“No, Sister.”
She gives a snort of satisfaction that I have taken her point, then begins pulling down dozens of gowns from the pegs. But they are too loose or too short or the color does not suit her. Or me. At last she takes down a claret velvet gown and holds it up. She and Sister Arnette exchange a glance. “It is perfect for her, no?”
"Except it is missing a bodice,” I point out.
Sister Beatriz waves my concerns aside. “The bodice is just cut low, in the Venetian style, the better to display your womanly charms.”
Sister Arnette studies the gown, her fingers tapping against her chin while she thinks. “I can work with that,” she finally says, and my heart sinks. I am not sure I can work with it. Or in it, as the case may be.
But that is the end of the discussion, and Sister Beatriz shoves the gown at me. “Try it on so we may see if it fits.” She motions me to a dressing screen in the far corner. I hold the gown as gently as a newborn babe, afraid my fingers will crush the soft fabric.
Behind the screen, I quickly slip out of my habit.
“Here.” Sister Beatriz drapes a delicate piece of linen over the screen. “You will need a finer shift under that.”
Painfully aware of the two older women on the other side of the screen, I slip out of my old chemise, shivering in my nakedness. I am relieved when I finally have the new shift on, then I quickly step into the rich velvet skirt and tie the ribbons at my waist. I slide my arms into the tight sleeves and marvel at how perfectly they fit, as if they’d been made for me.
As I ease the bodice up over my shoulders, I see that Sister Beatriz is right. It does cover my bosom, but only barely. I have always known that I must on occasion pass as a noblewoman, but I am loath to dress as a harlot. “I don’t think this will work,” I call out, too embarrassed to emerge from behind the screen.
Then Sister Beatriz is there, swatting my clumsy fingers aside and doing up the lacings herself. “It is perfect. It will capture every man’s attention so that no one will bother to watch what your hands are doing. Now come with me, Sister Arnette is waiting in the armory. Here are your slippers and cloak. I’ll dress your hair when she is done with you.”
Even though the armory pales by comparison to Sister Beatriz’s dressing room, I much prefer it. Indeed, it is one of my favorite rooms at the convent. In addition to every size and shape of knife and dagger, it holds razor-edged rondelles, used to kill from a distance. Crossbows of all dimensions hang from the rafters, and rows of bolts are lined up on trays. Garrote wires are looped from hooks, as are all manner of leather harnesses and sheaths for concealing the weapons on our bodies. A sharp metallic tang hangs in the air and mixes with the scent of goose fat used for polishing the blades.
Sister Arnette grabs my hand and pulls me to an entire wall lined with knives. She gives my tight sleeves a quick glance. "We’ll never get blades under those. Here.” She tosses an ankle sheath at me. As I bend over to strap it on, my womanly charms nearly tumble out of my bodice. Merde.
Once the ankle sheath is secure, I am handed a thin stiletto encrusted with jewels. I nearly drop it in surprise. “’Tis so fine.”
“It is all the rage in Venice. But this will be your main weapon tonight.” She produces a finely wrought bracelet that looks like heavy cord dipped in gold and wrapped round and round. She grasps the ends, then pulls, uncoiling it to reveal a length of thin, deadly wire.
“You have only to put your hands to his neck for an embrace. If you move quickly enough, he will not know what’s happening until it is too late. If need be, you could even do it in the darkened corner of a crowded room.”
She re-coils the bracelet and hands it to me. I slip it on my wrist.
Sister Beatriz studies me thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should rouge her nipples with red ocher.”
“Sister!” I am well and truly shocked. Annith has warned me that Sister Beatriz has the makings of a fine lightskirt, but I have missed too many of her classes to see this side of her.
“Don’t be tiresome.” She dismisses my distress with a wave of her hand and turns to Sister Arnette. “If she raises her arms like so” — the old nun raises hers as if putting them around someone’s neck — “her bodice will gape. Since Venetian women rouge their nipples, we should do the same to hers, don’t you think? To keep the disguise complete?”