The monastery was already busy with midday prayers. Luna heard the rich, deep chanting as she made her way around to the small sacristy door. She pushed against it with her shoulder but was surprised when the door didn’t give way; she’d never found it locked before. The wind gusted past her down the laneway. She dipped her head into the warmth of her collar and followed the path that ran the length of the church. At the point where the church met the high stone wall of the monastery, Luna stopped. Another gust sent her cloak flapping like the wings of a hunter’s hawk keen to take flight. She knocked loudly and someone slid back the spy hole. Then she heard the bolts lifting on the other side.

‘Leonarda, child, come inside.’

‘Friar Bartolomeo.’ His name caught in her throat.

‘Yes, I know; word has already reached me.’ The friar ushered her through, the door creaking shut behind her. ‘Come, follow me.’

The sounds of chanting rose and fell as they passed the canticle room. A monk nodded as he hurried off in the opposite direction. Friar Bartolomeo stood in a doorway and gestured for her to enter. It was his private cell, dimly lit, with only a pallet and mattress stuffed with straw and a simple table that served as his writing desk. Luna noticed a bronze ring of fat keys, tarnished with age and use, hanging on a hook by the door. A wooden cross was mounted on the opposite wall. It was very similar to the room where she’d spent all those months sitting for the painter. That seemed a lifetime ago now.

Luna accepted the chair Friar Bartolomeo offered though her heart raced. She wanted them to rush to her father’s aid immediately.

‘Tell me, when did they take your father?’

‘Not more than two hours ago—the Gonfalonier came to the house.’

‘Bernardo,’ the friar muttered. ‘It is good it was him.’

‘We do not know what will happen. Mamma Lucrezia is desperate and pleads for your help.’ Luna rubbed the spot on her arm where her father last had touched her. She knew why they’d taken Papa, and she must tell the friar. ‘There is something more.’

‘Speak, Luna. Now is no time for secrets,’ he said, clasping his hands together.

‘It is my fault, friar. I should be the one in prison, not him. They found a parchment I wrote, an argument I thought would impress Papa, full of fanciful notions against God’s law—I see that now, Heaven forgive me!’