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“It is!” said Taddea. “How’d you know that? It’s special for the women’s ward.”

“I’ve only seen it dried up before!” said Ginevra, excitedly. “In Genoa, we’d use it to help with all sorts of things.” Here she dropped her voice down. “Mostly for people’s bottoms.”

“That’s what they use it for here, I think,” said Taddea, not in the least bothered by talk of bottoms. “Now come with me to the chapel. It’s the best part of the whole convent.” She led them back through the nuns’ dormitory to a discreet door that opened into the side of the sanctuary. They paused to cross themselves at the threshold, and stepped into the cool space, the interior frescoed all over with the tales of Christ and Santa Maria Magdalena.

“There,” Taddea said, pointing to a carved wooden cupboard behind the altar, “is the relic for the church. Brought here by our founder, Fra Simone Fidati da Cascia.”

Within the cupboard, Ginevra saw a large crucifix, a crystal orb fixed at its center. Something was suspended in the center of the orb.

“It’s a piece of bread, soaked in the blood of Jesus Christ himself.” Taddea crossed herself again and Ginevra followed suit.

“I’ve never seen such an important relic before, besides from far away in processions,” Ginevra said, impressed that Taddea was allowed to just walk up and point to it whenever she felt inclined.

“It was a real, actual miracle. A parish priest put a piece of the host inside a book of prayers to bring to a sick person. When he opened up his book, the bread was soaked in the blood of Christ. He was afraid of it, so he brought it to Fra Simone.”

“In my parish in Genoa, we just had a rock that touched a piece of San Francesco’s robe once. I don’t think it ever did any miracles.”

“Well, this one does. All the women about to give birth—we pray to the bread to keep them safe, and so far no mamas or babies have died, ever.”

Ginevra looked at the extraordinary communion bread and crossed herself again. No mothers and no babies? This was unheard of. Vermilia must not have known about this relic, or she wouldn’t have been so dismissive about praying to them.

“Anyhow,” said Taddea, “I have to go help with supper now. Today is porridge day—actually, most days are porridge day, but I think you’ll like it—oh! And can you run across the street to Ser Cecchi, the baker? His rent is due and we must collect it. Tell him I sent you. Thanks!”

And with this fragmented introduction to the Convent of Sant’Elisabetta delle Convertite, Ginevra began to settle into her new life. For a while, she worried Agnesa would ask her about the rattling stone in her purse, but days and weeks passed and it was not mentioned. Ginevra continued to wonder, though, why Vermilia thought this place, where coral amulets must be hidden, and where there was a relic that actually listened to healing prayers, was the right place to send a girl with witchcraft in her blood and a package of magic stones.

When Vermilia’s letters began to arrive, they contained no answers, only the normal things: Messages of love from Ginevra’s parents. A bit of gossip here and there. All this was transcribed by Vermilia’s monk, and then Sister Agnesa and Ginevra would read them together—the nun using them as lessons. But in all the syllables and sentences that Ginevra painstakingly sounded out, never was there anything about Ginevra’s aptitude for magic, about how Sant’Elisabetta was connected to the golden strings. So, she put questions of this nature in the back of her mind, and focused instead on the pleasant challenges of literacy and of learning to navigate her new city as she ran errands for the convent.

Every day, Ginevra was dazzled. Florence had its troubles, of course, but they were covered over with veneers of parti-colored marble and the nervous hands of its citizens were hidden, tucked into fur-lined cloaks. It was only in the large numbers of destitute women who came to seek help at Sant’Elisabetta—far more than pilgrims who sought lodging—did she notice the cracks in the facade of her new home.

Taddea explained to Ginevra that the women’s ward was a bit of an open secret.

“Nobody talks about it, but everyone knows.”

