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oligarchy, who will be capable of reading it quite clearly. Do you see? Government has been left out of the picture. And just for emphasis, an orphan of the hospital has been chosen to be a part of it: you. The politicians would have expected a daughter of one of the noble families to be given that honor. It is a snub. The Nine will be furious when they find out, and yet it will be unseemly for them to criticize it.
    Laura considers. I do not understand politics. If it is as you say, I am sure the rector and the bishop know what they are doing. Butwhat have I done that could possibly make the Council of Nine so upset?
    I am not explaining myself very well. Your likeness is to be in the altarpiece.
    Giovanna said it plainly and sensitively, concerned about how a young girl who has led a sheltered life might react to such news.
    Initially, Laura Agnelli does not respond, except for her deepening frown and narrowing eyes. Then she mumbles she is hot, feeling dizzy; she sways on her feet.
    Giovanna leads Laura into some shade, makes her sit and drink from a flask of wine until she has recovered her wits.
    When the incident is over, Giovanna offers to take her home, but Laura is adamant that it is not her wish.
    I apologize, Laura. I honestly thought you knew.
    No. No one saw fit to tell me.
    And you did not guess it?
    Something like that would simply never occur to me. It is too unexpected.
    Laura Agnelli offers a silent prayer, feels it leaving her and flying up into the sky beyond her reach, beyond even the reach of the new tower and the stonemasons tapping the stones with their hammers and chisels, the clicks answered with echoes.
    Laura returns to the hospital while most are still at vespers. Some have duties that excuse them from attending; some are sly and find ways to avoid it when it suits them. Laura rarely misses the evening prayer service, and to have been kept from it for days in succession is a trial for her. She needs these renewals even more than she did before.
    In the dormitory, Laura finds Imelda and Gisila sitting on a bed, their heads close together in conference as they wind laundered cloth strips.
    Imelda whispers to Gisila, whose uncontrollable giggle turns into a pig snort.
    Laura almost pauses to greet them, but even as she slows her pace their laughter dies. Suddenly they are absorbed in their work.
    It would not hurt Laura, not normally. She would take solace in her prayers and think about the life she will have at Santa Marta. She is finding this more difficult of late. Because she is in halves.
    A word, Laura Agnelli!
    The shouted demand is from Rettore Giovanni di Tese Tolomei, whose pompous girth has appeared as abruptly in the girls’ quarters as if he had followed Laura there. She turns to go with him, passes by the other two but a few steps before their joke resumes. Imelda sniggers into the back of her hand. Gisila drops her head onto her friend’s shoulder, limp with laughter, tears forming on her lashes.
    She has had enough practice at finding her way through Siena’s streets in the dark, and takes the precaution of covering her head so that her red hair does not give her away at a distance. She knows from experience which entrances will still be unlocked and, once inside, which are the quietest passageways leading back to the dormitory.
    The hospital is never entirely asleep. Individual candles are kept lit in alcoves; oblates keep watch in the wards and the pilgrims’ hall; voices are still audible, though fewer, muted, more urgent. Night is a dangerous time for the weak.
    Laura traces her way close to walls and peers around corners before moving on. She has not been seen so far, but is not complacent either. She has tried to imagine what would happen if she met Imelda, or one of the other orphans, creeping around out of bed too . . . and done her best not to dwell on the consequences if she were caught by a sister or Signor Rettore.
    She listens. Blood thuds in her ears. Footsteps ahead