The arrival of a new shipment of wool used to make Luna clap with excitement because it meant a visit to the factory for the inspection and weighing. That was when her father still selected the raw fleeces before entrusting them to his broker, whose job it was to deliver the wool to the spinners, then collect the yarn to take to the weavers, who in turn transformed it into the finely woven cloth that her father sold for premium prices. She’d spend hours with her father as he graded the fleeces and watch as he took a small amount of raw wool between his fingers, rubbing it for texture and grittiness. Even now as a young woman, Luna could still conjure up the musty animal smell of the factory floor. Her job was to mark the price in the ledger, for even as a child she was good with her letters. He’d lean down and hand a tuft of the greasy wool to her and she’d pocket it and secret it in her treasure box at home till there was such a pile it came to resemble an exotic plant. Once the wool had been graded, she sat by her father’s side as he negotiated the price, ready to note it down. Believing in the expediency of clarity in all business transactions, her father would only relay the figure to her once, and so she learnt to listen with focus and intent. The wool traders admired the respect they saw between father and child and stood back to let the girl with her ledger pass; no one made comment on her limp.

A shadow crept across the coarse rug and as it did, the wind dropped and the distant thrum of river noises faded. The room turned close and hot. The acrid smell of tallow from the burning candles intensified. Even the birds in the garden of the cloister no longer chirped, preferring to roost in the branches of the orange tree through the hottest part of the day. No footsteps sounded on the arched walkway; the quadrangle was quiet. Luna wondered if her father was somewhere close by. She’d been in this room for so long he might have spent a goodly time praying in the church or reading in the monastery library without suspecting she was nearby. God rewarded him for such passion. They had a fine home and luxuries far beyond his humble beginnings, as he liked to remind his family. Florence was a city where anyone could rise without family or fortune, if you had courage enough and a good head for finance, and he’d both. Enough to convince the wealthy banker, Lorenzo de’ Medici, to give him his first loan.