The Miracles of Prato Read Free

Child.
    â€œA Madonna. Una bella Madonna con bambino, ” Signor Ottavio had requested, pressing ten gold florins into Fra Filippo’s palm to seal the commission. “For my blessed Teresa, now in attesa . God willing, she’ll bring me a son at last.”
    The monk’s Virgin sat on a wondrous throne painstakingly rendered with tiny jeweled detailing. Her robe was a sumptuous blue of the finest lapis lazuli , carefully ornamented in gold leaf and red madder. The cherubic Christ child was in her arms, looking up into the Virgin’s face.
    But there was no face. There was only a light sketch in red crayon on a flesh-colored oval, awaiting the painter’s brush.
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    S lowly, the Buti sisters stepped from their carriage. The local boys who tended the convent’s barnyard animals stopped to watch, and the nuns within sight of the courtyard peered from under their wimples.
    Spinetta, the younger of the two, came first. She was pale in her brown traveling cloak, but her cheeks still had their fullness, and wisps of blond hair framed her face. She kept her gaze on the ground as she moved aside to let her sister descend.
    All eyes were on Lucrezia as her boot stepped from the carriage, followed by the hem of her bold magenta cotta, a gloved hand, a narrow waist, and a braided blond head wrapped in a reta of gold netting. In her twentieth year, Lucrezia Buti was beautiful, with an eye trained for finery in the home of her father. Her features were placid and delicate: a high, smooth forehead, wide-set eyes, full lips. She stood by her sister, and raised her chin to look at the dusty courtyard.
    Lucrezia took in the goats and boys, the limestone cloister walls, the fragrant bay laurels that stood beside the prioress’s study, the quiet solemnity of the convent yard. She saw the tight face of an old nun staring from a narrow window, shadowed by a younger, gape-mouthed nun with a large nose and thick, furrowed brows.
    â€œMother of God,” Lucrezia murmured. She brought a small linen satchel of dried flowers to her nostrils, remembering how her fingers had deftly sewn the crushed petals into the clasp of fabric on her last night at home. “Mother Mary, give me strength.”
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    At the study window, Sister Camilla took in Lucrezia’s beauty, the sisters’ silk gowns trimmed in impractical velvet brocade, and in a glance she knew they’d been whisked to the convent with little understanding of what lay ahead.
    â€œIt must be the young novitiates sent from Florence by Monsignor Donacello,” she said to the prioress. “They’ve arrived a day early.”
    A moment later, the secretary was striding toward the carriage, raising dust around the hem of her black robe.
    â€œWelcome to the Convent Santa Margherita,” she said evenly.
    Lucrezia presented a sealed parchment to Sister Camilla, and waited as she carried the note inside.
    The letter, from the Monsignor Antonio Donacello of Florence,contained a brief summary of the young women’s diminished circumstances due to the untimely death of their father, Lorenzo Buti. It promised that alms would be given to the convent in gratitude for the sisters’ safekeeping. And it extolled the virtues of their character and piety.
    â€œThey are the daughters of a silk merchant, recently taken by God,” the prioress said, peering at the note. “The youngest of five girls and a single brother. Apparently there has been some dispute as to the nature of their father’s mercantile dealings.”
    The two nuns again looked out the window of the study, which was housed in a building of pale stucco, the words Sanctus Augustus carved above the door.
    Oblivious to the women’s gaze, Spinetta pressed her palms into her quartz prayer beads and moved her lips. Lucrezia lifted a hand to her face and inhaled the chamomile fragrance of her sachet.
    â€œShe has the face of an angel,” Sister Camilla