Sacred Hearts (29 page)

She removes her hand and goes to work on the woman’s wrist, searching for a pulse amid the fat flesh. She has no idea how ill she is but she smells as though she is dying and there are specks of froth around the edges of her mouth.

“She is in need of eau-de-vie and basil.” She turns to Letizia. “There is a bottle on the workbench. Suora Zuana left it there just before she became ill. Can you bring it to me?”

At first Letizia is having none of it. While she may be a good nurse, she knows when she has been given power of her own. “I have to stay with you at all times. That’s what the abbess said. Anyway, I don’t know which bottle you mean.”

“You will smell it clearly enough. Look at her. See how sick she is? If we are to help her I need that bottle. Get it. Now.” And she takes her tone from the one Zuana used when they were in the cell with the mad Magdalena. “Unless you want it known that you were the one who allowed her to die.”

The girl hesitates, then turns and goes.

It is done fast enough in her absence. The keys are big and heavy, and there is a moment when she fears that the waxy block will not be long enough to take the imprint of both of them. She is possessed by a sudden urge to slip them under her robe and walk out with them. It is the end of the working day; surely no one will need them until tomorrow morning at the earliest. But if she takes them now she must use them tonight. And that is not the plan, and there is no way she could tell him; even if she could, he could not get it organized in time. No. If it were tonight she would have to do it alone, and when she tries to imagine herself moving through both sets of doors and standing alone out on the dock, an ink-black expanse of water in front of her, she knows she couldn’t do it. There are limits even to her courage.

She uses the ball of her palm to push the keys evenly into the pad of wax. They sink satisfyingly deep, which means it is not easy to extract them without muddying the imprint. She cannot rush it but she also cannot waste time. As it is, she barely has time to push the keys back then wrap the pad in the strips of silk petticoat and slip it under her robe before she hears Letizia’s footsteps behind her.

Together they lift the woman’s head off the pallet and administer the dose. Afterward she still seems more dead than alive. At least there has been no need for Serafina to use the poppy syrup.

“There is nothing more we can do for her now but let her sleep.”

She stands up and as she does so feels the package slip from under her breast and has to bring her hand up to hold it through the cloth to stop it falling. She worries that Letizia may have spotted the movement but the girl is on her knees by the pallet still, busy with the patient, smoothing the grubby sheet and tucking its edges, pushing her hands so far under the mattress that surely her fingers will have found the cold metal of the keys by now; almost as if it is part of her job to make sure they are still there. She glances up at Serafina and for a second their eyes meet. Oh, yes, this place is full of cunning. How right she was to resist the temptation.

Nevertheless, she is sure Letizia must have seen something, for as they walk across the scrubby courtyard back to the main cloister she keeps staring at her, small keen glances. “What is it? I told you, don’t look at me like that.”

“It’s nothing.”

“If it is nothing, why do you keep looking?”

The girl shrugs, then looks shyly back to her. “I just wonder what she sees in you, that’s all.”

“What do you mean? Who?”

She purses her lips as if she knows she should not talk, but the opportunity for gossip, or maybe the taste of revenge, is too much for her. “Suora Magdalena. The way she keeps asking after you.”

“What?”

“She thinks I am you. Every time I bring her food or go in to empty the bucket, it’s the same:
Serafina. Serafina, is that you? Are you come again? I knew you would.”
And she makes her voice go high and wobbly as she says it.

“She says my name?” And Serafina feels a hollowness open up inside her again, as if someone is scraping at the bottom of her gut with a knife.

“Oh, yes, though I don’t know how she knows it, for as Jesus Himself is my judge, I never told it to her.”

“What else does she say?”

