She moved to the stepping stones the monks had laid and cast around for Friar Bartolomeo. A group of young men, barely older than she, approached. They talked and bumped against one another and laughed when one managed to up-end another. It was a confidence Luna might admire under different circumstances but she knew only too well what it meant: bold young men in fashionably tight hose looking to impress one another with tomfoolery. She moved back against the wall of the monastery, but they had spied her and did not miss the chance, meandering closer. She heard their jeering bravado and started to turn away, pretending not to notice them. The stone hit her cheek with a sting. It was the same naive cruelty her little brother, Filippo, showed when he tried to scare the birds who landed on the young grapes in their family vineyard. Luna picked up a handful of gravel and threw it angrily but they were already scooting out of sight.

‘God will judge you!’ she shouted after them, breathing heavily. The spot on her cheek smarted and she touched it gently, thankful that her skin was not broken. At least the friar had not witnessed her humiliation.

When she was very young, Luna would sit by herself watching the children in neighbouring houses playing freely. It took her much longer than most to learn to walk and she would always hobble on the painful stub of puckered muscle that replaced her right foot. She didn’t give up through the pain and humiliation of stumbling and falling and eventually she mastered a lopsided, awkward gait using a stick for balance. She excitedly joined the other children playing in the street, but soon discovered that her abilities were limited and someone only had to bump her to make her fall, which happened often and rarely by accident. Her tears would darken the dirt as she lay with a cheek pressed to the gravel but then she’d pull herself up and loudly condemn their retreating backs. At night in her bed, she’d pray for strength and balance, even though she knew there was only so much God could do.

She returned to the open path where Friar Bartolomeo would see her and waited on the stepping stones. Her stump ached and the supportive padding inside her boot was damp. Her very first pair of boots had been a present from her father, fashioned to add length to her right leg and provide balance. They were made of thick leather, the right boot broader than the left with a firm paddle that extended up the back of her calf. The sole was raised with extra strips of thicker leather. It had hurt when she pushed her stump into the unyielding material but she’d clenched her teeth—a Fusili never complained—and soon discovered that putting the boots on quickly was the best approach. Papa had patiently taught her how to lace them up using the eyelets and how to stuff lengths of linen into the heel and toe end of the bigger right boot to support her stump. She knew tugging on the paddle didn’t offer any relief but it had become a habit, and she pulled on it now.