It was Livia who drew Luna out of her grief-ridden stupor. She visited daily and her conversation and company was like a thread to Luna’s old life. With each visit, it was as if that thread twined round Luna, holding her together until it bound her so firmly she could lift herself once more. She saw her father again in a dream, this time hale and hearty, chuckling at her with eyes atwinkle as she remembered when he’d surprise her with a night-time excursion to observe the stars. Luna knew it meant he was with God. She rose after that night’s sleep and, reaching for her stick, walked out into the cloister. Around her nothing had changed; the garden was just as it had been when last she’d stood in this spot. It was she who was different; her shame flared like an ugly bruise that would never fade. The sun was so bright she had to shield her eyes. God was thrusting light upon her and she dropped her hand and let it burn red behind her lids.

Friar Bartolomeo was in conversation with a novice on the stone pathway. He held a book open and was pointing at something on the page. Their heads dipped together, and a memory flooded over Luna. She was back in Mass at the cathedral watching her step-mamma and papa. They felt so close; she leant towards the memory.

The friar saw her and hurried over.

‘Praise God! It is good to see you up.’

She nodded but did not move. The normalcy of so much light and air was paralysing.

‘Do you wish to walk?’ he asked.

Luna looked around; she knew this place so well. Since she’d first played beneath its shade, the orange tree had grown and now its branches spread out stark and empty after bearing fruit throughout the summer. There was her bench. She went and sat. Friar Bartolomeo followed. His stoop was more pronounced and she didn’t wonder at the sight, for who could not have been bowed by the past month, poor man. A season of emptiness was upon them.

‘I cannot burden you forever.’ As she spoke, Luna felt the words give her strength. She must consider practical steps. That would be her father’s way. She turned to the friar and pressed her hands into his. He was surprised. ‘I am still a Fusili,’ she said.

‘Indeed you are,’ he replied.

‘I must make a plan.’

He shook his head. ‘No one is expecting you to do that.’

‘No one?’ she asked. ‘Who is this no one you speak of? I have no one and that is my challenge.’

‘You have me, Luna. I will help you. Don’t think so much on the future.’

Luna grew hot sitting in the sunshine. She felt the wooden bench burning against the cloth of her skirts. Her forehead burned too and her chest throbbed. ‘What else would you have me do, friar—think on the past?’ She turned away from his watery eyes.