Through the narrow window I spy a sliver of pink. It resembles the light wash of vermilione that the painter uses to bring flesh tones to his delicate drawings. The dark swath of night sky lightens with each passing minute, silhouetting the tall chimney pipes of the houses on the opposite side of the canal. I wait for the orange light of dawn to appear before I dare to move a muscle.
It is clear now that I will not be going home, at least not for now. I must focus on my work in Master Trevisan’s studio or I feel I will burst.
I have lain still and awake in the darkness for what must be hours, reviewing in my head the steps that the painter has demonstrated for rendering drapery in paint. I have tested the method on at least two dozen pieces of scrap panel, thick with paint from countless past lessons. I feel stupid and fumbling, like a girl who tries diligently to copy her mother’s embroidery stitches and ends up instead with a tangled mess of thread.
We await the Baldi, one of Our Most Serene Republic’s well-respected families of carpenters, to deliver the large panels and battens that will be used for our new altarpiece.
In the meantime, I practice what will be my new trade. My eye is drawn naturally to the powdered orpiment, which, when mixed with egg yolk, imparts a glistening golden-yellow tone that resembles our familiar gilding. I have learned to swirl together bits of lead white with orpiment on my wooden palette to create a light golden orange—the color of the dawn sky outside our narrow window. But the reds are the most important, Master Trevisan has told me, for they are what our patrons want from us, even if they do not know it themselves. And so the painter has said I must master every shade from raspberry to ruby, from soft flesh to deep crimson.
The house is quiet save for the rhythmic breathing of Antonella beside me. I listen to her deep inhale and slow exhale. She is not an unpleasant bedmate. The regular rhythm of her snoring lulls me back into a calm state between wakefulness and sleep.
My arm begins to tingle, and I realize that I have been still for so long that it has begun to fall asleep. I flip myself over, and suddenly, on the back of my hand, I feel something wet. I push myself up and through the pale light beginning to illuminate the room, I see a dark patch of blood below where Antonella is sleeping. I gasp and push myself up from the bed with a start.
The sound of my gasp wakes her and she turns her sleepy gaze to where I am looking. She sits up with a start. “Oh,” she says. Both of us stand up from the bed simultaneously, and I see that blood has stained the back of her nightdress too. “Dio!” she says, flustered, then begins jerking at the bedclothes to remove them from the bed.
I stand and wipe the back of my hand on the bed sheet.
“I am sorry,” she says to me, fully awake. “I had not realized that it was time for my menses to return.” Heat rises visibly to her cheeks. “I will get these sheets boiled today.”
“Figurati,” I say, trying not to sound flustered, “it is normal.” I begin helping her roll the bedding into a ball. “Let me help you.”
“No. I can take care of it.” Antonella drags the bedding to the floor, then approaches the table with the water basin and begins wiping a damp rag between her legs.
I turn my back to allow her some privacy, then lean over the trunk where my meager clothing is stored. I open the planks of the lid and find my worn linen work dress and smock where I left them neatly folded last night. Underneath that layer is a nicer linen dress that I allowed myself the luxury of purchasing after my father and I got a commission to gild a set of small sculptures destined for the high altar of a convent church. I pull the linen work dress over my head and feel the gold ingot threaded onto its silk cord fall and settle near my heart. I loosen my braid, then reweave my hair into a neat package at the nape of my neck with the leather lash and small metal pins I have collected on the windowsill.
When I turn around, Antonella has removed her soiled nightdress and is buttoning the grey linen shift that she wears to clean the house.
“Santa Margherita, I must have given you a scare,” Antonella says, chuckling. “All that blood.”
I muster a smile. “Surprised, yes, but only for a moment until I understood.”
“I should have known it was coming. We women in the house are on the same schedule, the painter’s wife and myself, at least when she has not been with child.” She pauses. “But you...” An uncomfortable laugh makes her mouth twist. “You must be either barren or with child yourself.”
Antonella goes quiet and looks away, seemingly embarrassed to have aired her curiosity out loud. I want to say something to deny it, but the words will not come, for as soon as she has spoken, I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. Ever since I arrived in Master Trevisan’s house, I have been calculating the days. The last time my menses came, the leaves on the linden tree behind my father’s workshop had not yet turned yellow.
I have never missed my menses before, but with each passing week I have pushed the nagging suspicion away. Now, with Antonella’s words, there is no more denying the truth.
And now, it is no longer a secret.