convent are clear on such things. Penance, once over, is nobody’s business but the penitent’s and her spiritual adviser. And, of course, God. It is not to be referred to and certainly not to be pitied or commiserated over.
The muscles in the girl’s jaw tighten as she tries to swallow, and Zuana knows she is on the edge of tears. It would be better if she did not cry, and if she did, it would better if Zuana ignored it. “Drink the tea and eat the ginger,” she says quietly. “I have added extra herbs. They will address the stabs of hunger and give you some energy.”
Serafina takes a breath, picks up the ball, and takes a bite. Zuana imagines the honeyed spices oozing into her mouth, counteracting the leftovers of the wormwood plant, which can linger for days. When her father had first shown her the spiky leaves and made her chew an edge to taste their foul bitterness, he had told her of the entry in the Book of Revelation when the third of the avenging angels throws a star called wormwood from the heavens to earth, poisoning the rivers and fountains so that men died of drinking from them. That such an instrument of destruction might come from a simple plant had amazed her then. She wonders if she should remind Serafina of that story now, but the girl is too absorbed in her misery to be distracted.
The tears start to fall as she chews, but it is clear she has not given them permission and she sniffs angrily to try to pull them back. After a while, as she moves out her other hand to take the bowl, Zuana notices her wincing.
She takes a small clay pot from the back of the worktop and puts it down next to the drink. “Here.”
“What is it?” The girl’s voice is flat and thin.
“It is an ointment for flesh that has been pinched or crushed. It will bring out the bruise fast and lessen the soreness.”
“I thought penance was meant to hurt.”
“It is meant to help. At the beginning the two are not always the same thing.”
“Ha! Tell that to Suora Felicità.”
Zuana drops her eyes. While one is not meant to acknowledge the nuns who step hardest, of course everyone knows who they are.
The girl finishes the drink and pushes the pot away. “Was it you?”
“Me?”
“Who told them about my poems.”
And now they are trespassing into dangerous areas. Zuana says nothing, the shake of her head almost imperceptible.
“Who, then? Augustina can’t read.”
“No, she can’t.” She pauses. “However, she has a good nose for secrets…” She trails off.
The girl nods. Nothing more needs to be said.
“Here.” Zuana takes an apron cloth from the side and hands it to her. “Finish your drink. We have a lot of work. I prepared the ingredients for the syrups, but you are to do the mixing this time. That way, next time you will be able to make the whole remedy yourself.” She is aware of the implication in the words but she does not flinch. “Be careful, though. Boiling treacle sticks to any flesh it touches and can take a layer of skin off with it.”
The girl looks at her, finishes the drink in one gulp, and takes the apron.
Over the fire, the mixture thickens as it boils, but once she gets used to the weight she stirs it well enough. They work in silence, as they have so many other times over the last weeks, and it comes as a relief to both of them. On the worktop the spices sit, grated, chopped, and measured, alongside a small vial of brandy waiting to be added at the right time. As the ingredients fold into the treacle, the smell of caramelizing sugars suffused with cinnamon and cloves wraps itself around them. They are so much the aromas of Zuana’s own youth that if she closes her eyes now she can almost imagine herself back in her father’s company even down to the sound of his shuffling and clattering as he goes about his work on the other side of the room.
You must live more in the present and less in the past, Zuana. The abbess’s words move through her mind. It is for your own good. It will make you a better—more contented—nun and bring you closer to God.
She opens her eyes to find that the girl is staring at her. She moves her attention back to the mixture. A few moments pass.
“Those things you said about me. It was kind of you,” the girl says quietly a mumble almost, keeping her eyes on the pan as she does so. “I am sorry. I didn’t …I didn’t mean to let you down.”
The apology takes Zuana by surprise. While it is her duty not to feel any resentment toward the young woman, she has needed no effort to resist it. Neither—now she comes to consider it—has she felt any irritation or even impatience. On the contrary, there has been something about the girl’s presence over these weeks—her very refusal to be comforted or managed— that she has almost …what, enjoyed? No, that cannot be the right word. Sympathized with, perhaps? Or at least understood.
It is our duty to serve God humbly and quietly without worldly distraction, not to be blown off course by each and every scandal or petty novelty.
Now it is Umiliana’s voice she hears, coming back to her from the chapter meeting. Could this be what is happening to her? That she is being seduced by the novelty, the drama of it all? It is true that these days she wakes every morning wondering what the work hour will bring, even perhaps looking forward to its challenges. The idea disturbs her. It has been a hard-fought battle, the cultivation of serenity through the years, and she would not have it unwittingly undermined. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Serafina watching her again. “Keep stirring,” she says, a little sharply. “It is important that it stays moving at all times.”
The girl returns to the task. But after a few minutes she looks up again. “I …I need to ask you a question.” She pauses. “What kind of man is the bishop?”