“Serafina?”
She moves toward the bed. But even before she reaches it she knows what she will find, realizes suddenly what is happening here; understands it exactly, deeply, completely, as if she had known it always but chosen not to look. And a wave of cold and hot wonder runs through her.
The words came from my mouth, not from my heart.
She rips back the bedclothes. The fat bundle of cloth roughly fashioned to the shape of a human figure looks pathetic even in the gloom. She picks it up, and it unrolls to reveal a Christ doll in the center. There are those who would see the use of the baby as a blasphemy.
She is moving fast now, out of the cell along the corridor toward the gatehouse. The parlatorio is dark and the gateroom empty; there is no sister on duty here, as everyone is given dispensation from their work to see the play But both outer doors are locked and bolted, and the only keys will be in the pockets of the chief conversa and the abbess.
So if not here, then where? And how?
As she crosses the courtyard into the second cloisters a great crash of thunder explodes into the air. In the refectory, God is entering the drama. The noise is such that it penetrates the infirmary, and a few seconds later Clementia’s voice rises up, moaning, straining against her cords. Will it be angels or devils this time? But it brings with it another glancing memory: the girl coming out of the dispensary, hands hidden in her robe. And behind her Clementia’s insistent voice: The angel from the gardens is waiting for you… See, see, my night angel is returned.
Inside her ranting what had she been saying? Yes, Serafina had been caught once out of her cell after dark. And had suffered penance for it. But now that Zuana thinks about it, that had been after Clementia had been put under restraints, surely? In which case, how often might she have seen her before then?
She has worked hard these last few weeks, and I would not like her to think we do not trust her.
Has everyone been fooled?
Through the second cloisters she moves into the grounds. This is forbidden territory after dark, and though she has done it once—no, twice, with special dispensation, to collect an herb that was needed urgently—she is less sure of her way. She recalls the image of the convent from the perspective of the tower: the gardens, the pond, the fruit trees, and out to the walls. And with it comes the straggling line of pale rocks and stones, like ragged stitching, moving from the edge of the second cloisters to— where? A point near the wall by the river’s edge. Pale stones. On the ground in daylight no one would notice them, but at night, unless there was no moon at all, their brightness would mark a path, which once picked out could be navigated swiftly enough.
Now that she knows what she is looking for, it is easy to find, and as she follows the line, lifting her skirts to avoid the undergrowth and brambles, she remembers an angry young novice picking up a handful of stones and hurling them into the pond, while she, her appointed guide and mentor, showed her around the grounds, describing the wonders of a convent with its walled river storeroom, through which a great wealth of trade moves in—and out—through double-locked doors to the world beyond. Sweet Jesus, has the girl remembered and used everything?
By the time she reaches the storeroom doors, she is panting and breathless. She can hear sounds from the streets around, but the wall near to where the line of stones ends is deserted and the doors themselves are closed. No sign of life. Nothing. She leans against the wood, gasping to get her breath back. As she stands there, her mind racing, she becomes aware of something, some scratching or sliding noise, from within. She turns her head so that her ear is hard against the wood and listens. Beyond is the inner storeroom, with another door that leads to the outer store and from there to the river. Is someone there? Yes? No?
She puts out a hand to the iron handle above the keyhole, then as quietly as she can she pushes against it. It holds firm. Of course, it is locked. As will be the one beyond, no doubt. No. She is imagining the noise. Who could possibly get their hands on these keys? The abbess apart, both the cellarer and the chief conversa are diligent beyond words.
Aaaah! Sweet Madonna. The chief conversa …
I dosed her with basil and eau-de-vie. They gave me dispensation to help. The novice mistress said it would be good for me.
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
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.