Passion Blue (11 page)

“This is the beginning, Mama,” she breathed to the dirty water, the egg-crusted bowls. “This is how I will get free.”

There were several things, Giulia realized, that she should have asked the sorcerer on the night he made the talisman. How long the spirit would take to find her husband, of course—but also how she would recognize him when he arrived, and whether she should wait for him to find her or make some kind of effort to seek him out. Since she had no answers, it seemed to her that taking action was better than waiting. Surely it made sense to give the spirit as many opportunities as possible.

So the moment she learned about the young craftsman who was repairing the fresco, she was determined to find a way to visit him.

Her chance came three days after she became part of the workshop, on the morning of Lucida’s dinner party. The evening before, she and Angela had sealed twenty slender twigs into a clay pot and placed the pot in one of the kitchen bread ovens, so the twigs could bake into charcoal overnight. When she arrived at the workshop the following morning, she volunteered to fetch the pot.

“Can you find the kitchen on your own?” Angela, tying on her apron, sounded distracted.

“I think so.”

“Well, don’t take too long. I’m going to show you how to make gesso today. We must get a start on the panels for the San Giustina commission.”

Santa Marta’s main building was shaped like a long narrow box, with the kitchen and the refectory and the living quarters ranged along the south side, and the workshops and the store rooms and the chapter hall along the north. Humilità’s workshop was on the north side; to reach the kitchen, Giulia had to cross a garden court, then walk all the way to the back. It seemed to take forever; she was breathless with nerves, afraid that the nuns she passed would somehow be able to read her intentions on her face. She reached the kitchen at last, and waited while one of the cooks fetched the pot of charcoal sticks, wrapping it in a cloth to protect her hands. Its heat warmed her palms through the fabric as she approached the refectory. Two nuns were ahead of her. She dawdled until they turned the corner, then, glancing back to make sure no one was about, she trotted to the refectory door and
slipped inside.

She’d worried that there might be nuns stationed as chaperones, but the sun-drenched room was empty. She could hear tapping sounds, though, coming from behind the canvas that shrouded the scaffold. Balancing the clay pot in one hand, she smoothed down her dress and pushed at her kerchief so a little of her hair showed. Her pulse beating in her throat, she approached the scaffold.

The canvas covered the scaffold’s length, but not its sides. As she rounded the edge, she could see him: the young man who had winked. He was doing something with a hammer at the fresco’s top. She stopped. Should she speak? Wait for him to notice her?

As she stood there, irresolute, he turned and saw her.

“Saints!” He took a step back. “Where did you come from?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Is that for me?” He pointed to the pot.

“Oh! No. No, it’s just something…I mean, no. It’s for someone else.”

“I see.” From the height of the scaffold, he looked down at her. He wore russet hose and a loose shirt under a workman’s smock, the collar open to show a smooth throat, the sleeves rolled above sinewy forearms. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken long ago. His long light hair curled onto his shoulders. “Well, was there something you wanted?”

Get hold of yourself. He’s going to think you’re a halfwit
. “I was, um, curious. About what you’re doing to
the fresco.”

“Ah. Well, I’m repairing it. Water got in behind it, and I’m stabilizing it so it won’t fall off the wall.” He smiled, and Giulia, who had been thinking he wasn’t particularly good looking, realized she was wrong. “Would you like to see?”

“Yes. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not a bit. Come up the ladder.”

Giulia set the pot down on the nearest table. He waited, arms folded, as she began to climb, bunching up her skirt so she wouldn’t trip over the hem. When she reached the top, he extended his hand to help her. His fingers were rough, his grip firm, and he held her hand for longer than he needed to before he let go.

The scaffold was composed of thick planks laid across a wooden framework. Bounded on one side by the fresco, enclosed on the other by the canvas, the effect was of a narrow hallway. Some light filtered in from above, but most of the illumination came from lanterns hung on brackets attached to the scaffold posts.

“They’re not going to call the watch to take me away, are they?” he said. “For talking to a…what are you? Not a nun.”

“I’m a novice. I don’t actually know what they’d do.” She’d considered the punishment she might receive if she were discovered, but it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be penalized also. “I was careful. No one saw me come in.”

