A convent parlor is something to make most men profoundly disappointed. Devout men want to see a convent’s nuns praying through the grilles with worldly folk who have come to be enlightened by the balm of holy conversation. Perhaps kneeling in prayer with some courtesan in silk who has come to repent of her sinful life. Or the more worldly men have some vision of nuns meeting lovers through the grilles, passing love notes and locked in salacious embrace. Just how salacious anyone can get with a stout metal grille between them is something that particular fantasy never bothers to explain. In truth, a convent’s parlor looks no different (bars aside) from any cozy gathering of women in an ordinary sala: nobly coiffed and silk-gowned wives with babies on their laps and little girls in tow, bending heads close to their daughters and sisters and aunts who took a holy husband instead of a mortal one, all of them gossiping their heads off. Convent parlors even see a few men: stern fathers like mine who come to make sure rebellious daughters are settling into their vows, young brothers come to tease a favored sister, or even a few of the swaggering monachini: those flashy and bored young gallants who think it great fun to pay court to a pretty nun through the grille. Not that such men ever get very far, at least not in the Convent of San Sisto, where the parlor was presided over by iron-eyed Suora Ursula. Named for a bear and had the temper of one too, and the Bear was casting a great many suspicious glances already at my tall cousin from Venice as he leaned against the grille with his corded arms folded across his chest and a lock of hair falling into his eyes.

“Cousin,” I said, dry-mouthed as I approached the bars.

“Suora Serafina,” Bartolomeo returned gravely, all formality, but his eyes raked me and I had a flush of humiliation. I had not seen him in almost a year. My shins showed below the too-short habit and my hands stuck out bony and chapped from the sleeves. I knew the stark black made me look ugly and sour, and my skin was sun-darkened and wind-hardened after all my hours this winter and spring spading at the stony convent gardens. I felt worn, tired, ill-used and repulsive, at least twice as old as my twenty-six years, and after all his letters I’d wanted him to come, but now I just wished he’d go away again.

“How did you know to ask for me?” I said instead, resisting the urge to tug at the wimple, which squeezed my chin.