Sister Agata crossed herself.

“That’s awful,” she whispered.

“The date of birth is likely to be 1982,” said Marini. That was the year when child Omega had made his first appearance in Wallner’s diary, though no other details had been included in the entry.

“How can I help?”

“I need to know what became of the children who were left in the foundling wheel.”

The woman glanced at the door behind Massimo.

“I understand,” she said. “But the wheel has been closed for much longer than that. Follow me, I’ll show you.”

She led him through the corridor, the hem of her long black habit sweeping the stone floor. A double lancet window gave out onto the inner cloister and garden, illuminated by tall lamps. A sculpture of an angel with outstretched wings and a melancholy expression on its face gleamed among skeletal fruit trees.

Sister Agata unfastened the latch and opened the door. Massimo looked inside.

“We’ve preserved everything as it was, in memory of our late sisters’ good deeds,” the abbess explained. “You can go in, if you want.”

Massimo stepped into the room. It smelled of dried lavender, and looked pristine, as if someone cleaned it every day. There was a bed against the wall on the right hand side, made with plain cotton sheets and a rough wool blanket. A ceramic chamber pot peeked out from beneath the bedstead. On the opposite wall, beneath a wooden crucifix, were a table and a chair with a straw seat. An open book rested on the table.

“That’s the wheel,” said Sister Agata, pointing at the wall opposite them. The wheel was a revolving metal hatch with room for a tiny bed. Massimo noticed the fine linen bedspread, painstakingly embroidered. It was touching to witness the care those nuns had shown for the babies that had been left there. The cot stood in marked contrast to the frugal bed reserved for the nun whose turn it was to spend the night inside that room.

“You could open the hatch from outside the building, and put the baby inside,” Sister Agata explained. “Then you would turn the hatch, and no one would see you or know who you were. But people would usually leave something tucked inside the child’s blankets, so that it could be identified in case they changed their minds and repented.”

Marini was surprised to notice the sadness that had engulfed him since he’d entered that room.

“This particular wheel dates back to the second half of the eighteenth century,” Sister Agata continued. “It was always in use, except during the Fascist era, when it was banned. It was opened again in the fifties.”

“Were there many abandoned children?”