They moved along a road beside the river. The water levels had already begun to rise and the tides swelled along the banks. The river passage was busy; soap-makers lined the stretch of shore nearby and Luna saw the familiar view as like a painting. She was glad to be leaving Florence. The city had turned on her family with the ferocity of the lions that guarded it and she would never return.

The travellers left behind the stink of marsh before the sun had passed across the midday mark and the view became an open stretch of undulating hills. The road was lined with chestnut trees, the leaves already dappled by autumn’s hand. A fresh downpour pummelled against the roof and when the rain eased, Luna put her head out for some air. She saw a trail of leaves beaten free by the rain, the fallen mix of crisp copper red and deep yellow bruised and sodden as the leaves underfoot in the piazza outside her home. Her mind bumped from one thought to the next and she wondered if her father had had a similar sense of foggy disconnection after her mother’s death. The farther she travelled, the thinner stretched the thread that bound her to her old life. Eventually it would break altogether.

Livia sat opposite, clutching the seat nervously, and her fretting woke Luna from her daydream. The friar had suggested Livia accompany Luna on this journey and Livia, who had never thought to outlive Pippo and Maria as well as her own children, went willingly. Still, she did not enjoy the physical impact of the rolling wheels on her body and her mouth clenched into a nervous smile as she shuffled back on the seat.

They travelled on until the sun was low in the sky once more, and the shadows leapt about the distant hills like rabbits. Luna dozed despite the discomfort. Livia moved closer and pressed her gently till she woke.

‘We will soon be arriving,’ she said. ‘I will not stay, so you best make friends with the mistress of the house if you want to be well cared for.’

The distance to the convent was not more than a day’s journey but Friar Bartolomeo had arranged for Luna to stop and rest at one of the country estates that dotted the hills. The friar had been very pleased to tell her how he’d written to Professor Domenico di Novara about her circumstances, knowing he was a friend of her father’s, one of the few still brave enough to call himself thus, and how the kind professor and his wife had taken pity on the Fusili orphan. The professor had suggested she stay with them for an extended period, the friar had explained as he encouraged Luna to agree to the generous offer. She’d not answered; making any plans for herself beyond taking vows at the convent seemed a privilege she no longer deserved.