It is, however, not over yet.
“I AM NOT sure I understand your meaning, Suora Umiliana,” the abbess says coolly.
In chapter, Zuana, like the rest of the room, is trying to keep her eyes on both women at once.
“What I mean, Madonna Abbess, is that the taking of the soul of Suora Magdalena at the same moment as the falling of our Blessed Lord from the cross is most surely a sign.” She pauses, but only briefly. Her mind is made up. “I believe we are being told that there is not enough devotion in Santa Caterina. That with all our celebrations and public performances and fame, we are neglecting our true course, which is prayer and humility, discipline and obedience.”
She delivers the speech well; these days it seems as if her piety has a natural performance within it. The chapter holds its breath. In all their years of sparring, the challenge has never been so direct.
In contrast, the abbess smiles broadly. “And yet I see a room before me filled with nuns who celebrate God with all their hearts and souls. There is surely no more joyful or productive convent anywhere in Ferrara.”
“There are those who would disagree.”
“Really?” She looks around the room as if they—whoever they may be—are about to speak. Suora Felicità opens her mouth but Umiliana silences her with a look.
“There are forces abroad greater than us or the city of Ferrara, Madonna Abbess. I am speaking of those within our Holy Mother church, the good fathers of Trento, who might find all manner of faults within the convent of Santa Caterina.”
The abbess, who is done with charm now, stares at her coldly. Her eyes pass over the gathered nuns, and a fair number of them at the back now look away from her. Apparently there have been some conversations within her convent that the Mother Abbess, for all her acuity, has not been privy to.
“Ah! You would prefer to live in Bologna, perhaps. Or Milan, where they no longer play convent instruments and can sing only the plainest of settings when they perform to the outside world. You have, I assume, heard of these changes?”
Benedicta lets out an audible gasp. Arranging the score for The Lamentations of Jeremiah has been keeping her awake at night, and she seems less joyful than she used to be.
The novice mistress gives a little shrug. “There are sisters in those cities who would say there is more worship in the psalms they give up to God now than in all the fancy settings they once entertained visitors with.”
While a number of the choir nuns are now visibly alarmed, from the rows at the back of chapter there is a rustling wave of support.
Zuana finds herself imagining a ripe boiclass="underline" the way it grows under the surface, swelling, hardening, gathering pus, and however many poultices are applied it will not soften or heal of its own accord. Such is the ailment within the body of the convent now.
“For a novice mistress whose greatest desire it is to close down contact with the outside world, you seem to know a great deal about what goes on there.”
The abbess glances briefly at the gate censor sister, who reads all correspondence that moves in and out and who has the decency now not to be able to meet her eyes.
But Umiliana holds her ground. “Santa Caterina could be as great as any of those convents. He has already given us the purest voices with which to praise Him.”
And now she looks toward Serafina, so the rest of the nuns immediately follow the gaze. Not, however, the abbess.
“So. If I have understood you correctly, Suora Umiliana, you see the work of the termites in the chapel as God’s message to us that we are failing in our duties toward Him?”
“I see it as a sign for us to mend our ways, yes,” Umiliana says again.
Zuana thinks again of the boil and how at such times the only way forward is to lance it, whatever mess and pain it might cause.
“A sign. Ah, yes, signs—they are such a rich language.”
The abbess looks out over the assembled chapter. And her eyes are clear, no hint of fear in her.
“I have been in this convent serving God since I was six years old, and what I have learned in that time is that His plan is wondrous indeed. So that while He would not choose to stop the appetite of termites, for nature must work by her own rules, He can certainly make His will felt.”
What is coming? Zuana thinks. Can she really do this?
“The left-hand nail that held Our Blessed Lord’s body to the cross and the fixing in the back of His torso both worked loose at the same moment. Had the nail on the right side of the crossbar also given way, the great sculpture would definitely have crashed to the ground. In which case we would be mourning the loss not only of Suora Magdalena but also of one or more of our sweetest novices—even perhaps Suora Umiliana herself—as they were all close to the altar, taking the host.”
She pauses. Timing, Zuana thinks. The world is made richer by its subtleties.
“That, to me, is the true sign here. For I have to tell you that the carpenter discovered that the wood behind the right-hand nail was even more badly eaten away—so much so that he and the sculptor are in total amazement that it should have held under the strain.” Another pause. “It seems to me that, far from being damned, we were chosen instead to be saved.”
She waits again now, to make sure the room has taken on the gravity of what she has said.
“I have extracted an oath from the workmen not to speak of this outside the convent, in case careless talk of a miracle should spread and we would seem lacking in humility in our desire to bring attention down upon us. But of course I have informed the bishop and asked if perhaps a small service of thanksgiving within the convent might be called for.” She stops, smoothing her skirts again, though there is not a crease out of place and never will be. “If, however, Suora Umiliana, you are still determined to put another point of view, His Holiness might be interested in hearing from you. If you compose a letter I will make sure that it is delivered.”
The novice mistress stares at her. Zuana watches her chin tremble slightly.
“I will write it today and bring it to you during visiting hour,” she says, absorbing the defeat as if it can only serve to strengthen her, “when I would beg leave to talk of this further.”
A deep silence falls on the room. It is unheard of for a choir nun not to publicly accept the abbess’s conclusion. They are entering uncharted waters now, and that brings with it the taste of excitement as well as fear.
Among the sweet saved novices, some of them now seek out Serafina. She is sitting stock-still, staring out on to the room, those sunken eyes not seeming to focus on anything at all. This is only her third day back within convent life but she had not needed Suora Umiliana’s comment to draw attention to her. In contrast to the showy piety of before, her fasting penance has already had an impact, such that some of the sisters are beginning to wonder who this young woman really is. A novice with the temper of a Gorgon and the voice of an angel is rare enough, let alone one who has been chosen by the convent mystic as worthy of saving. And now, if Madonna Chiara is right, and the falling cross was indeed a symbol of God’s grace rather than His anger, what should one make of the fact that it was she who was receiving the eucharist at that fateful moment? Of the sweet saved, surely that makes her sweetest of all?