“Well, where’s the fun in life if we don’t take chances, eh? As long as you stay clear of those two old
crows who lead me around at meal times, making sure I don’t steal anyone’s virtue.” His smile was wicked. “I’m Ormanno, by the way. Ormanno Trovatelli.”

“Giulia Borromeo.”

“Pleased to meet you, Giulia Borromeo.”

He was only a little taller than she was. She hardly had to tilt her head at all to look into his eyes. Like his hair, they were light, an icy shade of blue. They moved from her face to her throat, a frankly appraising gaze. She felt herself beginning to blush.
Is he the one? Is he my heart’s desire?
She’d wondered if the talisman might give her a sign of some kind. But all she felt was the uncomfortable thumping of her heart.

“You know,” he said, “I have the strangest feeling I’ve seen you before.”

“You have. Twice.”

He snapped his fingers. “I remember now. The corridor, a few days ago. You were with that pretty nun.”

“Yes. You winked at us.”

“That was wrong, I know it.” He grinned. “But I couldn’t resist, you were both staring at me so. And the other time?”

“In the street, about a month ago. You were coming out of the church. I was just about to go in the convent door. There was a woman with me, and a big carriage—”

“The carriage! I remember. That was you?” Giulia nodded. His eyebrows rose. “You didn’t seem pleased about it, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I wasn’t.” Giulia took a deep breath. “I’m not at
Santa Marta by choice. I was forced.”

“By your family?”

“Not exactly. But I don’t plan on staying. I don’t intend to become a nun.”

“Well.” His eyes moved over her again, more slowly this time. “If I’d been wondering why a novice would climb a ladder to flirt with a man who winked at her in a corridor, I suppose that would be my answer.”

Giulia felt her blush deepen.

“So,” he said. “The fresco.” Turning, he stepped toward the scaffold’s far end. “You can see over here how the plaster has begun to crack. And there are stains, see? Mostly mineral deposits, but some black mold as well. So over here”—he moved in the other direction, forcing her to retreat before him—“I’ve used bronze tacks to fix the plaster to the wall. I have to be careful where I place them, for I don’t want to spoil the images or create further cracking. With the mineral deposits, you can’t remove them completely without damaging the plaster, so I’ve been scraping away as much as I dare and then trying to make them less visible.”

The teasing manner was gone. He was a professional now, a man engaged with, and proud of, his work. For the first time, Giulia turned her attention to the fresco. In this part of it, three disciples leaned toward one another behind the table, and a fourth sat at the table’s front, his back to the viewer, his hand outstretched to take a fig from a platter. The figures were bigger than she’d realized, several times life-size, rendered with an astonishing wealth of detail.
Close to, she could see what was not apparent from a distance: the grainy texture of the plaster, the slight unevennesses of hue where color was spread over a large area. To the left, beyond the scaffold, Jesus’ face was beautiful and sad, His cloak a breathtaking sweep of Passion blue.

“How will you make them less visible?” she asked.

“I’m rubbing them with a mix of oil, tallow, a little chalk, and a few other things.”

“Won’t the tallow darken over time?”

“I’m hoping not. This is my own formula—better than my master’s, though he’d never admit it. The mold I’m washing away, though I can’t get it completely clean. Some of the stains may need to be overpainted.”

“What a shame, that so much has been spoiled.”

“Not spoiled. I’m very good at what I do. By the time I’m finished, only Maestra Humilità and I will know where the repairs were.” He looked at her, his icy eyes—which really weren’t icy at all, but bright, like stars—appraising her again, though not quite as before. “You’re really interested, aren’t you. Not just pretending.”

“Why should I pretend?”

He shrugged. “Most girls would. To be polite, or”—he smiled—“to flirt.”

“Well, I’m not most girls. I’m interested in everything about painting. In fact, I’m Maestra Humilità’s…well, I’m her apprentice.” It felt peculiar to say it—true and not true at the same time.

“Her apprentice, eh? I thought you didn’t intend
to be a nun.”

“I don’t. But…but I’ve always drawn, ever since I can remember, and I want to learn, and I can learn from her. I
will
learn from her. As much as I can, for however long I’m here.”

It was more truth than she’d told anyone since the sorcerer.

“Your Maestra doesn’t know this, I’m guessing.”

Giulia felt a sudden alarm. “You won’t say anything, will you?”

“Never a word.” He grinned. “Although—”

He broke off, holding up his hand. From below came the sound of footsteps. They stood motionless as the steps paused, moved on, paused again, moved on again. Giulia had almost forgotten the risk of what she was doing—but now she remembered and held her breath.

The footsteps faded away. Ormanno stepped to the scaffold’s edge and peered around the canvas.

“Gone,” he said.

“Who was it?”

“One of the cooks. They come in before meals to lay the tables.” He turned toward her again. “Maybe you should be going, Giulia. I don’t want to make trouble for you. Or me either, for that matter.”

“Yes,” said Giulia. “I suppose I should.”

“You might come back and see me. Though I won’t be here much longer—the work is nearly done.”

“I’ll try. Or…you could come see me.” Giulia could hardly believe her boldness. Yet if he were the talisman’s choice, it wasn’t bold at all, but inevitable.
“There’s a parlor where we’re allowed to receive visitors. You can say—you can say you’re my cousin Federico, from Milan.”

“Do you really have a cousin named Federico?”

“No. But they don’t know that.”

“You’ve got secrets, Giulia Borromeo. I like a girl with secrets.” He made a little bow. “Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye.”

For a moment she waited. Shouldn’t there be something else? But he did not move, and the silence began to stretch, so, reluctantly, she stepped toward the ladder. He stood watching as she climbed down. Ordinary concerns, suspended while she’d been with him, began to return. How long had she been gone? Too long, probably. She would have to make up a story about getting lost after all.

“Psst! Giulia! Don’t forget your jar.”

She realized that she’d been about to walk off without the pot of charcoal. She turned to retrieve it. From above, Ormanno raised his hand in farewell. As she crossed to the refectory door, she imagined she could feel his eyes—but when she looked back, he had vanished, at work again behind the canvas.

Angela did not question Giulia’s story about losing her way. She set to work at once showing Giulia how to cook gesso—a foul-smelling concoction of water, chalk, and glue—over the workshop’s brazier, and then how to brush it, while still warm, onto the three enormous wooden panels laid out on sawhorses.

The San Giustina commission was to be an altar-piece, a triptych, with the central panel depicting the Crucifixion and the two side panels the thieves crucified alongside Christ. Applying the gesso was a painstaking process, for great care had to be taken not to introduce air bubbles. Once the gesso was dry, it must be burnished to velvet smoothness with
pumice stones, after which another coat would be laid on.

“We’ll need at least six coats,” Angela said. “Maybe more. The Maestra is very particular, and this is an important commission.”

At sunset, the four choir nuns left to sing Vespers. Normally the Vespers bell was a signal for Giulia to return to the novice dormitory, but today, because of Lucida’s supper party, she waited in the workshop with Humilità and Perpetua, who as
conversae
were not allowed to participate in Holy Offices. She wasn’t surprised, when Lucida and Angela and Benedicta returned, to see that Domenica was not with them.

They left the workshop. Humilità led the way toward the back of the convent, setting a slow pace to accommodate old Benedicta, who steadied herself on Perpetua’s arm. They arrived at last at a loggia whose arches overlooked another garden courtyard. Dark had not yet completely fallen, and in the twilight Giulia could see winding gravel paths and flower beds massed with rose bushes and lavender. In the middle lay a round pool, from which a single jet of water leaped toward the sky. The rising moon caught the drops as they reached their apex and began to fall, like a spill of ice.

“It’s the prettiest court in Santa Marta,” said Angela. “Don’t you think so? The abbess’s residence is here, and the hereditary cells.”

“Hereditary cells?”

“They’re not really cells, although we call them
that. Many of the great families have been sending women to Santa Marta for generations. Some have built their own residences.”

Humilità led them toward the courtyard’s far side, where a row of small tile-roofed houses crowded against one another like a child’s toy blocks. At the endmost house, beyond which Giulia could see the shadowy mass of trees of the convent’s orchard, Humilità knocked. The door flew open, spilling golden light.