She had told herself she could change his mind. But what if she couldn’t? What if she went with him, over the wall and out into the world, and he never let her paint?
She closed her eyes, remembering how it had felt to work on Angela’s Madonna and Child—to immerse herself in form and color, to weave magic with her brush. To think she might not have that, to think it might not be part of her life, was like something in her being torn apart.
She was shivering now. She didn’t want these thoughts. She didn’t want these questions. But she could not shut them out—and anyway, they were not really new, were they? They had come to her before. The other times, she’d banished them by force of will, or found some way to tell herself they did not mean what she thought they did.
This time, it was different. This time, she could not make them go away.
When she finally returned to the dormitory and climbed into bed—she could hear Alessia snoring, four beds down—she could not sleep. Miserably, she lay thinking and wondering, until, just before dawn, she remembered the astrolabe. She didn’t have to torture herself with questions. She could make a horary chart. She could get answers.
The clouds had departed during the night and the morning was clear and bright. Pretending to have an errand, she left the workshop just after the bell for Terce, when she knew the corridors and courtyards would be nearly empty. The astrolabe, some paper, and a stick of charcoal were hidden in her sleeve. Her heart raced, and she thought of Maestro’s warning. Was she ready for an answer she did not want? But how, not knowing, could she follow Ormanno over the wall?
Her mother’s voice seemed to whisper in her ear: The only person you can rely on is yourself.
It was a long time since Giulia had thought of that. A long time, she realized, since she’d thought of her mother at all.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she whispered.
In one of the deserted courtyards, she raised the astrolabe to the sun and murmured her question: “Will I be a painter in Ormanno’s workshop?” She took a sighting, then crouched down to transcribe the measurements, working quickly, trying not to think about what she was writing. Finished, she rolled up the paper, concealed it and the astrolabe again, and returned to the workshop.
There was a lot to be done that day, and she wasn’t able to snatch any free time until the evening, when Angela, Lucida, Domenica, and Benedicta departed to sing Vespers, leaving the conversae alone. She carried a candle over to the bench where she and Angela had their drawing lessons, and pulled the paper from her sleeve. For a moment she sat looking at it, bracing herself. Then she unrolled it.
She’d tried to close her mind to interpretation as she transcribed the symbols, but what she saw now was no surprise. The signs in the first house, the house of the questioner, were malign, as clear a “no” as she had ever seen. The signs in the fifth house, the house of the question, were also negative—and they suggested not just that she would never be part of Ormanno’s workshop, but that there might never be a workshop at all. This had not occurred to her—that Ormanno might not get what he wanted either.
She felt a sinking at her core, as if she’d just learned she had a fatal illness.
She got to her feet, crumpling the horoscope in her fist, and crossed to the San Giustina commission. The altarpiece was not illuminated tonight—Humilità and Perpetua were in Humilità’s study, working on accounts. But the blue twilight of the court, and the candles and lamps burning elsewhere in the room, were enough to see by.
Over the weeks of August and early September Humilità had completed the scene at the foot of the Cross, and had nearly finished the thief at Christ’s right hand. The thief’s body was corded with agony, his mouth open in a cry of anguish. An angel hovered above his shoulder, with glorious wings of Passion blue. Passion blue shone around the Cross as well, in the cloak of the Virgin, the gown of Mary Magdalen, the garments of the crowd. Raised above them all on the Cross, Jesus was a monochrome of light and shadow, awaiting the moment when Humilità’s brush would layer His body and His tormented limbs with color, bringing to life a suffering so real that all who looked on it would share, for just a moment, a shadow of that holy pain.
It was a masterpiece. In the time to come, Giulia thought, it would touch the minds and hearts of those who saw it, and they would wonder at it, and they would remember. The painting would become part of them; it would speak to them in Humilità’s voice. In her painting she would live on, down the years and perhaps even the centuries, speaking the beautiful truth of her art to all who listened.
This is what I want. Giulia knew it, with utter clarity. This power. This passion. Could she tie her life to Ormanno’s, knowing that if she went with him, she might never have it?
In the autumn twilight, she felt as cold as winter. Ormanno was the gift of the talisman. He was her heart’s desire—the love, the home, the family she had dreamed of since she was a little girl. How could she think of turning away from that? From him? And what was the alternative—Santa Marta? The life Humilità had offered her? The life of an artist—maybe even of a Maestra—but still the life of a nun, the barren, loveless, childless, nameless life predicted by her horoscope.
But I would be painting.
And all at once, by some strange turn of memory or perception, she stood in the sorcerer’s house again, the zodiac underfoot and the constellations overhead and the candles burning with flames that were not natural, and she heard the sorcerer say what he had told her as he placed the talisman in her hands: Be very sure you know what your heart’s desire is, or you may find yourself surprised by what you receive.
She felt everything inside her go still. She thought of the horary chart she’d cast that hot afternoon in the workshop, the one that told her she already had her heart’s desire. She thought of her first dream of Anasurymboriel, which had come on the night Humilità made her an apprentice. She thought of how the dreams had changed after she visited Matteo Moretti’s workshop—she’d met Ormanno on the balcony that day, but it had also been the day Humilità spoke to her of finding a vocation in her art. Of how the dreams had changed again, becoming nightmares, after Ormanno asked her to leave with him.
