unction each day, for I expected it to be my last. He reported this to the priora , who came to me with hard words.
‘Sor Loreta,’ she thundered, ‘what will you not do to get attention? I knew we should not have let you profess.’
I replied, ‘The Ignorant have always misunderstood and feared the Chosen. And set out to worship false idols, like Sor Andreola.’
‘Chosen!’ she barked. ‘Your jealousy of Sor Andreola and your competitive nature are the only things that mark you out.’
It was then that a miracle occurred. I began to hear with my damaged right ear. Not the vulgar yapping of the priora , but the lovely mingled voices of Santa Rosa and Our Lord God, both of whom assured me that I would have great and difficult tasks to perform and that I must steel myself for them, and agree to live a little longer in this ungrateful world.
‘You alone, Sor Loreta,’ God whispered tenderly, ‘must be My earthly voice at Santa Catalina. The others shall be cast into a Great Fire.’
‘How shall I serve You, Lord?’ I asked, but silently, inside my head.
Santa Rosa promised sweetly, ‘I shall tell You, child. How sorry shall Your persecutors be for their crimes against You when the Fiends of Hell lift their great clawed paws to rip out their plump bellies.’
The priora ’s voice then broke in sharply upon my left ear, ‘You’re not listening to me, are you, Sor Loreta? I wash my hands of you.’
Santa Rosa whispered in my right ear, ‘Remember, dear Sor Loreta, that the more You mortify Your flesh, the more beautiful shall You be for Your Bridegroom.’
Back in the Old World, Napoleon had fallen on the Holy Mother Church like a wolf on the fold. A terrible story came to us, that all good Christians will read with horror, of a cathedral in Bavaria that was sold to a butcher! That night I dreamed of the knives laid out on the altar, legs of ham hung from the rafters, the drooping rabbits, heavy with shot, tied in bunches from the columns. I awoke, trembling, my nose twitching with the smell of the herbed garlic sausages I had seen smoking in the Bavarian confessionals. Of course, it was only the slaves of Santa Catalina cooking luxurious breakfasts. But for a moment it seemed to me that the stink of Napoleon’s sins had floated over the oceans all the way to us.
I kissed the chains that morning before I employed them to beautify my body, and I paid particular attention to my face.
Gianni delle Boccole
Poor Anna, what had been so andsome, found it hard to bare the great red weal that runned from her forrid to her lip all long the left side. I allus told her that no one notist it, but that were a lie. It were ever after the only thing most folks notist bout Anna, that pink shiny ribbon down her fizzog.
Marcella’s scar were tinier, jist a burn-mark on her rist from where she ud tried to pull the red-hot poker outa her brother’s hand when Minguillo were already bringin it down fizzlin on Anna’s face. Marcella had een took a bite out o his thumb to try on make him stop. But he jist flunged his little sister cross the room and got on with his busyness. Then he stormt out, shoutin for a new wainscot to replace the loorid thing stained with the wine Anna had dropt on him.
Marcella crawled out of the corner strait to Anna and held the poor burnt head in her lap. My Mistress Donata Fasan and the Contessa Foscarini had convenient feinted way the both of em, and allus sayed afterwards that they remembert nothing of what appened. But Marcella staid with Anna, and wunt be seprated from her when the doctor come to salve n so the wound. Marcella held Anna’s head the whole time and sung to her soft n low awhile he stitcht the broke skin together.
After that, Marcella keeped drawin Anna’s face for her, but she done the grate sweetness of showin only the rite side that were not damidged except for the spreshun of fear that allus hornted it now. After Minguillo hit her with that poker, Anna were terrified
‘Sor Loreta,’ she thundered, ‘what will you not do to get attention? I knew we should not have let you profess.’
I replied, ‘The Ignorant have always misunderstood and feared the Chosen. And set out to worship false idols, like Sor Andreola.’
‘Chosen!’ she barked. ‘Your jealousy of Sor Andreola and your competitive nature are the only things that mark you out.’
It was then that a miracle occurred. I began to hear with my damaged right ear. Not the vulgar yapping of the priora , but the lovely mingled voices of Santa Rosa and Our Lord God, both of whom assured me that I would have great and difficult tasks to perform and that I must steel myself for them, and agree to live a little longer in this ungrateful world.
‘You alone, Sor Loreta,’ God whispered tenderly, ‘must be My earthly voice at Santa Catalina. The others shall be cast into a Great Fire.’
‘How shall I serve You, Lord?’ I asked, but silently, inside my head.
Santa Rosa promised sweetly, ‘I shall tell You, child. How sorry shall Your persecutors be for their crimes against You when the Fiends of Hell lift their great clawed paws to rip out their plump bellies.’
The priora ’s voice then broke in sharply upon my left ear, ‘You’re not listening to me, are you, Sor Loreta? I wash my hands of you.’
Santa Rosa whispered in my right ear, ‘Remember, dear Sor Loreta, that the more You mortify Your flesh, the more beautiful shall You be for Your Bridegroom.’
Back in the Old World, Napoleon had fallen on the Holy Mother Church like a wolf on the fold. A terrible story came to us, that all good Christians will read with horror, of a cathedral in Bavaria that was sold to a butcher! That night I dreamed of the knives laid out on the altar, legs of ham hung from the rafters, the drooping rabbits, heavy with shot, tied in bunches from the columns. I awoke, trembling, my nose twitching with the smell of the herbed garlic sausages I had seen smoking in the Bavarian confessionals. Of course, it was only the slaves of Santa Catalina cooking luxurious breakfasts. But for a moment it seemed to me that the stink of Napoleon’s sins had floated over the oceans all the way to us.
I kissed the chains that morning before I employed them to beautify my body, and I paid particular attention to my face.
Gianni delle Boccole
Poor Anna, what had been so andsome, found it hard to bare the great red weal that runned from her forrid to her lip all long the left side. I allus told her that no one notist it, but that were a lie. It were ever after the only thing most folks notist bout Anna, that pink shiny ribbon down her fizzog.
Marcella’s scar were tinier, jist a burn-mark on her rist from where she ud tried to pull the red-hot poker outa her brother’s hand when Minguillo were already bringin it down fizzlin on Anna’s face. Marcella had een took a bite out o his thumb to try on make him stop. But he jist flunged his little sister cross the room and got on with his busyness. Then he stormt out, shoutin for a new wainscot to replace the loorid thing stained with the wine Anna had dropt on him.
Marcella crawled out of the corner strait to Anna and held the poor burnt head in her lap. My Mistress Donata Fasan and the Contessa Foscarini had convenient feinted way the both of em, and allus sayed afterwards that they remembert nothing of what appened. But Marcella staid with Anna, and wunt be seprated from her when the doctor come to salve n so the wound. Marcella held Anna’s head the whole time and sung to her soft n low awhile he stitcht the broke skin together.
After that, Marcella keeped drawin Anna’s face for her, but she done the grate sweetness of showin only the rite side that were not damidged except for the spreshun of fear that allus hornted it now. After Minguillo hit her with that poker, Anna were terrified
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