It didn’t matter where, but they had to leave Florence. And then the miracle happened. As if the angels themselves had taken her plea to the heavens, Elizabeth was summoned to Michelangelo and told she would be leaving for Scotland in a week. Scotland, the desolate northland. Cold, damp, barbaric, devoid of culture, a wasteland with more sheep than people. Scotland. An absolute heaven. She could not wait to get there. “Where is your sister, child?” An elderly woman charged breathlessly into the attic room. She plunked her heavyset frame on the closest bench, her ample bosom heaving from the exertion. Removing her kerchief from her sleeve, she mopped the beads of sweat from her brow. “She’s gone out to say her last fond farewells to friends.” Elizabeth looked up from the packed trunks at her friend. “What are you doing up here, Ernesta? You should not exhaust yourself climbing those stairs.”
