The painter’s back was bent to the easel and the stroke of his brush against wood was calming. With each beat of her heart, Luna felt the accompanying flush of blood that moved through her veins. Here was her boldness, her intent. When she talked to her father her voice must be as strong as the beat of her blood.

For a moment she forgot where she was and nodded in agreement with her thoughts; she would seek out a time to raise the subject of her future with Papa forthwith.

The painter dropped his brush to the palette he held and spread his free arm in a pleading arc. ‘Signorina Fusili, you must sit still.’

‘Forgive me, Master Lippi.’ She busied herself with smoothing her skirts. ‘I find this unexpectedly challenging. Your painter’s eye sears me.’

‘It is understandable, mistress. I must replicate you perfectly if I am to produce a speaking likeness and for a lady of good family, such scrutiny is, of course, confronting.’

Luna tugged at her belt. ‘I will try harder,’ she said and glanced up as the smell of fresh lime-wash prickled her nostrils. The painter was opening a bottle of varnish. She lifted her head to better watch him mix the tangy liquid with the oil; she’d read about this new medium and was curious to understand the process.

‘I read that adding more varnish and oil stops the paint from cracking,’ she offered in the hope of a reply, but the painter was silent. Luna shrugged. He wasn’t going to talk to her about his art. She watched him spill a few more drops of varnish into the mixture. How she wished for some conversation, even the sound of the monks hurrying to Mass would be welcome, and she strained her ears for the tolling of the sacramental bells, but all was quiet.

She pulled a book from the pocket of her skirts. It was small and square and the parchment pages were enclosed within hard board covered in tightly stretched goatskin. The size balanced perfectly in her hands. She pushed back the brass fasteners at the head and tail of the book and opened it gently. The binding creaked and the painter scowled at her.

‘This will not do. My letter of commission demands I capture your virtue and modesty.’

Yet Luna opened the book and began reading. Despite the discomfort and constriction of her skirts, Luna now sat quite still. She marked a line on the page with her finger as she mouthed the words silently. The gold rings on her fingers stood out like bejewelled clasps.

The painter straightened in his chair and tilted his head to one side, viewing the image before him. Then, dipping his brush into a pot once more, he smeared some paint across the board. ‘So, we continue,’ he said.