anymore; every inch of it is committed to memory. He nods.
The bishop throws up his hand in surrender and agitation. I do not know. I shall have to make a very thoughtful argument. Some may call it controversial, but if it were done correctly, if it conveyed Our Lady’s obedience and piety . . . on balance I am cautiously optimistic that the officials of the Opera del Duomo could be—how shall we say?— persuaded to take a risk on a talent as unique as yours. After proper consultation and prayer, of course. An Annunciation, then! Congratulations, Maestro Simone, we are thrilled to have engaged you for this commission. There is one further detail I ought to tell you, although it is of such little consequence.
Three girls, including Laura Agnelli, kneel or crouch by baskets of almonds, shelling and grinding. It is hard, repetitive work. Imelda calls it peasant work, and moans that the land laborers should do it, not the daughters of Santa Maria della Scala. The almonds they have done are paltry in number, while the almonds left to do seem hardly to have reduced in volume. They will be at this for hours, aching and numb afterward, sick of the sight and smell. The time would pass better were talking permitted. The noise of the scraping makes discreet conversation difficult; nonetheless Imelda manages to mutter some of her complaints into Gisila’s ear.
When I am married I shall have servants, and if they displease me I shall not flog them but make them grind mountains of almonds, then I shall feed the almonds to the pigs.
Servants and pigs? Almonds to dispense as punishment? What a daydreamer you are, Imelda.
Why should I not? Look at what they make us do. We are nobetter than slaves. As long as we are here, they own us body and soul. What have I to lose by indulging my dreams, when they take practically everything else?
We are the fortunate ones.
Are we? Do you think they love us as God’s children? We embody our parents’ sin. We are the offspring of harlots, beggars, and adulterers—and they treat us as such.
What happened to Guido? I thought you liked him. He certainly fancied you. Or is a boy raised at the hospital not good enough for you anymore?
I can do better than Guido. There are plenty of men outside this compound, you know. You just have to make sure you are not caught. (Laura quickens the rhythm of her labor to drown out Imelda’s nattering.) Guido is immature, and his breath smells horrible. Is it too much to ask for a husband who has whiskers and a kiss that does not suffocate me? I expect at least that of a man—and that he will have a legitimate lineage and a fat inheritance coming his way.
Gisila laughs at her friend’s bad temper. Then take comfort in your dreams. Think of the servants you will have one day, and how you can mistreat them, if it cheers you up. Think of your fine furs and your enormous house with a balcony, and your own mare to ride. Think of what your husband will look like, whether he will be dark or fair, whether he will be lean or broad. And think of your father-in-law, who will be elderly and who will dote on you.
I do, every day. If God loves me, he will send a rich man to save me from this hell. And when I am married, I shall definitely have a big—
Imelda stops short of naming the thing she will have, for the rector himself is visible in the passageway, speaking to a gentleman neither of them recognizes. The stranger is distinctly handsome, with black hair and brown eyes, dressed in a plaid kirtle and a redchaperon, with a buckle on his belt that gleams. Gisila cannot resist it and whispers, Your prayers have been answered, Imelda; here he comes now to take you to his mansion.
Imelda presses her attractive mouth to stifle the giggle and permits herself a look of admiration at the man in conference with the rector, surely here to make a donation and so avoid paying unwanted duties. It is the rector’s method to show off the charity and industry of the hospital, to