She’d heard the spirit in her dreams. She’d sought the counsel of the stars. Had she completely mistaken what they were telling her?
The workshop’s door creaked. Uneven footsteps advanced across the room.
“Giulia?” It was Angela, returning from Vespers to accompany Giulia to supper, as she often did. “Oh. There you are.” She came round the scaffold, then stopped short. “Giulia, what’s wrong?”
“What do you want more than anything in the world, Angela?” Giulia heard her own voice, as if from a great distance.
“To give glory to God through my painting. You know that.”
“What if you found out that your heart’s desire was really something else? And that getting it meant giving up what you always thought you wanted most, and settling for something you never wanted at all? But you weren’t sure you were right, and if you made a mistake, if you made the wrong choice, you’d never get another chance?”
“Giulia, what are you talking about?” Angela limped toward Giulia, her delicate brows knotted with concern. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what to do,” Giulia said, but it wasn’t true. The talisman dragged at her neck, a cruel weight. Humilità spoke inside her mind: For you, there is only here, with me.
A tide of grief rose up in her. The tears spilled over, and she bowed her face onto Angela’s shoulder and wept as if she would never stop.
CHAPTER 21
The Breached Wall
A hundred times, in the days that followed, Giulia fought the same battle of decision. She was still not sure she was right about the talisman. She still could not bear to think what it meant for her to stay at Santa Marta. But the truth was settling into her, like mineral pigment settling to the bottom of a beaker of water. No matter which path she chose, ther
e must be sacrifice. She didn’t know if she were strong enough to endure losing Ormanno and the life she had always dreamed of—but she did know, with absolute certainty, that she could not give up painting.
She was aware also that something strange was happening to her thoughts. More and more, she found herself remembering not Ormanno’s arms or his mouth or his icy-bright eyes, but how appalled he’d seemed by the idea of a woman in his workshop, and how he had lied (she was almost sure of it) when he said he would consider her plan. How he’d asked her to leave with him, but not to marry him. The thoughtless, ridiculously risky thing he had proposed the last time they were together.
It was as if a door had cracked open; a door she had not been able to look behind before. A door she hadn’t even realized she was holding closed.
Friday arrived at last, a chilly day with pouring rain. As the girls lined up for the refectory it was clear that Alessia and Elisabetta were unwell. When the food came out, Alessia closed her eyes.
“Suor Margarita, may I be excused?”
“Indeed you may not, Alessia, as I told you the first time you asked. Exert your will, and your belly will obey.”
Alessia began to reply, but then her eyes widened. She shot up from the bench and bolted from the room. Elisabetta ran after her, hands clapped over her mouth.
“May the saints grant me patience.” Suor Margarita rose. “Nelia, you are in charge till I get back.”
Down at the end of the table, Giulia noticed, Lisa was smiling.
The meal ended, and Giulia set out for the workshop. She’d gone only a little distance when she heard Lisa’s thick voice behind her, calling her name. She stopped and waited as the crippled girl caught up.
“I fixed her for you,” Lisa said softly, or as softly as her garbled speech allowed.
“What do you mean?”
“Alessia. I got purgative powder from the infirmary and put it in those nuts she’s always eating. She must’ve shared them with Elisabetta.”
Giulia stared at Lisa, shocked. “You made her sick?”
“Yes. Because I hate her.” Lisa’s blue eyes burned in her lopsided face—pretty eyes, Giulia noticed for the first time, with long blond lashes. “And for you. She was going to tell Suor Margarita you sneak out of the dormitory at night.”
Giulia opened her mouth, and found she could not speak.
“I heard her talking to Nelia. She said you go out to your lover, like a whore. She said she followed you and saw. She said the next time she was going to fetch Suor Margarita so you’d be caught and thrown out of Santa Marta. And you were nice to me. So I fixed her.”
It really was Alessia the other night, Giulia thought. How could she not have noticed she was being followed?
“Don’t worry, Giulia. I won’t betray you. I’ll keep your secret even if they beat me.”
“There won’t be a secret after tonight.”
“Are you running away with him?” Lisa’s lovely eyes opened wide. “With your lover?”
“He’s not my lover. And I’m not going to run away.”
Not until this moment, she realized, had she been completely sure.
A pair of choir nuns came around the corner, turning identical disapproving glances on the two girls. Lisa waited until they were past, then leaned close.
“I’m glad, Giulia. I’m glad you’ll still be here.”
Giulia had no idea, later, how she got through the day. It took all her concentration to behave normally. Perhaps she wasn’t doing a very good job, for she could feel Angela’s eyes on her as they worked. Fortunately Humilità, immersed in painting, was too distracted to notice anything amiss.
At supper, Alessia and Elisabetta were missing, confined to bed by order of the infirmarian. Giulia could not bring herself to feel any sympathy for them. She endured the meal, then the recreation hour. When at last the candles were blown out, she lay staring at the ceiling, waiting as the distant city bells tolled ten o’clock, then eleven.
