Behind my ear, the scissors make a sluicing sound. From the corner of my eye, I watch a long swath of my own hair fall to the ruddy tiles. Moment by moment, the pieces of octagonal terra-cotta are obscured by fine locks of reddish-gold.
The mistress of the novices is a stern-looking woman with deep-set creases on each side of her mouth. She makes ragged, rapid cuts with the dull blade. I hear the scrape of metal around my ears, and I feel the fine strands tickle my neck and shoulders as they fall.
I do not know what to feel for only numbness fills me, as if I have crawled inside a womb where only beating silence can be heard. At dawn, the convent nurse lifted my son from my arms and brought him to the nursery, where the arms of a wet nurse from Dorsoduro are waiting to cradle him. An infirmary novice has helped me bind my breasts in linen swaths to stop the flow of milk.
The hair-cutting is the final step before taking my vows, the last renunciation of my own display of vanity, the death knell to any part of me that might be construed as an instrument of seduction. Any trace of my carnal past—from seducing a man to suckling an infant—is now erased. I am to be a bride of Christ.
The bell sounds for sext, the midday prayer that brings us all into the high choir of the church, where I sit among a handful of other novices in the long choir stalls and listen to the intoning of our confessor.
The mistress of the novices takes three final snips, then lays her shears on the wooden table beside us. With a loud grunt, she bends over and picks up the hair off the floor and places it in a basket. Unceremoniously, she plunks a small wooden cross on top of the pile of shorn hair, and places the basket on the table. I have been told by the other novices that the hair will sit outside the novice chamber at night, and will be burned publicly tomorrow along with the locks of four other girls who are set to take their vows with me.
“I have never heard of such a short period of discernment,” one of the girls had said to me.
“I have nothing to discern,” I replied numbly.
In my heart, I know they are right. My baby will have the best chance at life within these walls. And as for me, what other choice could I make? My father, my cousin, and my Cristiano have vanished from the earth. The possibility of becoming the wife of Pascal Grissoni was tenuous from the start, and I am not surprised how quickly it fell apart, under the circumstances. Where else would I find my place in this world?
I reach my hand to my head and rub my palm over my scalp. The ragged edges of my hair scrape across my palm and I feel hot tears sting my eyes. The mistress hands me a black cloth to drape across my head. Then without a word, she walks out into the corridor that leads to the church.