The Miracles of Prato by Laurie Albanese Page B

yellow.”
    â€œBack home we used saffron.” The reply came to Lucrezia easily, for her father often had tested her knowledge in a game that went much like this one. “But I know it’s very costly. The weld will yield a good yellow, too. I can gather some for you. Or better still,” she said quickly, for in spite of herself, she was pleased to be showing off her knowledge. “Some margherita .”
    Both turned their eyes to the rich clusters of golden margherita that grew in the southern corner of the garden, and their gazes met. Margherita . Santa Margherita. Although he’d never seen it, Fra Filippo was suddenly sure that Lucrezia’s hair was the exact color of margherita .
    â€œDandelion is abundant in the meadow, and if you soak it for as long as you can the magenta will be almost as deep as your cinabrese, ” Lucrezia said. Her discomfort faded, and words spilled off her tongue almost as easily as they had at home as she pointed to various leaves and plants.
    Listening to her lovely voice, Fra Filippo was struck with a desire to fold back her wimple and then to paint her exactly as she was at this moment, a beautiful virgin in a garden clausura.
    â€œBoxwood makes a fine green, Fratello, and we’ve been trimming it just today. Perhaps you’d like to take some of the leaves?” Lucrezia looked up and saw that the monk’s attention had wandered. “But I’ve gone on too long, Brother Filippo, forgive me, I was carried away with myself. Let me get you what you came for.” She bent clumsily to reach for a branch of lavender.
    â€œNo,” Fra Filippo said a bit too quickly. “ Per piacere . Go on. Your learning is impressive.”
    â€œTruly?” She responded earnestly. “I remember what you told me, Fratello, that the world is a speculum majus, a mirror of the Lord’s kingdom. It eases me to think of this when I work, and when I pray I remind myself that everything is a mirror of God’s miracles.”
    Lucrezia opened her palms in a small gesture meant to include the garden, the sky, the chaste berry, and even the heavy shears she’d been using to prune the bushes. For the first time since their meeting, Lucrezia smiled a real smile and met Fra Filippo’s blue eyes.
    â€œFra Filippo.” She spoke his name too quietly for the painter to hear. Then, adding volume to her voice, she said, “I’m very honored to help you in my humble way.”
    Fra Filippo saw her smile in relief and in shadow, and was imagining how he would capture it when the bell began to ring, calling the nuns to prayers.
    â€œAlready!” he cried, looking up at the sun’s position in the sky and turning away. “I’ll have to return after the prayers. I haven’t yet gathered any supplies.”
    As he rushed from the garden, Sister Pureza emerged from the infirmary and stood beside Lucrezia.
    â€œFra Filippo must have a great many needs today,” the nun said quietly.
    â€œYes, he was waiting for you.” Lucrezia resisted the urge to glance at her face. “He said you guard the herbs carefully.”
    â€œIndeed.” The older nun turned her eyes upon Lucrezia, and the young woman saw they were veiled. “I guard this garden and everything in it with great care. A gardener must be sure her plantings are not trampled or harmed by a careless hand.”
    The bell was still pealing. Sister Pureza took the shears from Lucrezia, and placed them carefully in the basket of boxwood trimmings.
    â€œAndiamo,” the old woman said, turning to lead the way out of the garden. “It’s time.”

Chapter Six
    Tuesday of the Tenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456
    A glance at the fine steed tied just beyond his window confirmed Fra Filippo’s fears: Ser Francesco Cantansanti had arrived.
    Casting a hurried glance around his workshop, the painter considered making some order of the chaos.