She picked up the book once more. The corner of the page was soft as velvet as she pinched it between her fingers. That her father made time for his crippled daughter at all was a blessing, and his tolerance of her reading was indulgent. She’d heard the words so often from her step-mamma’s lips they’d become as familiar as lines from her Book of Hours. Mamma Lucrezia was especially inclined to remind Luna of her good fortune after Papa came home tired and hungry and shouted for his wine. Perhaps Mamma Lucrezia was jealous of their bond. Luna lifted the cover to her lips and kissed the soft leather; it still carried the aroma of lavender from the poultice of crushed skullcap seeds Papa used to ease his headaches. He’d listen to her, she was sure of it.

‘Again, I entreat your patience and stillness, signorina.’ The painter could barely contain his frustration.

‘Forgive me, master painter.’

‘I require only a little more from you, otherwise I will not finish the portrait in time, and then I will not be paid and my children will go hungry. You do not wish such a turn of events upon my family, do you?’

‘No, most certainly not. I promise to remain still.’

‘Let us pray your father is happy with this scene,’ the painter mumbled.

‘As I am the one who commissioned the work, I believe your prayers should be directed for my benefit.’ Friar Bartolomeo had slipped into the room quietly. Luna sat a little straighter. ‘How fares my student?’ he asked with an approving nod as he took in her fine dress.

‘I’d much rather be in the library with you.’

‘You’ve done well to sit for this long.’

Luna nodded and waited. He stood behind the painter with his arms crossed in a serious manner, his belly rising and falling with short, wheezy breaths. This past year the friar had begun to move more slowly and the draped robes of his order did little to hide the crook that curved his back. Luna feared that old age was overtaking him.

Their friendship had grown over the years since he’d first taken pity on the crippled girl sitting bored and alone in the garden of the small cloister whilst her father read in the monastery library. He’d distracted her, initially with a game of rolling the oranges he picked from the tree and then, as the cooler winter months closed in, with books he’d choose from the library. She’d been mesmerised by their vibrant painted images. Her command of language had impressed him so much that he’d talked to her father and the two men had devised a schedule of learning for Luna around the hours of her father’s visits. Each month, the friar found himself looking through the monastery collection for a new volume to interest his young pupil and then, as her proficiency increased, each week.