this girl it is different. Certainly there are other novices who are keen to talk to her, to draw her into their circle of gossip; Adrianna, Angelica, and Teresa are all as hungry for life as they are for God and the manner of her entrance has made her notable, with all kinds of stories in circulation about indiscretions with an older sister’s suitor or some mad passion for the dancing master. There is a fashion for nuns’ tales in cultivated circles nowadays, and a few of the more colorful ones have no doubt slipped in via the smuggler’s route of the visitors’ parlatorio. Or it could be that they simply make it up, fusing together bits of memory and longing. While Umiliana, in her role as novice mistress, sees only the devil in such gossip, Zuana is less disapproving: youth fades fast enough inside convent walls, and there are only so many hours when one can be on one’s knees.
Serafina, however, is not interested in their friendship. In fact, this incandescently angry young woman hardly speaks to anyone. And when it comes to those eight offices in chapel— well, while her lips move obediently enough to the words in her breviary, no voice comes out of her mouth, though whatever strain her howling might have caused has long since passed, soothed by the dandelion tea that Zuana makes each afternoon and which they drink together before the girl is dispatched to Umiliana for further novice instruction.
Tomorrow, however, will come their first day in earnest on the bishop’s remedies, and the rhythm of work will change between them.
THEY MEET THAT morning in the herb garden straight after Prime in a knife-sharp wind. The task: the harvesting of figwort root, the freshness of which is vital to the first recipe. The ground is so hard they have to use skewers to penetrate the top-soil, and the bitter weather collides with the girl’s morning tiredness, so that by the time they come inside she is almost blue, teeth chattering uncontrollably, too frozen even for resistance. The fire under the cauldron comes as a powerful relief, as does the ginger and molasses ball Zuana now gives her to suck, the slow release of warmth radiating through her body. Strictly speaking, such refreshment during work hours is against the rules, but they are starting the exacting business of measuring and making today, for which Zuana needs her full attention, if not her goodwill. Equally, the rule of silence within work hours is dependent on the nature of the task in hand, and if the girl is to be of any help as an assistant she is going to have to understand as well as to obey. It is time to start talking. Particularly since the bishop’s afflictions, while not life-threatening, are a somewhat delicate matter, affecting, as they do, both ends of his body.
The harvested figwort root sits on the table between them, dirty clumps of misshapen fleshlike nodules. Zuana explains the reason for them as simply—and as plainly—as she can.
“Ugh! How revolting.”
For the first words after so much silence, they erupt out of her with almost endearing energy.
“And extremely painful. Those who suffer from it say it is like trying to pass great lumps of itching, burning coal that can never be expelled. It leaves the sufferer in an almost perpetual bad temper.”
“How do you know this?”
“He told me.”
“What? The bishop told you that he had these …these things?”
“Hemorrhoids. Piles. Certainly. The last time he visited he could barely sit down to eat the feast the kitchen had prepared for him and complained about everything. The conversa who cleaned his rooms heard him groaning in the outhouse, and the next day there were specks of blood on the sheets. The urine from his chamber pot confirmed the diagnosis.”
She watches the girl’s face crinkle in further disgust. The young are always repulsed by the afflictions of their elders. What was it her father used to say? That it took a saint or a doctor to seek pleasure in the
Serafina, however, is not interested in their friendship. In fact, this incandescently angry young woman hardly speaks to anyone. And when it comes to those eight offices in chapel— well, while her lips move obediently enough to the words in her breviary, no voice comes out of her mouth, though whatever strain her howling might have caused has long since passed, soothed by the dandelion tea that Zuana makes each afternoon and which they drink together before the girl is dispatched to Umiliana for further novice instruction.
Tomorrow, however, will come their first day in earnest on the bishop’s remedies, and the rhythm of work will change between them.
THEY MEET THAT morning in the herb garden straight after Prime in a knife-sharp wind. The task: the harvesting of figwort root, the freshness of which is vital to the first recipe. The ground is so hard they have to use skewers to penetrate the top-soil, and the bitter weather collides with the girl’s morning tiredness, so that by the time they come inside she is almost blue, teeth chattering uncontrollably, too frozen even for resistance. The fire under the cauldron comes as a powerful relief, as does the ginger and molasses ball Zuana now gives her to suck, the slow release of warmth radiating through her body. Strictly speaking, such refreshment during work hours is against the rules, but they are starting the exacting business of measuring and making today, for which Zuana needs her full attention, if not her goodwill. Equally, the rule of silence within work hours is dependent on the nature of the task in hand, and if the girl is to be of any help as an assistant she is going to have to understand as well as to obey. It is time to start talking. Particularly since the bishop’s afflictions, while not life-threatening, are a somewhat delicate matter, affecting, as they do, both ends of his body.
The harvested figwort root sits on the table between them, dirty clumps of misshapen fleshlike nodules. Zuana explains the reason for them as simply—and as plainly—as she can.
“Ugh! How revolting.”
For the first words after so much silence, they erupt out of her with almost endearing energy.
“And extremely painful. Those who suffer from it say it is like trying to pass great lumps of itching, burning coal that can never be expelled. It leaves the sufferer in an almost perpetual bad temper.”
“How do you know this?”
“He told me.”
“What? The bishop told you that he had these …these things?”
“Hemorrhoids. Piles. Certainly. The last time he visited he could barely sit down to eat the feast the kitchen had prepared for him and complained about everything. The conversa who cleaned his rooms heard him groaning in the outhouse, and the next day there were specks of blood on the sheets. The urine from his chamber pot confirmed the diagnosis.”
She watches the girl’s face crinkle in further disgust. The young are always repulsed by the afflictions of their elders. What was it her father used to say? That it took a saint or a doctor to seek pleasure in the
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