Before Romeo and Juliet

9. Intermezzo I

I am holding the knife in my hand, watching its gilded blade play with the light. I do not remember picking it up, but now that it is in my hand, heavy and warm from my skin, it feels as if it were made for me.

"That is the mark of a good knife," Madonna says. "See how it rests in your hand? There is no fumbling for the grip. One treasures such things as one grows old. There are so many things in life one struggles to make fit when in the end all the effort is in vain."

A slight grimace crosses her face as she strains to sit taller. I put down the knife and rise to help her, but she lifts her hand to stop me. She takes a breath and pulls herself up with more pride than strength. If pride be a sin may God forgive us both, for I am grateful for her vanity - indeed I pray for it - because I know it is all that keeps her rooted to this Earth.

I adjust the pillow behind her back and this she does not resist. Soft and warm and filled with goose down, its embroidery of flowers and fruits entwined in a vine provides the only color to Madonna's pure white bed. I wonder if Madonna embroidered it herself or if it was a gift from someone who loved her dearly? My bed is but a small pallet, boasting nothing but a pillow of straw and a thin blanket, but I am happy for it, for it is mine alone. I suspect Madonna's is the finest bed in the abbey, except perhaps for the newly arrived Novice from Milan. The Anziani say the abbey was once home (or prison as some novices would say) to many wellborn girls from as far away as Venezia. Some took the veil and became brides of Christ while others were kept here, pure and virtuous, until their families could broker a profitable marriage for them. Today, the story is much the same but our numbers are smaller and the devout far outnumber the noble.

"Madonna? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You are doing it, Elisabetta."

She smiles and I am struck by how lovely she is. Her face is lined but her eyes shine and her smile is as enchanting as a girl's. We sit in silence for a few moments before she speaks again.

"This book holds more than prayers," she says as of the Book of Hours in her hands. "It provides sustenance for the heart that God cannot provide."

"What do you mean, Madonna?"

"The love of a friend. It can save you when prayer cannot."

"Forgive me, Madonna, but how can that be so?"

"Do not misunderstand me, Elisabetta. Prayer cleanses our souls and it is prayer that puts us in the loving hands of God. It is through prayer that we are blessed - from our first breath summoned by our mothers' prayer, to our last that carries us to heaven on a friar's prayer. But God's love is often a mystery, and the times we need Him most are often the times when He feels the farthest away. We grasp for the hand of God only to feel forsaken. But Elisabetta," She says, taking my hand and holding my gaze as though she wants me to remember every word she is about to say. "This is when God gives us the hand of a friend. Do you see?"

"I think so," and then I venture to add, "A friend is a gift from God."

"Exactly so, Elisabetta," She squeezes my hand gently and a look of relief passes over her face as she lies back upon her pillow. "Now, let us enjoy some cake. Just us two."

We enjoy the cakes with honey and slices of pear and sit contently until I find the nerve to ask, "What happened to the girls after the day in the tree?"

"They became the best of friends. Sisters really. They understood each other - so different and yet they were two peas in a pod. Without Maria Grazia, Caterina would surely have scaled the walls of the abbey and walked back home to Lucca on foot if she had to. Maria Grazia might never have left the apothecary closet."