The silversmith sat on his doorstep sharing conversation with the baker next door. Luna turned her gaze from the two old men, noisily conversing, and ahead to the view she loved as they turned into Via dei Neri. Brunelleschi’s domed roof of the cathedral rose in the distance like a rich man’s belly. Nearby, in stark contrast, the cathedral campanile pricked the sky with its thin, tall tower. Friar Savonarola preached from that pulpit now; his sermons were the most popular in all of Florence, though Luna had not attended yet. Papa did not like Friar Savonarola. He thought him arrogant for professing to hear the Lord, Jesus Christ, directly in his ear, as though the Pope in Rome was not the chosen one.

Luna breathed in fresh air as they passed beneath a brief patch of open sky. Banners in the colours of Friar Savonarola flapped overhead. All the districts flew the Dominican’s colours these days alongside their own.

‘So tell me, my student, did you discover anything new in your readings today?’ Friar Bartolomeo patted the mule’s neck and dropped back in line with Luna.

Luna felt the mule’s hide shiver at his master’s touch and she too relaxed. ‘More admiration for Isotta Nogarola, if that’s possible. I think I could recite her entire dialogue to you.’

‘I am constantly astonished by you, a young woman who encounters infinitely more obstacles than men in familiarising yourself with knotty problems, and yet …’ here he sighed, ‘I must warn that your vanity will be your undoing.’

‘Why should I pretend to be humble when I could win an argument with any of these shopkeepers we pass?’ She straightened in the saddle.

‘Hush, Leonarda!’ he hissed. ‘Those are dangerous words!’

The mule whinnied and stamped its feet in objection to the firm pull on its reins. Luna had to grab a handful of its mane to stop from slipping as Friar Bartolomeo hauled the beast into a side alley.

‘Papa allows me to speak in public thus and he would not put me in the path of danger.’

The friar shook his head. ‘Indeed we have all indulged you but how could it have been otherwise, with a voice so young and yet so assured? But Florence has changed. Friar Savonarola is clever, do not forget that.’ He looked to the busy street corner and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘No one charged him with conspiracy to take power when he helped to drive the Medici out of our city. Friar Savonarola made sure his pious hands were clean. Rather, he would have us believe that plot was the work of the Medicis’ unknown enemies, nothing to do with the preacher. But I know the truth, for though my name may not be Medici, my mother’s sister is married into that family.’