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.”
Zuana said nothing, for there was nothing to say. They stood silently their hands close together, resting on the wood of the workbench. Tomorrow she would be here alone, the room her own domain again. The things she had grown used to over these last weeks—the girl’s quickness and curiosity, the unpredictable, unexpected companionship that had developed between them— all this she will grow used to being without again. That is how it must be.
The girl flexed her palm downward so that her fingers splayed out across the wood. There was a dusting of flour on them at points where the treacle had stuck and acted as a glue. Despite the work they were still lovely, fine and tapered, the nails smooth and pink, with perfect pale crescent moons rising out from the cuticles. In contrast, Zuana’s own fingers looked more like newly dug vegetable roots, thick and stained. Staring at them side by side, it made her think of the youthful moistness of the girl’s cheeks, as she had loosened her headscarf the first morning, and the plump softness of her body as she had supported her from the floor to the bed that first night. Though there was less flesh to her now (an excess of emotion and the repetition of convent food had sculpted her more finely), she was still lovely. Yes, along with the clubfooted and the squinty-eyed, Our Lord takes the most luscious young women into his care to keep them from the defilement of the world beyond …the spiritual treasure of virginity. The words of Saint Jerome came into her mind: If you walk laden with gold, you must beware of a robber. We struggle here on earth that elsewhere we may be crowned. For those novices who enter yearning for God, it was an inspiring text. Though why Zuana should have thought of it now she did not quite understand.
Beside her, Serafina’s breath was like a fluttering sigh. Zuana glanced across at her, and as she did so she registered the girl’s right hand moving again, rising slightly, then falling, the last three fingers coming to rest lightly on the back of her own.
Zuana snatched her hand back sharply, as if the touch had scalded her.
“Oh—I am sorry.” The girl’s voice was light, surprised by her surprise. “I only wanted to show you …I mean—”
“Show me what?”
“What you have done for me. My hand. Where I hurt it yesterday on the treacle. See?”
And now Zuana was seeing. Or, rather, she wasn’t. For there was nothing to see. The back of the girl’s hand was clear, the skin smooth, no sign of a blister or a mark of any kind.
“It’s healed. See? No burn, not even any marks where Suora Magdalena grabbed me with her nails. Your ointment is miraculous.”
“It is not meant for burns. I gave it to you to bring out the bruises from your penance.”
“Oh, but they are gone, too.” And the girl’s face lit up, as if the healing had somehow gone deeper than her skin. “Really. I am completely healed.”
But Zuana was not thinking of her ointment now. She was seeing instead the old woman’s face, hearing that strange, pearly voice: He said I am to tell you that, whatever comes, He is here and will take good care of you.
Was the girl hearing it, too? Sweet Jesus, look after this child. Do not burden her with more than she can bear. Zuana, who was not prone to prayer creeping up on her unannounced, found herself suddenly unnerved.
“Come. There is no time for chatter,” she said roughly. “You roll the last lozenges while I start packing them.”
If Serafina felt rebuffed, she did nothing to show it; simply dropped her head and moved her hands back toward the treacle.
When the noon bell started to sound it was the girl who left the bench first, washing her hands in the bowl in readiness for chapel and wiping them on her apron cloth before taking it off and putting it carefully back on the hook on the wall where it came from. Habit. Familiarity. It does not take long to establish itself.