PROLOGUE

Firenze, 1490

          The light is fading quickly. The gloom persisted all day, punctuated by sporadic rainfall, and despite the lamps I lit, little light remains. Still, I plod on at the desk by the window. I sense that my time on this earth grows short. So, I write my story, the story of how I came to be in this place and in this time. Even though my fingers are cramped and my tired eyes burn, I am determined to relate our story on these pages – the story of our love which has bound us together. My love, the master of my heart, does not fret over my constant scribbling, although I expect he will soon come to fetch me. He understands my need to write this memoir. I trust him in all things and I will trust him until I die. He promised that he will keep the memoir safe.

          I write in my native language. It becomes more and more difficult to recall my own tongue so this is an exercise to remember my history as well, not only for myself but perhaps one day for my children. There is much about my previous life I have forgotten after all my years here. The faces of my family are no more than faint shadows. I miss my brother most, but I try not to dwell on a past that is forever lost in the mists of time.

          I read somewhere that in medieval times the great mystics and those gifted with visions were encouraged by their superiors in Orders to record their inward journeys. So now, I, too, make this record of my journey upon this earth, and I pray it may bring me a measure of peace. Some day, perhaps this memoir will be found and read. No doubt there will be cynics who will discount it as the ravings of a madwoman, but maybe too there will be believers.

          Time, in the end, is the master of our fates, and fate has given me the greatest gift of all. This is my moment in time and I have lived out my life in the here and now. While it is true that I am a prisoner here, it is a prison I welcome. For I am loved and love in return. I am held captive to a kiss.