FERRARA TO MONTERIGGIONI
1726
XXXI
In a rather morbid way, the Island of San Michele in the Lagoon always fascinated me. It seemed somehow sinister with its wall of cypress trees, and there were stories of trapped spirits haunting it and crying. The Francescan Convent there interested me as well. I imagined taking refuge there during my most difficult experiences growing up. No one would have thought to look for me there, desolate and off in the Lagoon as it was. Now I flee to another convent. [Antonia, 1741]
Awakening from a troubled sleep, Antonia at first could not orient herself. No matter how she tried to sort out the first twelve hours of her escape, she remained unclear. No image, other than clouds flitting over the moon like ravens, would come to her mind. No sound remained in
