The abbess stares at her. “We are both sacrificing jewels, it seems.”
Zuana shakes her head. “She is not so heavy—and like you I have greater ones. Many of the remedies in these I have tried and found wanting. The better ones I have already memorized.”
“Good.” She pauses. “Perhaps it would be wise for you to memorize more.”
Zuana feels the hollowness open up inside her. “When? When will it come?”
“I do not know for certain. Her leaving will steady us for a while. But it will happen, for in the end it does not depend on us. If it is not this bishop, it will be the next, or the one after him.” She smiles. “I am sorry.”
But of course Zuana has known it all along. How bad will it be? Though she can fill her mind with information, she will be able to do little with it if they see fit to destroy her choir of cures. She imagines the convent graveyard in the future, with two neatly dug new graves. Perhaps God will see fit to take them both by the time the worst happens.
“Come,” the abbess says briskly. “We had better finish this.”
Together they fashion a softer shape made from the abbess’s old shifts wrapped around the books, then cover the whole thing with the thick muslin. The abbess has already agreed with Father Romero that by the time he comes at dawn to conduct the service the coffin will be nailed down. Until then either Zuana or she herself will keep the night vigil over the “body.”
There is nothing more to do.
“God be with you, Suora Zuana.”
“And with you, Madonna Abbess.”
And so, leaving Zuana with the coffin full of books, Madonna Chiara calls for the chief conversa and supervises as four sturdy younger converse hoist the trousseau chest onto the cart and pull it through the gardens in the fading light down to the storehouse, where it is placed in the outer chamber, ready for the bargemen to find it there the next morning.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
HER PALMS THROB. Her palms throb and her throat hurts. Her throat hurts and she cannot breathe well. When she opens her eyes she is blind. In the few seconds it takes her to remember and make sense of where she is, she is gripped by panic, which smothers as powerfully as the layers of heavy fabric that cover her face when she tries to move.
She relaxes her body and tries to breathe more calmly. There is air but it feels thick in her nostrils, and she knows from a thousand stories of premature burial that it cannot last forever.
But she is not buried. She is in the trousseau chest. In the storehouse. And somewhere out there, behind the door, on the river, is a boat even now perhaps pulling up and …
Yes, yes. That is surely what is happening. They have been through this, Zuana and she, a dozen times: how, as soon as the convent is asleep, Zuana will make her way across the gardens and, using the abbess’s keys, let herself through first one door and then the other. She will open the chest, the girl will get out, and together they will go through the outer doors to wait on the dock until …
She must have woken too early. I cannot say for certain how long the drug will last. It would be better if you woke sooner rather than later, for it will be hard to move you if you are still under its influence.
She had listened to every word, never taking her eyes off Zuana’s face as she explained it once and then again. She trusts this woman absolutely and knows she would never do anything to hurt her. But while Zuana does not say it to her directly, she also knows that this is the first time she has used this remedy, so she cannot be certain one way or another how strong or how long.
What if she did not give her enough? What if she has woken halfway through? Perhaps she has not yet reached the storeroom. There may be converse in the room even now, ready to heave up the chest and move it down the stairs out into the grounds. Be quiet, Isabetta, she says to herself. Be calm. You must not make any noise now. Or waste any air.
She begins to pray There is so much to pray for. That she will make this man a good wife. That for all they have been through, they will care for, as well as love, each other and be mindful of God’s commandments. She prays that God will look after all those she leaves behind. She begs to be forgiven for her many trespasses, as she now willingly forgives those who, in their way, trespassed against her. Suora Umiliana, who meant no harm even if she could not help but cause it. The abbess, who did what her duty demanded but without whom she would not be free at all. And Suora Zuana—oh, Suora Zuana! — what can she ask of God on her behalf? As she searches for the words she feels the calm slipping away as the weight of cloth sinks more heavily on her face. She feels the urge to sing—to hear her own voice as a companion—but she does not dare.
How long has she been awake? Too long now, surely. Her head aches. Yes, the drug must have been strong enough. In which case how can it be that Zuana has not come? What if …?
What if? The two words release a wave of terror that seems to use up all the air around her so that she finds herself gasping.
What if someone is taken ill in the night and Zuana cannot get here?
What if in some way the plan has been found out?
What if there never was a plan?
Or what if this was the plan all along?
Sweet Jesus, what if this is the abbess’s final revenge to ensure her silence, and she is not in the storehouse at all but in the mortuary? Or worse—what if it is done already and she is even now buried, deep under the earth in the graveyard, as punishment for having brought the convent so close to ruin? What if, after all, she is going to die?
Once thought, it cannot be un-thought. As the panic hits she forces her bandaged hands up through the layers of silk till her knuckles crash into the lid above. The holes in her hands burn and throb as she pushes. But the wood is too heavy. Is it nailed down? Oh, dear God, it must be nailed down! She fills her lungs with whatever air is left and starts to shout. It will end as it began: with terror and tears and useless hammering against wood in the night.
“Help, oh, help me! I—”
And now she hears it: a knocking and scraping above her, then the sound of a key clunking and shifting in the lock, and a lid being lifted and pushed back.
“Hush, oh, hush. You must not make noise. I am here.”
The layers of cloth are pulled off and she takes a great gulp of air. In the darkness she makes out Zuana’s broad, smiling face above her.
“I thought—”
“I know …I know. But there is no time now. Come, come. The watch sister was a tiger tonight, and it took me longer to get away.”
Zuana’s voice wraps itself around her, encouraging, cajoling, as it has done for so long.
“Here, drink this. Acqua-vita. Just a few sips. It will give you strength. I have put some in a bag for you. Give me the crucifix. Where is it? Did you let go of it? No, I see it here. I will put that in the pouch too. I have made up two vials. One is for the apothecary. A good dispensary can never have enough acqua-vita, and the other you may trade for some small monies to get you out of the city. Ah, quickly, quickly, Isabetta. Can you walk?”
As they move across the room they can both hear it now— something bumping against the wood of the dock outside.
Zuana fumbles with the lock on the door. It opens with a fearful creak; the wind and rain have swollen and twisted the wood since the last time they were both here.
The dock is longer than she remembers it. On one side it slides away into black water. But at the other end, close to the convent’s rowboat, another small boat is docking, with a candle lantern at its prow. There are two figures aboard. Two? Zuana’s heart jumps for a moment. But he would have to bring someone to help, of course. The loyal apothecary, perhaps.