Sister Simona, whose tooth ached perpetually, he knew by the clove she kept hidden in her lip, and he recognized the prioress by the whiff of sulfur from the candle that burned as she studied the convent’s books. When the scent of chamomile filled the small booth, Fra Filippo immediately knew Lucrezia had come to him. He strained to see her face through the cloth that hung between them. “Fratello, please forgive me for not coming to your workshop,” Lucrezia whispered as soon as she’d knelt. “I wanted to send you a message, but it was impossible. Sister Pureza insisted I rest, and she was right. I was troubled, Fra Filippo, and I am troubled, still.” Beneath the curtain she could see Fra Filippo’s robe, his feet in their rough leather sandals. She rushed on, before he could speak. “I fear that putting on the finery was a grave mistake, Fra Filippo, not because you gave it to me, but because of how it made me feel, and the vain thoughts I had when I wore it. Please, Fratello, I fear that what we’ve done—even in the name of the Virgin—is a sin.”
