The convent of Santa Maria della Croce was not a sanctuary of light; it was a fortress of shadows and stone, perched on a limestone cliff that seemed to groan under the weight of the sky. Here, the air didn't smell of Alessandro’s expensive tobacco or the cloying jasmine of the estate. It smelled of wax, lye, and the ancient, damp breath of the mountains.

I was no longer the girl in the jade-green room. To the sisters, I was "Sister Maria’s niece," a widow from the south with a heavy ...