Free Da Vinci's Tiger by L. M. Elliott Page B

mischievously, “I have even secured permission for eating meat when a good-hearted patron provides it.”
    Indeed, the reverend mother was rather legendary for her power of persuasion with church leaders and outside patrons. She’d once been married and lived in a country villa adjacent to ours in Antella. After her husband’s death, she changed her name from Cilia to Scolastica and entered the convent, bringing two of her young daughters with her. At her pleading, my grandfather had extended Le Murate’s garden, walled in the convent perimeter, and built its main chapel and high altar. Then she convinced my father to spend even more on the convent, building its infirmary, kitchen, pharmacy, dormitory, and workroom.
    Scolastica took my hands in her gnarled ones. “I hopeyou still work your own fabric canvas, Ginevra. Your crewelwork was some of the finest Le Murate ever saw. I know I must promote embroidery as God’s tool for morality, keeping women’s hands from falling idle or meddling where they do not belong. But I also think it pure artistry, pure creativity, which is a drop of divine spirit in us, surely. I remember well that beautiful band of our gold thread you embroidered into the neckline of a brown frock, making a commonplace dress exquisite.”
    Blessed with such praise from her, I was doubly embarrassed to admit I had not done any needlework for weeks. “I—I have been distracted of late, Mother.”
    â€œAhhhh. So that is why you have come. To tell me of a distraction? The world outside these walls is filled with those, my daughter. What is troubling you?”
    My eyes welled with tears. “Oh, Mother, I am so—”
    â€œAbbess Scolastica?”
    I startled at the sound of a male voice. Scolastica cocked her head, assessing my face, before turning to greet three tradesmen and an apprentice who stood in the parlor’s doorway, which led to the outside world. We sat behind a grate the Church required be between nuns and laypeople even in the convent’s one public receiving room.
    â€œGood sirs.” She waved, beckoning them to enter.
    They tiptoed toward her as if approaching a high altar. One was a scissors master, a whetting stone under his arm. Another was a battiloro , a gold beater, balancing paper-thin sheets of gold leaf. The third man brought yellow silk, andhis apprentice carried a basket of empty wooden spools. All these things were necessary for the spinning of gold thread taking place in the workroom adjacent to the parlor.
    â€œReverend Mother.” The men knelt. The apprentice, though, gaped at her. Obviously it was his first visit to the convent. He managed to spill most of the spools onto the floor as he bent his knees.
    â€œGod’s blood!” he cried out.
    His master cursed loudly and more graphically before cuffing the boy’s ear, which sent even more spools spinning across the wooden floor.
    Then they both froze and looked to Scolastica, their eyes filled with horror, realizing they had blasphemed in front of the city’s most renowned nun.
    But she merely burst out laughing. “Come, come, gentlemen, pick up your wares.” Holding on to my arm as support, she stood, taking a long breath of pain as she did. “I will escort you in.” Entrance to the inner sanctum of the convent was strictly forbidden—a rule that was bent for only the most important patrons and silk-thread tradesmen.
    She smiled reassuringly at the apprentice. “Do refrain once inside from such language. My flock would feel the need to spend hours in prayer if they heard the Lord’s name used in vain. After all, that is the . . . the . . .” She prompted the boy to finish her sentence.
    â€œThe third commandment,” he squeaked.
    â€œIndeed.” She turned to the apprentice’s master, her voice becoming stern. “No need for my chaste daughters todo penance for your weaknesses, is there,