The sight of the odd couple had long ago become unremarkable within the cloistered walls: the little girl hobbling behind the industrious friar as he shelved manuscripts in the library. Back then, Luna thought the steep curve of the wooden library shelves seemed as tall as the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. Ofttimes she’d lose her balance as she stared up at the friar on his ladder and he would scold her in jest, commenting, ‘If I had wanted a frog for an assistant, I would have become a gardener.’ But he would scoop her up and carry her a while after that, saying, ‘Now we move as one, and the silence is ours.’

The painter waited and Luna saw how he picked at his nails and watched the friar anxiously. She knew her friend enjoyed the theatre of his silent, grey-robed contemplation.

Then the friar nodded and murmured, ‘Good, good,’ with hands pressed to his chin and the painter clapped him on the back with relief.

‘You could not leave the book at home for a day, my dear girl?’ The friar raised his eyebrows in amusement as he came to stand beside Luna. Of course he would comment on the text she held, rather than let her know if the painter had caught her likeness. Luna should have known better than to expect any such vainglory. She shot him a conciliatory smile.

‘It is the only thing that has kept me sane these past hours of boredom. Sitting for this portrait is a form of torture.’ She slipped the book back into her pocket.

‘A very expensive and beautiful torture. You’ve done well, Luna.’

She stood and dropped into a curtsey, but had to clutch at his arm for support as she rose. She didn’t quite manage to suppress the hiss that escaped her lips.

‘Sit, sit,’ he entreated softly, before turning to the painter. ‘What say you, Master Lippi?’

‘Yes, indeed, friar, a very pretty face and you will notice how I have painted the skirts to hide everything beneath.’

Luna felt the painter’s critical gaze lingering on her sturdy boots.

‘Such a shame,’ he said, as if she wasn’t in the room.

Friar Bartolomeo placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently but she shrugged it off, for she’d heard herself described far worse. Hiding her boot in a painting did not change who or what she was.