How was she going to explain her decision to Ormanno? She wasn’t cruel enough to tell him the truth about the horoscope, but she did not want to lie. Will he be angry? What will I do if he pleads with me? Of course, she could avoid the problem simply by staying away—by leaving him, tonight of all their nights, to wait alone by the broken wall. But that was the coward’s path. She owed him at least some explanation.
At last she could not bear it a moment longer. Ormanno had told her not to come until one o’clock, but what difference would it make if she was early?
She climbed out the window, as she had so many times before—though this time was different, for it was the last. The rain had stopped and the full moon peered down through tattered clouds. Her footsteps seemed to beat a refrain: Last time, last time. The last time she’d slip through nightbound corridors. The last time she’d plunge into the darkness of Lucida’s courtyard.
When she reached the orchard she halted to tie on her sandals, her teeth chattering with chill and nerves. Then she began to make her way between the trees, holding her skirts above her knees to keep them out of the wet grass. Moonlight came and went as clouds scudded across the sky, and everywhere was the winey scent of windfall apples.
A light flickered up ahead. Good—Ormanno had come early too. We can get it over with sooner. Giulia quickened her pace. The light seemed brighter than usual—had he brought a lantern?
A strange noise broke the stillness, a metallic clanking. Giulia stopped short. Had she imagined it? Just as she was sure she had, there came a different noise: a heavy thunk. Then another, and another, accompanied by a splintering sound.
What on earth…?
Now she heard voices—something spoken, a response, too low to make out the words. One of the voices was Ormanno’s, she was sure of it. But whose was the other?
Why has he brought someone with him?
She ran toward the light. At the last moment common sense, or some other instinct, made her slow. She crept between the trees and halted behind a twisted trunk.
She’d been right about the lantern. It sat on the ground by the breached wall. By its light she saw Ormanno, kneeling in the rain-damp grass. He wore boots and a leather jerkin, and a large wallet was slung over his shoulder. His features, illuminated from beneath, were tense. Another man knelt nearby, his back turned so Giulia could not see his face.
“There’s no time for this,” Ormanno was saying, his voice tight. “We’re already later than we should be because you couldn’t stick to the plan.”
“I just want to look at it,” said the other man. “Hard to believe it’s worth what you say. Hard to believe anyone would care so much about some bloody paint recipe.”
“We can talk about this later, Didoni. You need to leave.”
“All right, all right. I’m going.”
The man got to his feet, turning as he did—a large man, Giulia saw, with fair hair and features flattened as if he had been in too many fights. She also saw the book he held in his hands.
A big book, with leather binding and a brass clasp.
Humilità’s book of secrets.
Giulia felt as if someone had seized her by the throat. There was a roaring in her ears.
“Take the box too.” Ormanno was on his feet now also.
“Why? It’s no use now I’ve broken it.”
“I want you to get rid of it. I don’t want her to see it.”
“Who, your doxy?”
“Don’t call her that.”
“Well, well. Got tender feelings for the little convent girl, have we?”
“Christ’s wounds! Why can’t you just do as I say? By God, if I hadn’t needed you to pick the locks I’d never have used you.”
Giulia clutched the wet bark of the tree that sheltered her, as if she hung over the edge of the world and would fall forever if she let go. Understanding tore through her. Ormanno’s interest in the workshop. The things he had gotten her to tell him, under the guise of ordinary conversation, about how it functione
d, where it was located. Watching her cross Lucida’s courtyard at the end of their meetings, so he would know his way into the convent building. What he’d asked her to do last Friday night…. And if she had agreed. If she had agreed, what would have happened?
Hard to believe anyone would care so much about some bloody paint recipe.
He hadn’t wanted her. He’d never wanted her. He had wanted Humilità’s book. He had wanted Passion blue.
“Used me?” Didoni’s voice had gone flat.
“You know what I mean.”
“Do I? I remember the oaths we swore as boys, when all the world was against us. I’m starting to wonder if you do.”
“You know damned well I do. Didoni, we cannot be at odds now. We must hold fast, or neither of us will get anything.”
“Bloody hell,” Didoni said. “Take the cursed book, then, and put it in the cursed box yourself. You can put it in the boat too. I’ve got my hands full with the rest.”
He handed Ormanno the book, then dragged a bulging sack out of the shadows. Giulia realized where the clanking noise she’d heard earlier had come from.
“You always were a greedy sod,” Ormanno said, kneeling again to place the book in the box and prop the lid, which had been shattered off its hinges, on top. “We will get hundreds for this book, but still you had to have the candlesticks.”
“That’s paper and ink,” said Didoni. “This is silver. I know what silver’s worth.”
Ormanno sighed. He rose, the box in his arms. “So. The three o’clock bell, you know where. I’ll meet you in the street, and we’ll go to the client together.”
“Yes, Maestro.” Didoni’s tone was mocking. “You’ve only told me a hundred times.”
He picked up the lantern. They were leaving, with Humilità’s book. That could not happen. Giulia had no plan; she had no idea how to stop them, knew it was mad even to think that she might try. But there was no time to run for help. There was no one to call on. No one but herself.
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