Page 14 of The Stone Witch of Florence

THIRTEEN

DE LAPIDIBUS

1335, City of Florence, Convent of Sant’Elisabetta delle Convertite

I n the women’s ward, as Ginevra gathered up the soiled reeds and emptied chamber pots, she kept a careful eye out to observe the nuns at their healing work. She noted the plasters that eased pain here, and the suppositories that erased discomfort there. She memorized the little prayers said to saints, prescribed alongside the physical medicines. And every time a baby was born, she went with the nuns to give thanks to the Relic of the Blessed Blood that sat inside its crystal orb in the chapel. But Ginevra never saw or heard anything about the packet of gemstones sent from Genoa. She would never ask about it, either, lest there be questions about the rattling rock she’d stolen. As for the common little amulets of stone or bone possessed by the women who came seeking help, there was no hint that Agnesa saw such objects as anything more than harmless superstitions—not quite approved of by the modern church, but generally tolerated for the comfort they brought.

Though she tried her best, Ginevra could not learn everything from eavesdropping. Particularly vexing was that whenever a challenging medical scenario arose, she was sent away and couldn’t observe.

“It’s not for you to see what happens next,” Agnesa would say when a woman could not breathe in spite of the mustard plaster or stop vomiting long enough to get out the correct prayer to San Timoteo. Ginevra felt she was prepared for whatever unpleasantness came, that she was being unnecessarily coddled. After all, hadn’t Monna Vermilia trusted her for years to witness important rituals and prepare delicate mixtures? She complained about this to Taddea, who nodded sympathetically.

“It’s the same with me. Whenever Agnesa is about to make the most interesting medicine it’s always Taddea, go to the market for this or Taddea, go get this pot fixed , even though the pot had a hole in it for ages and nobody ever cared.”

One morning, as Ginevra cleared wooden eating bowls from the ward, she observed Sister Agnesa attending a breech birth. The poor mother had labored with difficulty a whole day and night, and now as dawn came on the second day, the leg of the child appeared and nothing more. The mother became still, white with fatigue on top of sheets brown with drying blood. She would not move her gaze to acknowledge her nurse, nor part her lips to receive a sip of water.

“Alright, so it comes to this,” said Agnesa. She looked around, and spotted Ginevra. “You—come here a moment and give her your hand. I’ll be right back.” The nun walked away, as fast as she could without running. Ginevra’s chest tightened—there was only one reason she would have left her charge at this moment: to fetch the priest for last rites before the baby was cut out of its dying mother. But Taddea said this never happened at Sant’Elisabetta! The mama must have sensed the danger, too, and through her unconsciousness, she clutched so hard at Ginevra’s hand that her fingertips turned white and tingled.

Out of nervous habit, Ginevra put her other hand into her purse and fiddled with the brown rattling stone. As soon as she held it, the coral figa on her neck grew warm, as did the stone in the purse. The air around her began to vibrate, and all other sounds became muffled, as if she were underwater. She felt an irresistible urge to take out the stone and put it on the bed. In fact, she could have sworn the stone strained against her tightly closed fist. Ginevra glanced around furtively—it was just the two of them in the ward, her and the dying woman on the bed. She gave in to the strange rock, allowed it to pull her hand out of her purse and onto the bloody pallet, and place it down next to the child’s leg.

The little foot immediately withdrew back into its mother. Her swollen belly roiled like a pot of soup, and then out came the head where the foot had been and the baby was born quickly and correctly. A moment later, out whooshed the afterbirth. The mother woke from her stupor, released Ginevra’s hand, and asked if she might have a portion of wine. Before the mightily shocked Ginevra could gather her wits and take back the stone, Sister Agnesa was at her side.

“Thank Mary and all the saints! The brave girl managed it on her own.” She picked up the baby and slapped it until it bawled. Ginevra tried to surreptitiously grab the stone back, but Agnesa’s quick eyes followed her hand and saw the little rock there on the sheets. She gasped and snatched it away, hiding it inside her palm.

“Fool, fool, how long has the eaglestone been lying here??” Agnesa hissed.

“Just a moment...”

“Did my careless cousin give you this?”

Ginevra hung her head, and Agnesa’s eyes widened with understanding.

“So you helped yourself, then, to a package meant for me, to a thing you don’t understand?”

“But, it worked ! And, you know what it’s called? An eaglestone?”

Agnesa bit her lip.

The new mother again asked for wine.

“Ginevra, go and fetch this thirsty lady a drink. Then come straight away to my cell.”

Ginevra left the fuming Sister Agnesa clutching the infant, and went to pour a draft of wine with shaking hands. She was terrified of what she had done. She had stolen something, something that compelled her to use it carelessly. She thought of the thieves in Genoa who became beggars after their hands were cut off for their crimes. Would they do that to her?

She touched quickly her coral to make sure it was still there, that this was not caused by the malocchio finally come back for her. The jewel lay at her collarbone, where it always did. Whatever punishment was coming her way, she had brought to her own self. Maybe Fra Simone would excommunicate her, when he was told what she did, and after a miserable, handless life she would go straight to hell and be tortured for eternity. But under these fearful thoughts there was something else: anger. She had saved a woman’s life and was in trouble for it.