The Miracles of Prato by Laurie Albanese Page A

side by side until Sister Simona appeared at the garden hedge, pale and silent in the bright sun.
    â€œI’ll attend to our Sister Simona, while you keep at your work,” Sister Pureza said.
    Lucrezia looked on as Sister Simona raised her arm to show a pustule of lumps on her skin.
    â€œYou aren’t fevered,” the old nun said to the thin one, putting a hand to her brow. “Perhaps it’s something in the lye or ash from the washroom. I’m sure I have a poultice that will soothe this.”
    She ushered Sister Simona into the cool infirmary, leaving Lucrezia alone in the garden.
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    T he friar swung open the low gate of the herb garden, and the back of a nun’s black robe caught his eye. Only when he saw the delicate hand pruning the boxwood leaves did he realize it was Lucrezia.
    She turned at the sound of the latch.
    â€œ Benedicte, Sister Lucrezia. Do I disturb you on this fine morning?”
    Although she’d been working for hours, Lucrezia looked as freshas dawn as she knelt beside the bush. Beside her was a basket filled with leaves.
    â€œ Buongiorno, Brother Filippo, and God’s grace to you.” Lucrezia ducked her head respectfully, and stood. Even at a distance, she could feel the energy that radiated from him. “I’m afraid Sister Pureza is tending an ailment.”
    â€œWho is ill?”
    â€œIt’s nothing serious, only a rash on Sister Simona’s skin. Would you like to wait?”
    Lucrezia glanced toward the bench along the garden wall.
    â€œI’m sure I can locate what I need,” Fra Filippo said. He was a bold man but found himself subdued in the presence of this young woman. “And I’ll have to ask Sister Pureza for what I need from the apothecary, for she’s very jealous of her careful storage system.”
    Lucrezia looked up at Fra Filippo, avoiding his face but eyeing his white robe and the leather pouch that resembled the one her father’s master dyer had carried. She remembered the delight his Coronation had offered her that first morning at the convent, and cringed at the intimacy of her tearful confession only days ago. Already the monk knew much about her, and she felt an urge to hurry him out of the garden.
    â€œMaybe I can help you, Fratello,” she said softly. “What have you come for this morning?”
    Fra Filippo paused and smiled. Yes, he believed his painting caught the likeness of the novitiate very well. He looked quickly at her eyes, pleased to note they were as he’d remembered, with many shades of blue and even a hint of green sparkling in the sunlight.
    â€œLavender,” he said. “And woad. I’ll need the woad today, as it takes some time to ferment.”
    â€œYes, it does,” Lucrezia answered, flushing brightly at the mention of the fermenting process.
    Fra Filippo saw she was biting her lip.
    â€œI think you may know something about woad, Sister Lucrezia, although I can’t imagine how or why.”
    It was true. Lucrezia knew that urine was needed to ferment the woad to its fine blue hue, and remembered her father’s workers drinking their fill of beer and wine when the supply of woad arrived each year. She’d been told that the alcohol they expelled with their frothy golden urine provided just the right bath in which to soak the woad so it released its deep blue dye.
    â€œMy father,” Lucrezia said uneasily. “He used woad to dye the blue silks in his shop.”
    Of course Fra Filippo remembered that Lucrezia’s father had been a silk merchant. In fact, he remembered everything about Sister Lucrezia.
    â€œAh, yes,” said Fra Filippo. “And are you familiar with other herbs, as well?”
    â€œYes, Fratello.” Lucrezia nodded. “My father taught me what he could about dyes. He knew a great deal.”
    â€œYellow,” he said, curious to learn what else she knew. “I also need something for