Passion Blue by Victoria Strauss

within reach.
    When the bells woke her in the morning, she found, for the first time since her arrival, that she did not dread the day ahead.

C HAPTER 8
The Workshop
    Suor Angela was waiting again outside the refectory. She smiled when Giulia emerged, the shy smile Giulia remembered from yesterday, then limped off down the hall.
    “You don’t have to walk behind me,” she said after a moment, glancing over her shoulder, the one that dipped. “Nun or novice, it doesn’t matter in our workshop. Apprentice and artist are the only ranks that count there, and you and I are both apprentices.”
    “You’re an apprentice?” Giulia said, forgetting the Little Silence. She’d assumed, perhaps because of the black veil, that Suor Angela was a journeyman, likethe two nuns at the table yesterday.
    “Yes. I’ve been with the Maestra for three years now.”
    The Maestra. Suor Humilità, of course. It made Giulia think of Maestro and his untidy study, where she might be heading at this time of morning if she were still in Milan. Swallowing a surge of homesickness, she hurried to catch up.
    The smell of the workshop greeted them at the threshold—a blend of familiar and unfamiliar scents, the mysterious odors of the painter’s craft. Giulia breathed deeply as she entered.
Today, I’ll sketch again
. The thrill of it ran through her like light.
    Suor Domenica was already there, standing under one of the arches that opened onto the courtyard and removing the cloth that draped her lectern.
    “Good morning, Domenica,” Suor Angela said.
    Suor Domenica glanced up. She was rod-straight and rake-thin, her ivory skin pulled tight over the bones of her face. Her brows were creased in what looked like a habitual frown.
    “I’ll need vermilion today. A good quantity, mind you.”
    “I ground it yesterday,” the younger nun replied. “It’s ready whenever you want it.”
    “Hmph. Well, prepare some tempera then. Perhaps now that we have an extra pair of hands, there will be more doing and less waiting.”
    Suor Domenica turned back to her lectern, foldingthe cloth that had covered it with precise, tight motions.
    “You mustn’t mind the way she talks,” Suor Angela whispered. “She wears a prickly hair shirt under her habit, and it makes her awfully cross. Now, let’s put on aprons and get to work.”
    Along the side wall, shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, holding a vast collection of jars, bowls, boxes, and other containers, many marked with neatly written labels. Nearby, bibbed aprons hung on pegs.
    The two girls tied aprons over their habits. Suor Angela moved to the shelves, taking down a large flask, a big bowl, a smaller one, several palm-sized squares of fabric, a pair of spoons, and a metal pin. She led the way over to the preparation table. Its clutter had been cleared away, except for a clay jug of water and, strangely, a basket of speckled eggs.
    “I’m going to show you how to mix tempera,” Angela said, putting down what she carried. “I’ll be showing you how to do a lot of things. If there’s anything you don’t understand, just ask. Questions are good. The Maestra says they’re one of the best ways to learn.”
    “It’s all right for me to talk?”
    “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    “Suor Margarita says that novices must keep the Little Silence during the day, unless they are spoken to first.”
    “Oh my goodness!” Suor Angela laughed. “That wouldn’t be at all practical, with everything we have to do and learn! Some of the other workshops keep theLittle Silence, but we don’t.”
    “There are other painting workshops?”
    “No, no. The other workshops are for other things, embroidered altar cloths and linens for brides’ trousseaux and ointments from our herb gardens. We’re known for our herbals—people send all the way from Venice to buy them. Don’t look so surprised!” The young nun laughed again. “Nuns aren’t supposed to be worldly, but we must exist within the world, we