The Miracles of Prato by Laurie Albanese Page B

I didn’t wish to cheat my assistant, Giovanni di Francesco. I had nothing to pay him with, but as soon as I did, I planned to give him all I owed.” He shook his head. “I brought a mark of vergogna upon my name. I did not act like a man of honor. Or a man of God.”
    She’d broached the subject, and Lucrezia felt responsible for the regret that dogged his features.
    â€œEven the best men are sometimes accused of falsehoods, and their good names blemished,” she said. Her eyes filled at the thought of her proud father. “The silk guild accused mi padre of producing strazze de seda filada, silk of inferior quality, but it wasn’t true. My father’s silks were always seta leale, of the finest quality.”
    She leaned forward. The monk reached out and touched her hands. She didn’t move, but she remembered the prioress’s warnings.
    â€œIt must have given your father great joy to see you in his shops and to have you by his side,” Fra Filippo said gently. “And his silks must have been very beautiful.”
    â€œSo beautiful,” she said. His compassion gave her the courage to continue.
    â€œIt was by my father’s side that I learned to appreciate beauty,” she said wistfully.
    â€œYes.” The monk’s answer was pregnant with meaning. “The beauty of this world, that mirrors God’s heavens.”
    They looked at each other, and she pulled away her hand. But what had passed between them opened something inside of her, and Lucrezia’s words came pouring out.
    â€œMy father had so many words for blue .” She shook her head. “ Azzurro. Celeste . Blu scuro . No two pieces of silk ever looked exactly the same to him.”
    She spoke of the flowered appicciolata and the rich red baldacchino, the beche with gold laces which her father had commissioned for her sister Isabella’s trousseau.
    â€œIt was so beautiful,” she said. “It was so beautiful, I ache when I think of it.”
    As she described the fine weaves of her dresses with their bredoni sleeves, and her first summer dress of white damaschino brocaded with gold flowers, the monk imagined a young Lucrezia dancing in her garden like an angel in white.
    â€œAnd now,” she said, looking down at her plain black garment. “There’s only this robe.”
    Fra Filippo began to smile.
    â€œDear Sister Lucrezia,” he said, barely able to conceal his delight. He was almost as pleased with himself as he was with her. “I cannot create a Virgin in a simple black robe for the illustrious Alfonso of Naples. He’s expecting silk and pearls and velvet.”
    Lucrezia looked at him cautiously.
    â€œWhy are you smiling?” she asked.
    â€œIf it pleases you and doesn’t offend your sense of modesty, I would like to have you model in fine clothing, proper for the Queen of Heaven. How much easier it will be for me to copy the folds of silk and the shimmer of real pearls, rather than only to imagine them.”
    â€œBut it’s impossible,” she exclaimed. “I’ve given away all of my clothes.”
    â€œIt’s not impossible. I have fine clothes here in my workshop, courtesy of my great patron, Cosimo de’ Medici.”
    The monk saw Lucrezia blanch.
    â€œIt is the custom, of course,” he said gravely, checking his enthusiasm. “Models who sit for the great masters costume themselves in the appropriate garments.”
    â€œWhat garments would the Virgin wear? And how can you trust I’ll do them justice?”
    Lucrezia felt a heady excitement as Fra Filippo crossed to a small trunk in the rear of his bottega and began to remove delicate garments fit for a Florentine noblewoman. She saw him lift a cotta of morello purple, its sleeves decorated with small flowers and lined in silk, a benda sewn with pearls, and a thin gossamer veil.
    â€œIt’s wonderful,” she cried, thrilled at the thought of