Prostitution was not permitted inside the city, but it flourished just on the other side of the Porta San Gallo. And even though extramarital affairs were practically the national pastime, an unwed mother was the most wretched creature in all of Italy, and there were not so many places that would care for them. Women who came to the convent were encouraged to stay and take the vow themselves, but not everyone was meant to be a nun, and many women preferred to return to their old lives. A very few who came were noble, whisked there by their mothers to carry their shame to term. These women paid large sums of money for discretion and private quarters. But rich or poor, no woman in the ward ever saw her man come back to marry her or claim his child.

THIRTEEN

DE LAPIDIBUS

1335, City of Florence,

Convent of Sant’Elisabetta delle Convertite

In the women’s ward, as Ginevra gathered up the soiled reeds and emptied chamber pots, she kept a careful eye out to observe the nuns at their healing work. She noted the plasters that eased pain here, and the suppositories that erased discomfort there. She memorized the little prayers said to saints, prescribed alongside the physical medicines. And every time a baby was born, she went with the nuns to give thanks to the Relic of the Blessed Blood that sat inside its crystal orb in the chapel. But Ginevra never saw or heard anything about the packet of gemstones sent from Genoa. She would never ask about it, either, lest there be questions about the rattling rock she’d stolen. As for the common little amulets of stone or bone possessed by the women who came seeking help, there was no hint that Agnesa saw such objects as anything more than harmless superstitions—not quite approved of by the modern church, but generally tolerated for the comfort they brought.

Though she tried her best, Ginevra could not learn everything from eavesdropping. Particularly vexing was that whenever a challenging medical scenario arose, she was sent away and couldn’t observe.

“It’s not for you to see what happens next,” Agnesa would say when a woman could not breathe in spite of the mustard plaster or stop vomiting long enough to get out the correct prayer to San Timoteo. Ginevra felt she was prepared for whatever unpleasantness came, that she was being unnecessarily coddled. After all, hadn’t Monna Vermilia trusted her for years to witness important rituals and prepare delicate mixtures? She complained about this to Taddea, who nodded sympathetically.

“It’s the same with me. Whenever Agnesa is about to make the most interesting medicine it’s always Taddea, go to the market for this or Taddea, go get this pot fixed, even though the pot had a hole in it for ages and nobody ever cared.”

One morning, as Ginevra cleared wooden eating bowls from the ward, she observed Sister Agnesa attending a breech birth. The poor mother had labored with difficulty a whole day and night, and now as dawn came on the second day, the leg of the child appeared and nothing more. The mother became still, white with fatigue on top of sheets brown with drying blood. She would not move her gaze to acknowledge her nurse, nor part her lips to receive a sip of water.

“Alright, so it comes to this,” said Agnesa. She looked around, and spotted Ginevra. “You—come here a moment and give her your hand. I’ll be right back.” The nun walked away, as fast as she could without running. Ginevra’s chest tightened—there was only one reason she would have left her charge at this moment: to fetch the priest for last rites before the baby was cut out of its dying mother. But Taddea said this never happened at Sant’Elisabetta! The mama must have sensed the danger, too, and through her unconsciousness, she clutched so hard at Ginevra’s hand that her fingertips turned white and tingled.

Out of nervous habit, Ginevra put her other hand into her purse and fiddled with the brown rattling stone. As soon as she held it, the coral figa on her neck grew warm, as did the stone in the purse. The air around her began to vibrate, and all other sounds became muffled, as if she were underwater. She felt an irresistible urge to take out the stone and put it on the bed. In fact, she could have sworn the stone strained against her tightly closed fist. Ginevra glanced around furtively—it was just the two of them in the ward, her and the dying woman on the bed. She gave in to the strange rock, allowed it to pull her hand out of her purse and onto the bloody pallet, and place it down next to the child’s leg.

The little foot immediately withdrew back into its mother. Her swollen belly roiled like a pot of soup, and then out came the head where the foot had been and the baby was born quickly and correctly. A moment later, out whooshed the afterbirth. The mother woke from her stupor, released Ginevra’s hand, and asked if she might have a portion of wine. Before the mightily shocked Ginevra could gather her wits and take back the stone, Sister Agnesa was at her side.