“Two people who love each other are bound by similar ties. The desire of one is the desire of the other. His desire is your desire…”

A slight expression of alarm appeared on Canon Langenreuth’s face. While the faces of many of the nuns, including the prioress’s, were painted with wistful smiles.

“… for if love flows from God, truly from God, there is nothing impure in it. Pure love and desire are like light, like lux perpetua, like nature unsullied by the sin of the Garden of Eden.

“O Sister, my Sister, one among many! Wait, wait patiently, endure in piety and prayer until the day comes when the brilliance of love will blaze, when he who you will favour with love will appear. A suavissimus full of allure will lead you to a hortus conclusus of delight. Longing and then ecstasy. The power of love will intoxicate you, plunge you into perfect joy. The spirit, full of joy, will serve the one it loves all the more ardently since it does not conceal its nakedness before the nakedness of its innocence.”

The anxiety on Langenreuth’s face was more and more apparent. The nuns, meanwhile, were sailing off in reveries at an alarming rate.

“He will name you his betrothed, a love which is better than wine! And the smell of thine ointments than all spices! And he will tell you: Quam pulchrae sunt mammae tuae soror mea…”

“If this is devotio moderna,” whispered a novice at the back, “then I’m enrolling for it.”

“Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine has budded, whether the grape blossoms are open and the pomegranates are in bloom. There I will give you my love. And your breasts…”

“O Saint Veronica, my patron saint… I shan’t bear it…”

“… your breasts, which are mandragorae dederunt odorem, are a fruit, you shall say, which I have laid up for you, my love. And the commixtio of sex will be fulfilled, the unio mystica will come true. What is natural will be fulfilled, in the face of God, Who is Nature. Amen. Peace be with you, my Sisters.”

Constance of Plauen exhaled audibly. Oswald of Langenreuth sighed heavily.

Canon Haugwitz wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and tonsure.

“This is our chance,” said Weronika. “We can’t waste it.”

They were talking, hidden in a chamber behind the bakery. Their usual place for conferring was taken, since one of the youngest converses had diarrhoea and was endlessly occupying the necessarium.

“Don’t shake your head and don’t make faces,” said Weronika, wrinkling her nose. “That theologian is our chance, believe me. Why, you heard how he spoke and of what. He has but one thing on his mind, Jutta, I guarantee you. The entire convent heard his speech, everybody saw the look in his eyes. And it expressed precisely what you and I constantly think about.”

“Speak for yourself!”