Protecting her novice flock from the contamination that she sees seeping like rotten damp through the convent walls has become Suora Umiliana’s lifework. Certainly, without her, chapter would be a more mundane, even boring affair.

“Oh yes, indeed. In fact it has started already.” Where the novice mistress goes, Suora Felicità is never far behind. “Surely I am not the only one who was kept awake last night with the noise? Two of them, one with a voice as deep as the chapel bell, marching up and down, howling like lovesick puppies. But at least theirs were proper men’s voices, created by God, not the barber’s knife. Our novice mistress is right. Such a ‘half-man condition is an abomination of nature. Wouldn’t you agree, Suora Benedicta?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, I simply cannot say, for I have never heard one of them.” Zuana has to drop her eyes now, she is so close to smiling. Caught between her passion for new voices and the desire not to have her choir’s thunder stolen by some foreigner who has given up his genitals in the service of court employment, Santa Caterina’s radiant choir mistress is floundering. She sighs. “From what I hear, they have the ability to reach and sustain the highest notes with miraculous ease, but whether they can deliver the passaggio or the subtlety of decoration of a good soprano— well, those who witness them all say different things.”

Zuana glances toward Madonna Chiara, but the abbess’s expression gives nothing away. She sits with her fingers curved perfectly over the ends of the carved mahogany arms of the great chair, her head bent to one side, then to the other, the better to follow the discussion. The more seriously she is seen to take each and every opinion, the less those who lose the argument might feel they have not been listened to.

“Then how wonderful if we might be able to make up our own minds. It is Carnival, after all. We cannot pray all the time and can hardly avoid hearing what goes on in the streets.” Suora Apollonia is so excited there is a hint of color spreading through her whitened cheeks. “If seeing him is so corrupting, he could just come to the gate and we could stand inside and listen.”

“I agree.” Suora Francesca from the embroidery room is already aglow with the prospect of so much cleansing joy and laughter. “Other convents go much further than this. Everyone knows that last year when Corpus Domini performed their Carnival play they ‘accidentally’ left a portion of the main door open so that half the men in the city could see in.”

“Hargh!” In the silence that follows Umiliana’s strangulated bark, everyone waits for the intercession of the abbess. A series of glances move like crosscurrents through the room. Zuana seeks out Serafina again. Oh, yes, now her eyes are shining. It suits her, she thinks, such unguarded pleasure.

The silence grows. One, two …Zuana finds herself counting. Three, four …She is good at timing, is their spiritual leader. Five, six …

“You are absolutely right, Suora Francesca.” The voice, when it comes, is deep and commanding. “Corpus Domini indeed did as you say. And ended with a severe reprimand from the bishop for their pains—and the imposition of a penance that means this year they will perform no play at all.”

She pauses to let the words sink in.

“When it comes to music, I have no doubt that this ‘creature’s’ voice would be most interesting, though from what I have heard, Suora Benedicta is right and what he gains in range he gives up in subtlety. However, in this matter I think we should be led by our most reverend novice mistress. We would not want to be seen to be so eager for praise that we seek out competition from such a dubious source. I do not have to remind you that it was not so long ago that the good bishops at Trento ended their Herculean labors of purifying the church in the face of the grossest heresies by directing their attention to convents.” And here she looks directly at Suora Apollonia. “While we are blessed that our own dear bishop has seen fit to protect us from the fiercest of their restrictions, it would be unfortunate indeed if some ‘misdemeanor’ on our part drew attention to that which should be beyond reproach.”

While the words are mild, the message is clear. Apollonia’s perfect eyebrows meet now to form a perfect frown. But she bows her head and holds her tongue. When one is outmaneuvered in chapter, it is better to give in graciously.

“Besides,” the abbess says, more lightly now, “I have it on good authority that his Carnival calendar is fully booked. I daresay the only people outside court who will hear him will be those passing the open windows of Palazzo Schifanoia.”

A few stray titters rise up from the room. Palazzo Schifanoia is notorious for its great salon filled with paintings of pagan gods and goddesses enjoying the world—and at times each other. Though the rule of Saint Benedict is clear on the corrosive nature of careless laughter, it is also true that a healthy convent is a delicate mix of the sweet with the sour. It is a skill the abbess excels in, Zuana thinks: offering tidbits for those who thirst for novelty while at the same time supporting those who disapprove of it.

In contrast, Suora Umiliana remains stony-faced, seemingly unmoved by her victory. Recently she has started to find public fault in every chapter meeting. While the abbess has both the power and the strength of character to overrule her, she seems to be giving more ground than usual.

Zuana glances around the room. How many others, she wonders, are aware of the change? If the last election had not been a foregone conclusion, based as it was on the power of family factions within the city, it is conceivable that Umiliana might even be abbess herself now, for she is not without a following. Had that happened, Felicità would no doubt be her novice mistress, and together they would be tougher on all the souls in their care. There are a few, no doubt, who might be brought to a deeper comfort by their rule. But for the rest, all those noblewomen for whom these walls were never a free choice, it would be much harder.

As it was, Madonna Chiara had won with an indisputable majority, and the post of novice mistress had been Umiliana’s consolation prize. While no one had expected it to silence her, in a well-run convent it is better to have opposition inside rather than outside the fold. Zuana has begun to wonder if Madonna Chiara would still agree with that.

“Well, if that covers the entertainment, perhaps we might discuss the refreshments. Suora Federica, as cellarer, perhaps you will tell us your requirements? You will be needing to order extra stores, I think.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.” Federica, a florid-faced woman who runs the kitchens as if they were her own vassal state, has been waiting patiently for her moment. “For the cakes and puddings we will need two sacks of flour, extra sugar, vanilla, and at least three dozen extra eggs. Those expecting more than eight visitors must supply eggs from their own birds, as the convent chickens will be hard pressed to lay enough.” She directs this remark to Suora Fortunata, who keeps half a dozen hens in and around her spacious ground-floor cell and has a reputation for being insufficiently generous when it comes to donating their produce. “Also I will need more coloring dyes for the marzipan fruits. Suora Zuana?”

Zuana bows her head. In the years since she has been given an extra room to house her distillation equipment, Santa Caterina’s Carnival fruits have become famous around town for the veracity of their colors as well as their taste. “I will look through my stores for you.”

“Most particularly the red. The strawberries disappeared in no time last year.”

As much into the mouths of the nuns as the visitors’, Zuana thinks uncharitably. “I will do my best, but that dye comes from the bishop, not the distillery, and I have almost none left.”