The Miracles of Prato by Laurie Albanese

with them.
    â€œBellissima,” Spinetta pronounced when she saw the new sketches. “You’ve captured something in my sister that lives beneath the surface of her skin.”
    The monk stared at the sketch for the triptych, which was propped next to the large central panel. He looked from his own handiwork to God’s: from the vellum to Lucrezia’s face. And he was pleased.
    â€œIt’s difficult to look at my own face as you’ve drawn it, Fratello,” Lucrezia said, turning her eyes from the drawing. Although she’d been curious about her reflection many times, the desire to see herself in a mirror or in the water of a riverbed had been tempered by her mother’s sharp words against vanity.
    â€œIt’s a true likeness, Lucrezia,” Spinetta said warmly, looking from the monk to her sister. “I can promise you that.”
    Lucrezia put a hand to her wimple and adjusted the way it sat on her forehead. She looked again at the drawing of her own face, graced by a halo.
    â€œBut it’s not meant to be me,” she said. “The painting depicts the Blessed Mother.”
    â€œSo it does,” the monk agreed quickly. “You’ve only lent your beauty, so we might glorify the Holy Mother together.”
    The monk studied their faces as the sisters examined his work, and reveled in Spinetta’s thoughtful observations about the details he’d drawn into the Madonna’s lush surroundings.
    â€œLast month, even before I knew where the face of my Madonna might be found, I walked along the Bisenzio River to study the cypress trees and clouds I saw under God’s eye,” he said quietly.
    God’s eye. Lucrezia looked at the monk and wondered if he mocked her. Was he warning her that God’s eye was upon them, even now? Could he know how she felt in his presence?
    She coughed, and turned away.
    â€œYou aren’t ailing, are you?” the monk asked.
    â€œNo, praise God.” Lucrezia crossed herself at the mention of illness, as she had been taught. She didn’t look at him. “I only need a sip of water.”
    He handed her a ladle of water, and saw her face was strained.
    â€œPerhaps you need to rest, Sister?”
    â€œPerhaps,” she agreed, but still she wouldn’t look at him. “But when I sit for you, I’ll be at my ease.”
    A knock at the door broke what passed between them, and a spry man in a cape swept into the room.
    â€œPiero!” Fra Filippo rushed to embrace his friend, kissing him on each cheek.
    Piero di Antonio di ser Vannozzi, procurator of a dozen convents in Tuscany, took an artful look around the painter’s hastily tidied workshop, glanced at the young, lovely faces of the Florentine novitiates, and smiled warmly.
    â€œFra Filippo, God has been good to you,” the procurator exclaimed. He let his eyes rest first on Spinetta, and then on Lucrezia. The novitiates averted their eyes until they’d been introduced, which Fra Filippo did with great formality.
    â€œI’d received word that two new souls had joined us at Santa Margherita,” Fra Piero said. “But since you only arrived after Pentecost, I hadn’t expected the bond between you and our esteemed chaplain would be so strong, so quickly.”
    Lucrezia flushed.
    â€œI don’t mean to offend you, good sisters,” the procurator said. “We’re blessed to have Fra Filippo with us in Prato, and anything we can do to help his work is an honor.”
    The procurator was a man of the world, as kind and forgiving of the sins of others as he was indulgent of his own weaknesses of the flesh.He’d long admired Fra Filippo’s work and had made the painter’s stay in Prato very comfortable, introducing him to the city’s wealthiest men and helping him obtain their commissions. The monk had counted on this friend to bless his friendship with the novitiates.
    â€œI wish I could visit