The girl shrugs again but there is no time for further revelation as they are already in the main cloister, busy now with its traffic of silent sisters on their way from the refectory back to their own cells for prayer or recreation. Letizia bows her head and disappears back to where she came from, leaving Serafina struggling to make sense of her words. She sees again those rheumy, unblinking eyes and the wild, frozen smile. Had Christ offered Suora Magdalena His wounds to kiss, too? Tasting the blood, sucking up strength from His overflowing love? No wonder her grasp had been so strong. Ugh! No, no, she will not think of this now. The old woman has nothing to do with her. Soon she will be out of this place, leaving all its holy madness behind. All she has to do is play the humble novice for a while longer.

She slides into the throng, passing one silent figure and then another. When the fog mingles with the twilight as it does today, it is almost like a gathering of phantoms, the hushing of skirts and the padding of feet offering up its own kind of spectral conversation. She lifts her head in time to catch Suora Apollonia’s ghost-white face moving past her in the thick air. Their eyes meet and she drops her gaze, as is the rule, but Apollonia keeps on looking, as if she is seeing something of interest there. During recreation this most worldly of choir nuns sometimes holds court in her cell, gathering together the more fashion-conscious sisters to play music and tell stories over glasses of wine and kitchen tidbits. Novices are not allowed, but it won’t be long before some of them are sisters in their own right and she is always on the lookout for the next generation of rebels.

Serafina passes the entrance to the infirmary. She has not seen Suora Zuana since the morning, after chapel. The wax seal needs a safe home, but if she is quick she might check on her now. And also perhaps manage to replace the syrup on the shelf. Once in her cell she will not be allowed out again except for Compline.

Inside, she is amazed to find the dispensary sister not only conscious but propped up in the bed, her head resting heavily back against the wall. She finds herself smiling, even laughing a little, as she hurries toward her.

“You are awake?”

Zuana stares at her as if trying to orientate herself. “Serafina? I …what are you doing here?”

“I have dispensation from the abbess. I …we were fearful for you.”

“What happened? Did I faint?”

“I think so.”

Her skin is almost gray, though her lips are a rich scarlet. Not the mark of God’s love but of her own experiments, Serafina thinks, as she pulls the cover over her.

The move upright seems to have exhausted her. “It was the cochinilla,” she says wearily.

“Yes. You threw it up all over the floor. We thought you were bleeding to death. Everyone was very worried. You had the most terrible fever.”

She shakes her head. “I …I remember drinking it, then feeling very ill.”

Serafina hesitates, then reaches out her hand tentatively and places it on Zuana’s forehead, first with the back and then with her palm, as she has seen the older woman do with other patients.

“Oh!” She takes her hand away, then puts it back again to confirm, as if she cannot quite believe it. “But you are cool! The fever has gone.”

Zuana frowns up at her, touching her own forehead. She locates the pulse on her wrist, registering it for a few seconds. “So it would seem.”

“But how? I mean—it couldn’t be the cochinilla. You vomited it up.”

“You said there was some on the floor. Did it smell as if it had passed through my stomach?”

“I …er, I don’t know. It smelled”—and she tries to remember—“musty? There was a little left in the bowl. That’s how I realized what it was.”

“I didn’t drink it all. As I fell, the rest must have fallen with me. Did you give me anything else?”

“No, no, just bathed your head with the mint and vinegar. I was scared to do more in case you vomited it up again.”

“What time is it?”

“The hour before Compline.”

“What day?” she says impatiently.

“Oh, still today.”

“So—six hours. The remedy takes six hours. I have to write it down.” And she makes a move to get up.

“No. I mean, you’re not well yet.”

But she is still moving. “I am well enough.”

“Wait. I’ll get the book for you.” She gets up. Then hesitates. “Am I allowed to go into the dispensary alone?”

Zuana puts her head back against the wall and smiles weakly. “It seems you have been there anyway.”

“Oh, only with the ab—” She breaks off. No, that is not true. She was there before the abbess. But she does not want to draw attention to it now.

Inside the dispensary she spots the stain on the floor and feels—what?—almost joyful? Yes, joyful. Suora Zuana is better. She will not die. Had she really been so worried for her? It seems that in some part of her she must have been.

