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take off everything.”
    How can the child be so presumptuous? But I do as told.
    “Sit on the stool. See the sponge on it? You know what sponges are?” She smiles.
    I nod. But I don’t smile back.
    “I brought that sponge from home. It’s good, don’t fear. The monks don’t use it.”
    I sit on the large sponge that covers the seat.
    She puts another even larger sponge on the floor. “For your feet.”
    I put my feet on it.
    Bianca dips a small sponge in the basin of water. The steam carries the strong scent of rosemary. I hunch forward over my thighs and she rubs my back. The hand sponge is soft, like warm lard. “This is how Aunt Agnola does it to me,” Bianca says. The warm water rolls down the sides of my breasts and over my ribs. It drips from my nipples. Some sinks into the sponge; some puddles on the floor. “Lift your hair. Good. That’s good.” She rubs the back of my neck, the backs of my ears.
    Now she kneels in front of me and rubs my feet, top and bottom and between the toes. I feel like a pampered child. And it’s a pampered child who is pampering me. My head spins. She grabs my hand and scrubs it. Harder. Then the other hand. “I thought the pink on your toes would come away. But no. It’s like the pink on your fingers. Is that part of being a princess?”
    I shake my head. “It’s part of making mirrors.”
    She pauses and studies me. “Here, take the sponge. You do your front. Aunt Agnola says girls must do their front on their own. But don’t forget the cracks. The crack behind, too. Aunt Agnola rubs under her breasts. You mustn’t forget there, either.”
    I clean myself under Bianca’s beady eyes. There’s no disgust in those eyes. I grow bolder and sit straight.
    “We can do your hair now. Do you want help?”
    “Do you want to help?”
    “Yes. I get to soap up Ribolin’s fur when he has a bath. It’s fun. Ribolin is Aunt Agnola’s dog. He sits on her lap most of the time. He has a funny red penis that comes out when we bathe him. I feed him gizzards, so he likes me.”
    I don’t know what a dog is. “I like gizzards.”
    “So do I. Ribolin growls as he eats them, and he’ll nip if you try to touch him.”
    “Like Gato Zalo.”
    “Is that your cat?”
    “Gato Zalo doesn’t belong to anyone.”
    “Papà says it’s a mistake to play with strays. They’re dirty, they carry disease, and they bite. We can get you another cat. There are lots of good cats in Venezia.”
    “Venezia?”
    “That’s where I live. You didn’t think I lived here with the monks, did you?”
    “I did. You’re all huge. I figured you chose to live together.”
    Bianca laughs. “You say funny things.”
    I clean my underarms. “So why are you here with the monks, then?”
    “I like to go along with Papà when he visits monks, because they live in such out-of-the-way places. But I’m always ready to go home again.” She picks up the bar of soap beside the water basin. “The water has rosemary in it. The monks don’t have flowers in their garden. When we go back home, though, we can use rose water. Or we can boil any flower you want. The soap is mine. Smell it.” She holds it to my nose. “Guess what it is.”
    I sniff. Then shrug.
    She smiles. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know it. I love to give surprises. And you’re so easy to surprise.”
    “What is it?”
    “Oranges. We boil orange blossoms. Have you ever seen them?”
    I shake my head.
    “The fruit is sort of like lemon, but ever so sweet. Apples are better, though. My mamma said apples can cure you of any ailment. But oranges are good. Their color is halfway between yellow and red. The blossoms are white, though. Be glad I have this soap. Lower your head.”
    I lean forward till my hair falls into the basin. “Why are you being so generous?”
    “Isn’t that how we’re supposed to be?”
    I tremble.
    “Are you ill?”
    “No. I’m glad.”
    “Oh.” Bianca lathers up my hair while I go on shaking. “Do you know the