The air has turned crisp and leaves have begun to fade into pale shades of orange and yellow when I cross the bridge away from the ferry station. The plague ferries have disappeared from the lagoon, and the traghetti are operating regular passenger boats again. I have stepped off the ferry, placing a bagattino in the hand of the ferryman. It seems an extravagance, but I am feeling buoyed. We have sold three gilded boxes in the last two months.
I move through the maze of alleys toward the convent where my aunt is cloistered. I veer onto a street of fine shops, the domain of hat makers, tailors, and purveyors of wigs, all there to feed the appetite for self-ornamentation among our rich. Has it only been weeks since the barriers have been destroyed with hammers and axes? Our Most Serene City seems to have come back to life from the brink of death.
On a stand outside her shop door, a milliner assembles a display of felt and velvet hats, each festooned with combinations of bird feathers. She gives me a half-smile and looks down at the plain, brown grain sack in my arms. Little does she know that it conceals a small treasure.
In the convent visitors’ parlor, I hear my aunt’s leather soles slap on the marble floor as she rushes from the adjacent corridor. Then her wide smile appears through the wrought-iron bars.
“Cara! Thanks be to God!” she exclaims, pressing her hand through the iron toward me. I watch a tear escape the corner of her eye. “When they told me your name was on the plague registries I nearly died of anguish myself! What were you thinking? Madre de Dio! You were safe here, Maria! You were insane to have gone outside of these walls!”
“A miracle, zia,” I say. “A series of miracles.”
After her initial tirade, my aunt struggles to calm herself. “Santa Maria! How are you managing?”
I consider whether to tell her that many of my father’s old patrons remain afraid to come to the quarter, and that, pestilence or not, many others would not patronize a workshop operated by a woman and a Saracen anyway. Our colleagues, our neighbors, our acquaintances, our patrons… They have all shown their true selves. We cling to the ones who continue to offer their steadfast support in spite of our unusual arrangement.
I am relieved to know that our gastaldo is one of them. We have not spoken again about his proposal of marriage. As soon as the battiloro and I both returned alive from the pesthouse, the gastaldo removed himself from my private business completely, speaking to me only of matters of our guild rather than matters of the heart.
“We are doing well enough,” I say finally. It is not the whole truth, but neither is it a lie. “The Health Office provided some linens and a small stipend for new clothes, for I returned home with nothing,” I finger the white trim on a camicia I have purchased in the market. “And the battiloro’s mother is helping us.”
The truth is that Zenobia has been a great gift from God, taking over the duties of the household while Cristiano and I work to get the gilding studio running again. Zenobia delights in the company of her son, and she has folded into my father’s house as if she had been there all along. I have only known her a short time but already I feel a deep affection for her.
Over the course of the last weeks, Zenobia has told me of how she learned of her son’s fate, and how she located me. “After you came to me at the laundry,” she told me, “I tried to discover the painter’s house where you were lodged. I finally got the information from one of the gilders outside the quarter. But when I got to the house the lady—she was heavy with child—said that you were no longer there. She looked down her nose at me and was quick to close the door.”
The painter’s wife.
“But then,” she said, “as I was leaving, a young man came out. He told me that you had taken your vows at Santa Maria delle Vergini. But when I went there they told me you had left the convent to return to your father’s house. But by the time I got here, cara, you were already one foot in the pesthouse.”
In the visitors’ parlor, my aunt sets her clear green eyes on me. “You have not changed your mind about coming back to the convent.”
I shake my head. Of this I am certain.
She purses her lips together and nods. “Understood. But it will not be an easy time for you,” she says.
“That much is clear.” I manage a laugh. “But we have begun to receive commissions for our gilded boxes,” I say. “Things are improving.”
“And the painter and his wife?”
“They have sent us commissions for several boxes for their own patrons. And the gondola makers have brought us new lanterns. It is enough for us to have bought some gold ingots. It has also given me a chance to put into practice all that I learned in the painter’s studio. The boxes are becoming popular as gifts for the newly married and the newly born. Word is beginning to spread. That reminds me,” I say. “I have brought you something.”
From my plain grain sack, I remove a small, beautifully gilded box. I have made a special one for my aunt, fashioning a scene of the birth of Saint Anne from the molds Master Trevisan left in my father’s workshop. I have covered the entire box with pure gold leaf. “For you,” I say. It will not fit through the iron bars. “I will make sure the sisters at the gate get it to you.”
My aunt’s hands fly to her mouth in appreciation. “Che bella,” she says under her breath. “Fit for a bride.”
“Even a bride of Christ,” I say, and my aunt laughs and claps her hands. “At least now you will have a proper gift from your family like the other sisters. You must show it to Lauretta.”
I open the box, and my aunt gasps at the purple silk lining. From the box I produce two small prayer books. “When I was cleaning out father’s studio, I found these by Paolo’s bed,” I say. “They were left behind in the house. I do not know why they did not burn them or take them away. Perhaps the inspectors did not find them. Not even the looters found them.”
“O Grazie a Dio!” she exclaims. “I gave him these prayer books when he was just a small boy. He took them with him from the convent when he came to live with you.” Her eyes well with tears and I press the small books through the grate.
“I hope you understand, zia. I am happy in my father’s studio. I am happy with Cristiano. I am happy working the gold again. It is what I was meant to do,” I say.
My aunt nods. “I do understand,” she says. “You were right to follow your heart. Now it is up to you to carry on your father’s legacy.”
I stand. “Forgive me for not spending more time, zia, but you must understand that I cannot wait another moment to go to the nursery. Today I am taking my son home.”