But there is no time for that now. She takes the bottle of syrup out of her robe, quickly transfers some of it to the waiting empty vial, then slips the original back onto the shelf. The row of bottles nestle up to one another again. It has been missing for barely twenty-four hours. She can only hope it was really not noticed. Now she still has to get back to the cell with the wax imprint, for the bell is ringing for private prayer, and the cloisters will be deserted soon enough.

“How is the convent?” Zuana says, as soon as she returns with the book. “What of the chief conversa?”

“Her fever is high. I gave her a dose of basil and eau-de-vie a while ago.”

“You?”

“I told you. They gave me dispensation to help. The novice mistress said it would be good for me.”

Zuana stares at her. “Well. We will make a dispensary mistress of you yet.”

But Serafina’s duplicity is now so far advanced that the compliment makes her uncomfortable rather than pleased.

“Santa Caterina doesn’t need another healer,” she says quietly. “It already has you.” The feeling is made worse by the awareness that the block of ointment wax under her robe is growing ever warmer from her skin, and she cannot afford for the imprint to be less than perfect.

Zuana starts to pull herself out of the bed again. “Give me the book. I will write the notes while you prepare another draft.”

“I …I must go. The bell is ringing.”

“It will only take a few minutes, and I will make sure the abbess knows why you are late. Come. Help me get out of here before Clementia realizes she has a new companion.”

LATER, WHEN SUORA
Zuana arrives for Compline, weak but nevertheless on her feet, the rest of the convent is amazed, for everyone knows by now that she was found half dead from bleeding on the dispensary floor. If speech were allowed they might congratulate her, even marvel a little at how, despite her pale face, there is such a ruddiness of health to her lips. As it is, Federica is the only one who regards her at all suspiciously—but then she is impatient to start her marzipan fruits and is alert to the color of strawberries wherever she sees it.

Others express their gratitude through the words of the office, for Compline, which, marking the end of the day and the beginning of the Great Silence of the night, opens with penitence but moves toward joy. Even Suora Umiliana seems relaxed, almost satisfied, and the once-so-troublesome novice Serafina, who it is rumored was given special dispensation to tend her former mentor, offers up the words of the 30th psalm—
Thou hast turned mourning into dances, put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness. O Lord, I will give thanks to Thee for ever
—in purest voice. Those sisters—and there are a few of them—who have been as suspicious of her sudden goodness as they had been tired of her outright rebellion find themselves giving extra thanks that the convent has regained its balance. And that there is nothing now to interfere with Carnival, with all its opportunities for pleasure and performance.

The abbess, as ever impeccable in her formality and avoidance of favoritism, waits until the service ends to show her delight, pausing briefly in front of her dispensary sister and bowing her head to welcome her back to the flock. Those who are close enough to note the encounter are struck by the deep warmth in Madonna Chiara’s eyes, not to mention the way she offers the lightest of nods in the direction of the young Serafina herself, who seems so taken aback that the blush is evident behind her veil.

Three hours later, when the convent is deeply asleep, that same young novice slips out of her cell, a parcel concealed under her robe. Not long after, the voice of a perfect male tenor, moving along the street toward the river wharf, lifts up and over the walls. It sings of young love and a woman whose hair is a cloud of gold, Petrarch’s words set to haunting music. When the song ends it is answered by a single high vibrating note, a female voice rather than male, and then a heavy thud as something hurled from inside the walls lands somewhere on the other side.

Three days later the same procedure takes place the other way around. That night Serafina is especially fortunate. With the Carnival spirit on the move again, the watch sister has changed the timing of her rounds, and the novice barely reaches her cell before the footsteps hit the flagstones outside.

She lies on her pallet, fully dressed, heart thudding, the heavy package clasped to her breast, as she hears the footsteps stop by her door, hesitate, then go forward again. In the dark when all is silent once more she pulls open the wrapping and feels underneath her fingers the shape of two newly forged iron keys and the fold of a letter around them.

There is nothing they can do to hurt her now. She is ready. It is only a question of waiting.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE