Passion Blue (31 page)

And suddenly Humilità’s coldness was gone, and Giulia saw in the workshop mistress’s face a pain to match her own. An unbearable surge of guilt and remorse rose up in her. Until that exact moment, she had not understood that she had come to love her proud, demanding teacher—the
woman who had offered her her heart’s desire, but only on her own terms. The woman who had offered her the freedom of her art, but only if she remained a prisoner. The woman whose forgiveness she wanted more than anything.

“Oh, Maestra,” she said, as the tears spilled over.

Humilità turned away. “I’ll see you’re brought something to eat and drink.”

“Will you tell Angela I’m sorry? And the others, too. Will you please tell them I’m so very sorry?”

Humilità did not reply. She opened the door and passed through it, locking it again behind her, leaving Giulia alone with the knowledge of everything she had lost.

A
conversa
brought penitent’s food: a jug of water, thin soup, stale bread. Giulia ate and drank, then pulled her hair from its snarled braid and finger-combed the tangles out. She used what was left of the water to wash her face and neck. The talisman, still thrust down inside her bodice, made a chafing lump; she pushed it to a more comfortable position.

I should break it, the way the sorcerer told me, and set Anasurymboriel free
. The spirit had finished its task—its true task—long ago.
After I’m banished. I’ll do it then
.

She curled up under the blanket and fell asleep.

She woke again to the turning of the lock. She’d slept the clock around—the rectangle of sun had returned to the place it had been when she first entered the cell.

It was not the
conversa
, as Giulia expected, but Suor Margarita.

“Get up.” The novice mistress’s voice was colder than January. “Madre Damiana will see you now.”

Suor Margarita led Giulia through the convent like a prisoner being taken for execution. Two choir nuns accompanied them, one leading the way, the other walking behind, reminding Giulia of the day she and Angela had passed Ormanno in the hall. Choir nuns and
conversae
paused to stare as the little procession went by, making Giulia even more conscious of her gown, so very red amid the sea of white and black and gray.

Madre Damiana sat at her desk, as she had the first time Giulia had ever seen her, her abbess’s staff leaning against the wall behind her. Humilità was there also, standing before the window with her back to the room, her stocky figure dark against the light. She did not turn as Giulia and Suor Margarita entered.

“Leave us, Margarita,” Madre Damiana said.

The novice mistress obeyed. The silence that followed seemed to last forever. Giulia waited, her eyes lowered, her hands fisted in her red skirts. She’d begun to tremble; she had to clench her teeth to stop them from chattering.

“Humilità has told me all you told her,” Madre Damiana said, in her strong, slow voice. “You are not the first novice to break her vows, or to dally with a paramour. Not by any means. But to bring a man inside our walls—to assist him in defiling our sacred space—to facilitate the theft of something so precious to us…” Madre Damiana paused. “Never has such a thing occurred, not in the three hundred years since Santa Marta’s founding.”

“I’m sorry.” Giulia forced the words past the tightness in her throat. “I’m truly sorry for my actions, and
for…for the trouble I brought to the Maestra and to Santa Marta.”

“Did you allow him to become your lover?” Madre Damiana’s voice was like a whip. “Before God, girl, tell the truth.”

“No. He was never my lover, I swear it.”

“So you are not ruined. That’s a little comfort, at least.” The abbess clasped her ringed hands on her desk. “You should know that I do not trust your expressions of contrition. When Humilità came to me, I had already determined not to readmit you to our community, regardless of the offense it would doubtless cause the Borromeo family.”

Giulia had tried to prepare herself for those words. They still went through her like knives.

“Humilità, however, believes your remorse is genuine. She points out that though you were responsible for the theft of her book, you are also responsible for its return, and for preserving the secret of Passion blue.”

She spoke for me
. Surprised, Giulia glanced at Humilità, who still stood unmoving.

“She has suggested that, rather than expelling you, we allow you to atone for your wrongs in the place where you committed them, among the people you hurt. I am by no means convinced she is correct. I fear also that she is guilty of the sin of covetousness, for I suspect it is principally your talent she pleads for. But she believes she can quell your rebellious nature, and in my affection for her, I have agreed that she may try. Accordingly, Giulia Borromeo, you will not be banished. You will remain at Santa Marta, and you will continue as Humilità’s pupil.”

Giulia gasped.

“Do not imagine that this is a light reprieve.” Madre Damiana’s face was as implacable as a carved saint’s. “Every morning and every evening, for the duration of your novitiate, you will spend an hour on your knees, praying for forgiveness. Because of your facility for deception, you will live apart from your fellow novices. You will make no more horoscopes, but accept that God’s will is and should remain a mystery. And if you ever flout our rules again—if you lie about so much as a crumb of bread filched from the refectory table—you will be immediately expelled, and there will be no second chance. Is that clear?”

Giulia felt as if she were dreaming. She nodded.

“In thirteen months, when your novitiate ends, you may choose to take solemn vows and your penance will be deemed fulfilled. If you choose to leave us, however, your dowry will be forfeit, to pay in some measure for your keep and for the silver that was stolen from us.”

“Yes, Madre Damiana,” Giulia whispered.

“One more thing. Your…absence…could not be hidden. But the violation of Santa Marta by this band of thieves is a shame and a disgrace that would, if it became known, provide certain men of the Church with an excuse to rob us of the freedoms we enjoy here. That I will not tolerate. Accordingly, I have told the community only of your failed elopement. The chapel has been closed until the silver can be replaced, and only Humilità, myself, and the other artists know of the theft of the book. Margarita does not understand what it was she brought to me yesterday.” The abbess leaned forward. “You must never
speak of this, Giulia Borromeo. Not even to your confessor. I require you to swear before God.”

“I swear. Before God, I swear.”

“For the next two weeks, you will remain in confinement in the discipline cell, to meditate on your sins and to cultivate repentance.”

“Yes, Madre Damiana.”

“Have you anything to say before you begin your penance?”

“Thank you, Madre Damiana.” Giulia’s voice shook; she tried to steady it. “For your mercy. Thank you, Maestra, for giving me another chance. You won’t regret it. I swear you won’t.”

Humilità stood like a stone, like someone in a room all by herself. She gave no sign that she had heard.

“You may go,” said Madre Damiana. “And tell Margarita to fetch you novice garb, by my order.” Distaste flickered across her face. “We must get rid of that gown as soon as possible.”

Locked into the discipline cell once more, Giulia pulled off Ormanno’s dress and put on again the shapeless gray habit and kerchief of a novice, which she’d never imagined she would be glad to wear. Then she sat down on the bed.

In Madre Damiana’s study, she had felt she was dreaming. Now she felt she had woken from a dream, delivered from the worst nightmare in the world.

I will paint
.

She closed her eyes. Less than an hour ago, she’d believed she had lost everything. Now, incredibly, what
she wanted most had been given back.

I will paint
.

It wouldn’t be easy. More than a year of prayer and penances. More than a year of living apart like a pariah under Suor Margarita’s angry eye. No matter how fully she managed to atone, no one at Santa Marta would ever forget what she had done—she would always be remembered as the girl who went over the wall with her lover and returned in disgrace. She would forever be the subject of whispered stories, like the one old Benedicta had told.

But I will paint
.

Could
she atone? Would the other artists ever forgive her for deceiving them? Could they learn to overlook the harm she had done? Would she and Angela be friends again?

And Humilità. Humilità had believed her. Humilità had interceded for her. Yet in Madre Damiana’s study, the workshop mistress had turned away as if Giulia did not exist. As if she could not even bear to look at her.

I’ll make it right. Somehow, I’ll find a way to make things right again
.

She knew where she had to start.

She drew the talisman out from beneath her pillow, where she’d slipped it when she put on her new garments. The tray with her evening meal had not yet been removed; she took the iron spoon from the soup bowl and knelt on the floor, placing the talisman on the tiles in front of her.

It was time to set Anasurymboriel free.

She ran her finger over the face of the pendant, over the graceful copper inlay and the deep azure of
the lapis lazuli, thinking of the flash of blue she’d glimpsed in Matteo’s bedroom, remembering the woman in the blue dress who had led her back to Santa Marta. The little spirit, faithful to the end, had been with her even when she believed it gone. But she would not miss it. She would not miss the weight of the talisman around her neck, or the weight of the secrets that came with it.

“Thank you, Anasurymboriel,” she whispered. “For giving me my heart’s desire in spite of myself.”

She gripped the spoon. She drew a deep breath and brought the handle down, hard.

And again.

And once more.

It was done. The talisman had split into three pieces, held together still by the lattice of the inlay.

She’d wondered if she might feel something, or see something, as the spirit was released. But there was nothing. Just the crack of impact and the force of the blow shuddering up her arm.

She tore a piece of fabric from the bottom of her chemise and rolled the broken talisman into it, along with the silver chain that had held it. She tucked the little package under her kerchief, wedging it into the coil of her braid. She’d think of a way to dispose of it later.

On impulse, she pulled the pouch that held her horoscope fragment from beneath her chemise and removed the scrap of paper inside. The paper had yellowed over the years, but the uncompromising words of the prediction were as clear as ever:

…major affliction by Saturn, and
the Moon and Sun in barren signs, there is thus no testimony of marriage, or of children. She shall not take another’s name, nor shall she bear her own at the end of life, but shall…

She’d battled against those words for most of her life. In doing so, perhaps, she had only made it more certain that they would come true. To stay at Santa Marta was to embrace the fate she had fought so hard—to be husbandless and childless, to be rechristened with a name not her own—even though that fate, in the end, was nothing like the lonely servant life she’d feared so much. Even though that fate included painting.

Madre Damiana’s stern prohibition returned to her.
You will not seek again to find your future in the stars, but accept that God’s will is and should remain a mystery
. What would it be like to do that? Not to constantly struggle against her destiny, but simply to allow it to unfold?

She didn’t know. Perhaps, in the time to come, she would find out.

She replaced the paper in the pouch and hid the pouch under her gown again. Then, still on her knees, she folded her hands together and closed her eyes.

“Merciful God,” she whispered, “please forgive me my sins. Forgive me my pride and selfishness. I promise I will do better.”

The silence swallowed her words. She’d have to learn to pray again, after so long. But it was a start.
That night, she dreamed of Anasurymboriel. The spirit was not small this time, not fixed in form, but huge and infinitely changeable—now a sheet of fire, now a storm of sparks, now a roil of flame. Only the color was the same—cobalt, indigo, lapis, sapphire, cerulean, azure, blue. Passion blue, the most celestial blue there was, the hue of heaven brought down to Earth.

It had been confined; now it was released. It had been held; now it was free. Those were simply the conditions of its being. Human categories like anger, or joy or gratitude had no meaning for it. Giulia sensed its power, fully manifest for the first time—the same eternal power that moved the spheres, so vast and strange it could only be felt, never comprehended.

It did not communicate in any way she recognized. Yet she understood that it had stayed for her, that it had remained in the paltry human world long enough for her to fall asleep and dream. And as she realized this, the blueness gathered itself and fell on her, sank into her, cool and sweet, into her mouth and eyes and skin, into her muscles and bones and blood. Briefly, with the blue inside her, she was inside the blue, felt it blazing from her body as if she herself had become a star.

Then she was herself again, just herself. For a moment longer Anasurymboriel remained, raging, coruscating, changing. Then it surged toward the heavens, arrowing toward its home. And Giulia heard the chiming of the spheres as it passed through them, the music of the cosmos.

The bell rang for Prime, waking Giulia from uneasy sleep. She opened her eyes on the predawn darkness, remembering: Today she would return to the workshop.

She’d been moved the night before to a new cell, in the corridor that housed the poorer choir nuns. It was as bare as the disciplinary cell, though quite a bit bigger. Like the disciplinary cell, the door had a grate, so that anyone could look in at any time and see what she was doing.