my room to be alone with the contents. Every jar, every bottle, shone more precious than any gem.
At sixteen I was unafraid of the future, and certain of my father’s trust in me. Asclepius and Hygieia both greeted me from the inner lid of the chest every time I opened it. Sometimes I felt a small heat in each palm when I tended the sick alongside my father. When we were present at the bedsides of the incurable, he wisely refused to attempt a cure, though I often remained beside the dying after my father took his leave, for the warmth in my hands hadn’t subsided. I could still give comfort, though I never spoke to him of this. Perhaps he thought I lingered with the patient out of womanly compassion. I did mention it once to Olmina in our small garden, when we were deadheading the basil to bring it back to leaf. She nodded, saying, “The mountain healers who sell barks and roots in the marketplace kindle these small flames in their palms too.”
My mother had overheard us from her window. “Come up here, Gabriella!” she called.
Olmina glanced at me knowingly, raised her eyebrows, then bent her head and knelt closer to the basil.
I trudged up the stairs. “What is it, Mamma?”
“You must never discuss such foolishness with the servants, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“And you could never possess such a talent. Only the saints embody such gifts. The mountain people are heretics!”
“Yes, Mamma. I’ll never speak of it again.”
She looked me over. “See that you don’t,” she said, plucking at loose threads on her lacy white cuff.
I returned to the garden and worked in silence next to Olmina, content just to be listening, for the green world spoke to me—the garrulous herbs, dense-throated trees, and fluted waterweeds, even the humming lichens and mosses that chinked our walls. Mushrooms breathed like small sleeping children. The whole landscape, then, sustained me in my art.
I suspected now that the Widow Gudrun also shared this green talent. As she tended to my bruises, I studied her hands. Her fingernails were stained brown from digging the earth.
I grew stronger in Widow Gudrun’s care, and as the days passed, I went out riding with Lorenzo and Olmina. We went to the marketplace to collect new pouches and jars of medicinals to replace my lost stores.
Once, we encountered other travelers and a splendid black horse that had lost its footing, badly gashing its foreleg on a rock near the moat that slanted sharply away from the road. The rider, a Bavarian nobleman, appeared uninjured. He knelt, patting his horse, soothing it in the mysterious guttural syllables of his language, while his servants looked on. Though I’m not accustomed to working with animals, I paused—incautiously—and spoke. “Forgive my intrusion, sir, but I’d recommend wrapping a cold-water bandage with yarrow round that wound to stanch the bleeding. There’s much growing freely in the nearby field.”
Startled, he stood. “Dear lady, I greatly appreciate your advice,” he said. “I’m fearful of the proudflesh that might form beneath the knee. If not tended well, the scar will mar his beauty. Since you appear to know about these things, won’t you help?”
“My lord!” remonstrated one of his men, a rough, square-jawed fellow. “You don’t know what sort of woman this is and you’re asking her to look after your horse?” His own bay snorted and pranced restlessly to and fro.
Before I could stop him, Lorenzo retorted: “Don’t you question this renowned doctor from Venetia!”
“Ah! Signora,” the Bavarian nobleman said, bowing, “please forgive the discourtesy of my man there—he only intends to protect me. Lord Christof von Altenhaus at your service.”
“Olmina—will you cut some yarrow for us?” I asked as I swung from my mule’s back. “Let’s not waste any more time. The poor animal is suffering.” For while we were going through our niceties, the horse moaned where he lay,
At sixteen I was unafraid of the future, and certain of my father’s trust in me. Asclepius and Hygieia both greeted me from the inner lid of the chest every time I opened it. Sometimes I felt a small heat in each palm when I tended the sick alongside my father. When we were present at the bedsides of the incurable, he wisely refused to attempt a cure, though I often remained beside the dying after my father took his leave, for the warmth in my hands hadn’t subsided. I could still give comfort, though I never spoke to him of this. Perhaps he thought I lingered with the patient out of womanly compassion. I did mention it once to Olmina in our small garden, when we were deadheading the basil to bring it back to leaf. She nodded, saying, “The mountain healers who sell barks and roots in the marketplace kindle these small flames in their palms too.”
My mother had overheard us from her window. “Come up here, Gabriella!” she called.
Olmina glanced at me knowingly, raised her eyebrows, then bent her head and knelt closer to the basil.
I trudged up the stairs. “What is it, Mamma?”
“You must never discuss such foolishness with the servants, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mamma.”
“And you could never possess such a talent. Only the saints embody such gifts. The mountain people are heretics!”
“Yes, Mamma. I’ll never speak of it again.”
She looked me over. “See that you don’t,” she said, plucking at loose threads on her lacy white cuff.
I returned to the garden and worked in silence next to Olmina, content just to be listening, for the green world spoke to me—the garrulous herbs, dense-throated trees, and fluted waterweeds, even the humming lichens and mosses that chinked our walls. Mushrooms breathed like small sleeping children. The whole landscape, then, sustained me in my art.
I suspected now that the Widow Gudrun also shared this green talent. As she tended to my bruises, I studied her hands. Her fingernails were stained brown from digging the earth.
I grew stronger in Widow Gudrun’s care, and as the days passed, I went out riding with Lorenzo and Olmina. We went to the marketplace to collect new pouches and jars of medicinals to replace my lost stores.
Once, we encountered other travelers and a splendid black horse that had lost its footing, badly gashing its foreleg on a rock near the moat that slanted sharply away from the road. The rider, a Bavarian nobleman, appeared uninjured. He knelt, patting his horse, soothing it in the mysterious guttural syllables of his language, while his servants looked on. Though I’m not accustomed to working with animals, I paused—incautiously—and spoke. “Forgive my intrusion, sir, but I’d recommend wrapping a cold-water bandage with yarrow round that wound to stanch the bleeding. There’s much growing freely in the nearby field.”
Startled, he stood. “Dear lady, I greatly appreciate your advice,” he said. “I’m fearful of the proudflesh that might form beneath the knee. If not tended well, the scar will mar his beauty. Since you appear to know about these things, won’t you help?”
“My lord!” remonstrated one of his men, a rough, square-jawed fellow. “You don’t know what sort of woman this is and you’re asking her to look after your horse?” His own bay snorted and pranced restlessly to and fro.
Before I could stop him, Lorenzo retorted: “Don’t you question this renowned doctor from Venetia!”
“Ah! Signora,” the Bavarian nobleman said, bowing, “please forgive the discourtesy of my man there—he only intends to protect me. Lord Christof von Altenhaus at your service.”
“Olmina—will you cut some yarrow for us?” I asked as I swung from my mule’s back. “Let’s not waste any more time. The poor animal is suffering.” For while we were going through our niceties, the horse moaned where he lay,
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