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“Good. You will help them as you help the pilgrims, and you will not mention this part of our work to anyone. It’s the sort of thing where word is passed to those who need it, and no one else. Understood?”

Ginevra nodded again. Being privy to clandestine activities made the prospect of maid’s work much more palatable. She was sure they’d get to the magic and healing eventually.

“Good. Now, the other part of what you’ll do here, as a laywoman, is see to our affairs outside the convent. The sisters are not permitted to leave. And if you’re representing us, you must be an example of what a decent lady ought to be like and, my dear, being clean is one of those things.” They went back out into the yard, to the area where the laundry was done. In the middle of all the drying underthings, a small cloth-lined tub had been prepared, filled with warmish water.

“Off with your clothes and into the bath,” said Agnesa.

Ginevra looked nervously around for some private corner to undress. She could see gold-spinning nuns sneaking glances her way from across the yard.

“No time for modesty now,” said Agnesa. “Every sister here had another life before in the brothels; you think we haven’t seen it all and some besides?”

And with that, Ginevra was out of her dusty garments and into the tub.

“What’s that you wear on your neck?” said Agnesa immediately.

Ginevra’s hand clutched at her coral. “It’s nothing! A gift. I have always worn it since I was young...”

Agnesa gently pulled her hand open and observed the carved amulet. “You know, lots of our pilgrims carry their own little charms. Corals, bits of horn, prayers tied up with string...though this one has a presence, doesn’t it? But you might take it off now, since you’ve removed all your other clothes.”

“But—Vermilia said I was never to take it off, ever.”

“She did? My cousin said that?”

“Yes. It was she who gave it to me...after I punctured the malocchio.”

A brief shadow passed over Agnesa’s face. “How does it feel now? Is it hot? Is it cold?”

Ginevra shook her head.

“Well, if Vermilia told you to keep it on, you’d better do it. We are not so foolish here as to ignore... Just keep it to yourself. Don’t go showing it off.”

“It’s only because I am naked, Sister, that you know of it.”

“See that it stays that way. And you still need to say your prayers to the Virgin, even with that.”

Ginevra nodded and sunk down into the tub, feeling rather self-conscious. She was used to being helpful (and dressed), not a bother who didn’t understand how things were. But the water did feel nice. She decided to enjoy the wash. The air of this new city smelled fresh and clean, and she wanted badly for her person to be as well-kept as its surroundings.

Of course, if you walked along the river Arno that cut the city in two, or the breeze blew the wrong way, you would catch an eye-watering waft of sewage, but this happened in every city in the world. A small price to pay for living inside protective walls.

The real smell of Florence was something else. It came from air that blew in through snowy mountains and valleys full of chestnut blossoms, and when it got to the city, it mixed with the pleasant odors of cooking from the markets and the great houses. Not fish fried in stale lard, like in Genoa, but bread baked with finely milled white flour, fruits boiling in spiced wine, and young chickens, stuffed with lemons and rosemary, roasting on spits. So Ginevra relished the rough scrubbing with stinging lye soap, until she was pink as an apple and her pores empty of the salty Genoese grime. She did not flinch when the nun brushed her hair a hundred times with scratchy boar bristles, turning her brittle plaits soft and golden. The braids were wound back up with ribbons and then covered in a new white linen veil so her hair could stay clean as she went about her work.

And her old gray dress—the spilled wine that had so distressed her years ago was now but one stain among many. This tired garment was given to the rag pickers, and Ginevra was gifted a white linen shift to wear next to her skin, and a brown dress to wear over it with a long apron that tied attractively around her waist. A small purse was suspended from the apron, and it was here she put her pilfered stone to keep safe. On her feet, soft leather slippers that fastened at the ankle and came to points at the toes.

Now it was as if the nun’s bath had worked its own kind of magic. Ginevra glowed like a star and any fool could see there was something about her not commonly found in a ward at a convent.

Satisfied, Sister Agnesa brought Ginevra to a whitewashed cell, where she would sleep with another servant girl, Taddea, who was also scrubbed clean and wearing a pretty brown dress. Taddea was directed to show Ginevra around and explain to her the workings of things, and the two young women were left on their own.

Taddea had been born at the convent, and the nuns took care of her after her mother ran away. She looked Ginevra up and down, and then her round face spread into a happy smile and she embraced her, glad to have somebody else share the workload.

“I’ll show you everything, don’t worry,” she said. She took Ginevra first to the kitchen with its huge hearth and glowing embers, where a sister stirred a giant pot of groats. She showed her the dormitory where the nuns had their cells, and then took her back outside and introduced her to the weaving nuns who had spied on her bath.

Ginevra nodded shyly at their friendly greetings, her eyes drawn to the sparkling spools in their laps.

“The silk guild gives us gold to spin into threads for tapestries,” Taddea explained. “We make money from this, from our eggs, and from leasing out the bakery across the street.” Ginevra tried to absorb it all, amazed that a girl her own age could know so much about business.

“And HERE,” said Taddea, taking Ginevra’s arm and bringing her back to the other side of the yard, “is the garden where we grow all sorts of herbs and flowers that can’t be bought anywhere else.” Ginevra looked closer and saw that what she had taken for an ordinary vegetable garden was filled with all sorts of wonderful leaves and blossoms.

“Oh! Is this a...a plantain flower?” she asked, kneeling down.