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“I know, I know. The Relic of the Blessed Blood. It protects them.”

“No. Well, maybe. I don’t know, I haven’t pressed it to work on its own.”

The nun opened her hand and placed two stones on the bed, Ginevra’s and another, nearly identical. The rocks drew toward each other across the rough woolen blanket and settled together with a gentle snap. “I went to fetch my own old eaglestone, for in this you were correct: the time had come when there was no other way...normally it requires rigorous training, to work the stone properly, to hear what it is telling you. But you have done it all on your own.”

“Sister, will you not teach me? I thought that was why—”

“Ginevra, you arrived here with a letter and a package. We both know you were aware of the contents of the package. But do you know what the letter said?”

The girl’s cheeks burned. She shook her head. “You know I could not read when I came here.”

Agnesa gave a great sigh. “The letter absolves you from the wicked sin you meant to commit—that of stealing. The gems have always been yours, a gift from my cousin. But entrusted to me to keep safe. Until I could determine if it was correct for you to have them.”

Ginevra whipped up her head: “So is it correct, now that I know about the womb part?”

“Ha! Absolutely not. Letting a rock—albeit a magic one—force your hand to action. Shame. But—also it is clear to me that my cousin was right—you have a gift, an ability above others to direct the healing properties. When God grants a person such abilities, it is another sort of sin not to use them.”

“Please, Sister. I’ll do whatever you say. Only teach me.”

Agnesa turned to face her fully and looked at her with hard eyes out of place with the kindly crow’s-feet that framed them. “Listen here—the fact that we access methods such as this—this is a true secret. Not like the secret of the women’s ward, which everybody knows about. I mean a true and actual secret. If Fra Simone found out—”

“Why are you here, then, at a convent? Why not work on your own, like Vermilia?”

“Because it is the priest’s reputation as a holy man that gives us protection. Who would think to look for healing magic—or what many would call sorcery—in the house of such a saint?”

“But sorcerers speak to the dead! They call on demons to do their bidding. The stones, the medicines, the spoken charms your cousin taught me, they work just because—well I don’t know why, but I know I never spoke to a demon.”

“But you can see how the ignorant believe such things. Do you understand what would happen if others learned that within these walls, nuns make God’s magic flow through heathen stones?”

Ginevra understood, but she did not like it. This was why Monna Vermilia disguised her talents, and why Agnesa had made her keep the coral amulet a secret. To know of the magic that resided in natural things, to be able to channel and use it—it scared those who could not.

“Now that you know, here is how it will be,” said Agnesa. “If you wish to learn the secrets of the stones, and one day take custody of Vermilia’s gift, you must never speak of this outside our walls, never in front of any of the women lying in. Not even Taddea, who, bless her, does not have the abilities you do. And NEVER in front of our founder. Do you swear all this?”

“Yes, I swear it.”

“And you will never again attempt to use a healing stone without my explicit permission so long as you are here. Do you swear it?”

Ginevra swore it, for what else could she do?

“Good. You may go now. I’ll summon you when I have time for lessons to begin.”

Ginevra stood to leave, but one last question burned in her and she couldn’t help but to ask it: “Sister... If we can save those who come to the convent, what about the ladies in the rest of the city?”

“Child. Your desire to do good is commendable, but it is naive, and I grow weary. We only help those who seek us out. This is for our own safety. I assume my cousin keeps similar habits? You must accept that my counsel is correct if you wish to stay.”

Ginevra nodded and hurried away, not wanting to push her good fortune any further.

From then on, while the rest of the convent slept, the two of them worked together to identify Monna Vermilia’s gems and make sense of their powers. Their studies were aided by another secret of Agnesa’s: a noble lady who once delivered a bastard at the convent donated her dead husband’s library in thanks. In this collection were many wonderful manuscripts, including ones written long ago by the Romans and Greeks, on the secrets of natural history. Inside were descriptions of stones and their appearances and useful properties. Properties that modern physicians could hardly ever get to work. Agnesa knew better, and kept the manuscripts for herself, hiding them beneath loose tiles under her mattress.

“These books are the real things, the sources of truth,” said Agnesa, lovingly tapping a moth-eaten volume of Theophrastus. “The old information, not messed with or misinterpreted by some self-important monk who couldn’t feel the vibrations of a golden string if it were tied to his prod—”

Ginevra stifled a laugh.

“Enough of that, tell me—what is this?” The nun held up a round stone, nut-brown and shiny like a leather button. Ginevra reached for a volume by Pliny, ready to plow ahead with the rudimentary Latin Agnesa had been teaching her along with her reading lessons. But Agnesa pushed the book out of reach. “No. No. Just hold the rock. Let it guide you, as you did with the eaglestone.” Ginevra pressed the strange stone between her two hands so it looked as if she were praying. It became warm in her palms, and so did the coral upon her neck. She stood up and looked out the doorway, then crept through the dark hallways toward the kitchen, Agnesa following her with a rush light. In the kitchen, Ginevra’s hands went like a dowsing rod to a barrel of rye flour. “My hands...are so sweaty,” she whispered.

“Are you sure? Open them.”

“Aha,” said the pupil, “it is the stone that sweats.”