Her father rarely spoke of his childhood except when he took Luna star gazing. She’d been very young the first time they’d stood on the bridge near their old home and turned their faces to the sky but she remembered it vividly. He’d pointed to the planets where she saw bright dots and then to stars, which she thought appeared exactly the same except for their size, though he knew where to find the red eye of Taurus, the star Aldebaran. She’d followed the line of his finger as he drew the shape of the bull, moving from one bright star to the next, telling her how his father—the grandfather she had never the chance to meet—had drawn the constellations for him. The night sky had filled her vision and the bright stars looked like holes pricked in a cloth of her father’s blackest dye. So immense was the view it had overwhelmed her and she’d lost her balance and fallen, scraping her knees. After that her papa stood behind her and she’d leant into his shape whilst he pointed out the planets and stars and explained how his father had read the night sky for portents, though he’d never been able to change his own fate. She hadn’t known what that meant but she’d listened without questions because she’d not wanted Papa to stop talking and turn for home. Other times he’d taken her out to witness the full Moon’s rise and it had seemed so big and close she’d expected it never to climb beyond the line of the trees, yet it always did and then they’d marvel at where it hung like an untethered orb. Once she’d seen a shower of stars cross the night sky and they’d hurried home for fear of what disaster it heralded. She’d not seen portents of her own future in the stars, not yet at least.

Her natural ability to read the night sky was a gift she’d inherited from her grandfather, but it did not satisfy her curiosity. She wanted to master the theory of astronomy and understand the mathematics of the science. This was how she would bring virtue and glory to the family name.

Her father already believed her worthy of reading the works of the great thinkers and poets and of expressing her views within his eminent circles. It seemed a logical progression that she’d approach further study with the same dedication and respect. She’d talk to him about it when she got home.

Luna spoke a silent prayer to St Sebastian for strength and courage and added a prayer of gratitude for the library in Santa Croce and for Friar Bartolomeo, her teacher and friend. Without his tutelage, she’d never have discovered the thrill of knowledge. She’d spent many happy hours here with him. Luna knew the private passage that allowed the monks to move between the baptistry and their chapter house and she coveted the little bench beneath the orange tree in the garden of the small cloister as though it were hers exclusively. Yet for today, she must sit in this room where there was only bare wall.