Her progress down the page was slow as she read through the technical and mathematical detail beside drawings of epicycles and circles within circles. There was her father’s scribbled handwriting in the margins of the text, the ink smudged slightly where he’d rested his wrist and reached over to write on the opposite page. These were his notes, with numbers too, sums he had done to perhaps test the author’s theory. This is what she’d planned on doing; testing her own calculations of the position of the planets against the degrees listed here. Her papa’s inked letters and numbers were scrawled in his small, messy script and on some pages numbers had been scratched out, on others he’d scribbled exclamations of frustration. He’d even drawn a small, perfectly proportioned hand with outstretched finger to mark an important point in the text. She moved from the text to the drawings, trying to make sense of the explanations, but after rereading the first few pages, Luna had to acknowledge she lacked the expertise to fully grasp the concepts. She must go back to the Sacrobosco first. She closed the book and moved it to the side so she could open Sacrobosco’s text.

This was the introductory text for students of astronomy and she’d gotten ahead of herself, thinking to understand Joannes de Monte Regio’s exploration of Ptolemaic theory so soon. She thought of the stories Papa had told about her grandfather’s ability to read the night sky and wondered at his natural talent. He’d not had the luxury of texts from which to learn, nor could he afford any of the instruments used by modern astronomers; he’d only had his eyes, but that hadn’t stopped him. Luna knew she was fortunate to be born in an age when science had developed to the point where men could rely on a hand-held quadrant to measure the height of a celestial body.

She brought her mind back to the topic in front of her again but could not find a focus till the page turned to an illustration of an eclipse. The Sun shimmered on the page in fine gold leaf, its features so realistic she almost expected to feel the pointy edge of the Sun’s nose as she ran her hand across the lifelike nostrils that flared in challenge to steadfast Earth during a solar eclipse. That the naked eye could see such a mystical event was in itself a miracle, for so much space separated them from the heavens. Luna was drawn to the image of the Moon, in its dripping crescent shape.

She was still contemplating what she’d read when Friar Bartolomeo returned. She was deep in thought and did not hear him approach until he was standing beside her. He noted the books she had on the desk, smiling in acknowledgement of the Almagest, before lifting the Archimedes up curiously.

‘Which is this text?’