‘How I wish I had agreed to go with you, for now it seems I’m only ever to see the streets of Florence when we go to Mass. Papa keeps me inside so much of late. Tell me about your day.’

‘It was dull as you’d expect at a monastery.’ Luna nudged her in the ribs. She wished Papa had not stopped including Maria in their outings. His invitation to his daughters to stroll with him to the Piazza della Signoria alongside other families had always been one of their shared excitements. They would each hold one of his hands as they made their way up the broad paved street, ambling amongst the crowds. Luna found this especially thrilling because it gave her a chance to listen in to her father’s conversations. He was often detained on their path and when this happened the girls would take the chance to watch the activity surrounding them, Luna only half concentrating as she tried to hear the gentlemen, though setting a lady’s stylish dress or a hawker’s basket of trinkets to memory, so that later when she lay in bed beside Maria they’d recall what they’d seen in whispered giggles of made-up stories. They knew Papa was in a good mood when he’d treat them to a cantuccini to share from one of the street stalls. She couldn’t think of anything terrible that had happened to warrant the change, just that Papa had put a stop to it. When she asked him why, he told her that Maria had reached the age when she must be protected. Luna was glad then for her crippled stump, for it meant she was freed from the social restrictions of other young ladies of Florence.

Luna took Maria’s hand. Her sister’s grip was strong. She’d surely grown over the past year, but her cheeks still wobbled when she laughed and the gap in her teeth had not closed. She was just a little girl. Luna knew Mamma Lucrezia had grand plans for Maria’s future, but that would have to wait till she was grown. She watched Maria’s hair ruffle and fly in the breeze as they walked. It was as long as the length of her back and as deep as the yellow of a duck egg’s yolk. She had her mother’s beauty.

‘Friar Bartolomeo made me sit for the master painter Lippi again,’ she told Maria. ‘I do not find it easy, but at least it will be a good surprise for Papa. Friar Bartolomeo says the painter is a fine man of his craft and I should be much admired in the form he paints.’

‘I am curious to see you in a portrait.’