34Florence, August 1475
That morning Ginevra had risen at dawn to pick the lavender heads in the garden of her house. Every summer she would put off gathering them as late as she could because the spectacle of flowering lavender had the power to make her soul feel happy, as did few other things in this world. The value and pleasure of time spent meditating and dreaming while sitting among the bushes was priceless, intoxicated by the magical essence that these little indigo flowers would release so generously.
But she could not wait any longer, the heads had to be harvested before the end of summer or they would lose all of their energy and powers. The best time was precisely early morning, when the soft gentle rays of the sun had dried the night dew and the plants, thanks to the night, w
