There are a dozen other psalms she could recite: verses of supplication, cries of shame and guilt, calls for repentance, for forgiveness, for God’s boundless mercy. But sitting over the novice’s unconscious body, she is suddenly no longer sure about their efficacy; while the words are fine enough, none of them say what really needs to be said here.

The truth is that forgiveness can come only to those who are repentant. Yet the girl lying on the pallet is sixteen years old, in love, and incarcerated against her will. What if, when she wakes and finds herself back in her cell for the rest of her life, she is not sorry for what she has done, only sorry that she has failed in the doing of it? The list of her sins is long: deceit, cunning, rage, lies, lust, disobedience. But the worst is surely despair. Sworn to silence now, where will she go for relief? Without the intervention of God’s grace as well as His penance, what reason will she have not to fall prey to desperation?

“Forgive me, Lord, for not seeing what was in front of my eyes. ”

The girl is not the only one in need of grace and forgiveness. Zuana bows her head on her own behalf.

“Forgive me for not recognizing her despair. For thinking only of my own sadness when I should have been listening to that of others. For not keeping guard over the poppy syrup in the dispensary. For my loss of concentration during the play. Forgive me for being too proud or too blind or too busy. For all these sins send me penance and, in Your infinite mercy, if it be possible, save this young woman from further torment.”

After a while she notices a muddy line of light under the door of the cell; dawn has come, muted this morning by the rain. She hears the bell for Lauds, followed by the watch sister’s steps and the slapping of sandals on the soaked stone. She sits back against the wall and closes her eyes.

She has no idea of how long she sleeps. The day has already begun when the sound of groaning and the smell of fresh feces wake her.

Outside, the sisters go about their daily business, moving quietly around them. The news has traveled fast. Santa Caterina’s songbird has been taken ill with sudden fitting and from where a lovely voice once came, now there is only a river of vomit. Her condition is grave. There is talk of how the cell itself is cursed; of how its predecessor, Suora Tommasa, had been healthy—and sweet-voiced also—until one day she was found throwing up her life all over the walls. This story is given more credence by the fact that the cell, even the cloister corridor close to it, has been placed strictly out of bounds, as if there were indeed some hideous contagion at work there.

Before the midday meal the abbess returns, bringing Zuana a change of robes and food and fresh water from the kitchen. She stands looking down at the girl. The face is calm now, the mouth slack, lips blistered where the poison has scorched them.

“When was the last spasm?”

“A while ago. Half an hour, maybe longer.”

“So the remedy has worked?”

“I don’t know.”

The abbess glances up at her. “But she is not going to die?”

“I don’t know.”

“She is not going to die,” she says firmly, the words as matter-of-fact as the announcement of the menu for a feast day. How wonderful, Zuana thinks, to be so certain of everything. How wonderful and how terrible. “I will sit with her if you want to rest.”

“No. I must watch still.”

After the abbess leaves, the girl’s breathing becomes noisy through her parched mouth. Zuana puts a few drops of rosemary essence into the water and lifts her head while she moistens her lips, then pours a little gently down her throat. It is her father’s remedy. Once the body has no more to evacuate, one must start to put something back, for with so much liquid gone the organs will dry up and no longer work properly. The girl chokes on it and this time does not throw it back up again immediately. But there is no sign of regained consciousness.

A few hours later Suora Umiliana comes to the cell, given permission by the abbess to say prayers over her most troublesome novice. Her distress at the sight that meets her is palpable. She sinks to the floor, hands clasped, lips moving almost before her old knees have found purchase on the hard ground.

Zuana feels a lurch in her stomach. Does Umiliana see something she does not? Perhaps she knows the girl is dying, senses it as she did with Imbersaga. Has she missed some change, some sign within the body? But the girl’s pulse, when she finds it, is still the same weak but steady beat.

The room settles around the novice mistress’s whispered intercession: God’s love, His horror of our sins, the depth of His suffering, the wonder of a sinner returned to the fold. The joy of the final reunion even in death, the power of the light, the pull of the boundless, boundless sea of love.

Zuana listens, mesmerized by the older nun’s flow. If only I could pray like that, she thinks: pray with my whole being poured into each and every word. Pray as if I could hear Him listening.

The prayers end, and Umiliana leans over and puts her finger gently on the girl’s forehead before rising. “Shall I ask the abbess to bring Father Romero?”

“No.” Zuana’s voice is clear. “She is not going to die.” The abbess’s words have become her own. “This reaction to the remedy is to be expected. She will wake soon.”

But while Umiliana has been praying, Serafina’s face has moved from pale to a kind of gray, and though her lips are open it is hard to know if she is still breathing. It was too much, Zuana thinks. If not the poppy, then the hellebore. I gave her too much …God help me.

“We must keep praying for her. That is all we can do.” The novice mistress takes hold of Zuana’s fingers and squeezes them. “Do not despair,” she says, as if she knows that this is one of Zuana’s darkest temptations. “You have done all that could be asked of you. He will know that.”

Oh, but I haven’t, Zuana thinks. Not at all. And He will know that, too.

Time passes. She strokes the girl’s head and pulls a cover over her. The bell sounds for supper, and once more she hears the shuffle of feet across the cloisters. She pinches herself to stay awake.

There is nothing more to be done, Faustina.

She shakes her head. “There has to be. There has to be something.”

You are only a healer. There comes a point when you must give it up to God.

“Ha! You sound like Umiliana.”

Why don’t you leave her for a while? Walk out in the air. Maybe take something to give you energy. Do you keep infusion of angelica root? I think you must.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Then take a dose of it, with some mint essence. Make it strong. It will help you get through the night. But before you go, give her some more rosemary water.

“What if she vomits it back up while I am gone?”

If she does, there will be only a little bile. Not enough to choke on if she is on her side. At least it will show some sign of life.

“Papa, Papa, I don’t want her to die.”

I’m afraid you have grown too fond of her, child. It does not make for good healing. Go now. You have done all you can.

IT SEEMS DAYS since she was last in the infirmary. The two elder nuns are asleep, while Clementia lies in her bed, singing quietly to herself. The room is clean, the floor washed, the hanging baskets fresh, and the night candle already prepared on the small altar. Letizia has done a good job. Life, it seems, must go on. The very thought makes her want to cry. You are tired, Zuana, she says to herself sternly. And too much tiredness makes one maudlin.

In the dispensary she finds the angelica root and mixes it with a little wine and peppermint. It has kept her awake before and it will do so again. She swallows the preparation and feels it moving into her stomach. It will take a while to work. She transfers more to another vial. She will need something for the second night, if indeed there is going to be one.