The Miracles of Prato Read Free Page B

necessity provided by the Lord to keep us warm in the cold winter months.”
    She left without another word.
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    Alone in the airless cell, Lucrezia sat on her cot and wept. Until this moment she hadn’t believed that God would let her fate come to this. But neither pleas, prayers, nor tears had kept her from being carried inside the convent walls and locked behind its heavy gates.
    Wearily she began to undress, laying each piece of clothing on topof her fragrant sachet. Before she finished there was a knock on the door and the thin wooden plank was pushed open by the old woman she’d seen in the garden.
    â€œI am Sister Pureza,” the woman said. “You must finish dressing. Vieni .”
    Over the old woman’s shoulder, Lucrezia could see another nun knocking on her sister’s door and issuing the same brief instructions. Spinetta came to the doorway wearing her black robe, and thrust her favorite gown into the waiting nun’s arms.
    â€œEverything, please,” said the other nun. “Your mantello, and also the traveling bag. It will be sold for your dowry, of course.”
    Sister Pureza gazed at the novitiate in front of her.
    â€œ Andiamo, Lucrezia. I know it is warm, but there is much to be done.” Sister Pureza smiled kindly, revealing even more wrinkles in her old face, and nodded at the robe with her chin.
    â€œYes, Sister,” Lucrezia said. “Forgive me.”
    She turned her back to the old woman and removed her silken gamurra, her boots, and the linen stockings soaked with perspiration. She stood in her thin undergarments, the panni di gamba she’d stitched by hand.
    From the doorway, Sister Pureza watched. Like Lucrezia, the old nun had also been the beautiful daughter of a merchant who lived in a fine palazzo. She’d traveled to Rome to see Pope Martin V’s coronation, and tasted fine wines from her uncles’ cellars. But her beauty had led her to shame and finally to the gates of the convent where, in time, she’d surrendered her baptismal name and taken the name Sister Pureza Magdalena.
    At the sight of the novitiate standing in her chemise and bloomers, her thin back heaving with emotion, the old nun let out a small sigh.
    â€œMy father,” Lucrezia said softly.
    Turning, she dropped to her knees and fingered the panni di gamba at the place where she’d secreted her silver medallion of Saint John the Baptist, patron saint of Florence, into its hem. “Mio padre.”
    Sister Pureza put a palm on Lucrezia’s head. Dirt from the herb garden was crusted in her nailbeds, and a few granules fell onto the girl’s hair. She looked down and saw the fine lines of Lucrezia’s collarbones, the outline of her breasts below the damp silk.
    â€œPlease.” Lucrezia touched the chemise where she’d made her most delicate stitches. “This silk was a last gift from my father. I’m not ready to say good-bye.”
    â€œOh, child,” Sister Pureza intoned softly. The old nun knew luxuries would fade slowly from the girl’s life until the memory of them was but a dream. She glanced at Lucrezia’s panni di gamba and nodded, once. A look passed between the young woman and the old one.
    â€œIt’s time,” Sister Pureza said, breaking her gaze. “Come.”
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    In black robe and tunic, Lucrezia knelt in the sanctuary of the small stone church. The room smelled of moss, the air thick and fertile. Sister Pureza dipped her fingers into a bowl of holy water, and touched Lucrezia’s forehead.
    â€œIn the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” she said. “Are you prepared to renounce everything to the Sacred Order of Santa Margherita of the Augustinians, in the name of Christ and the Most Holy Virgin?”
    Sister Pureza waited patiently for Lucrezia to remember the phrase the monsignor had taught her.
    â€œI ask for the Mercy of God and the Son and for the habit of