Poinsettia Girl
Venice, 1710
Poinsettia Girl is based on the story of Agata de la Pieta, an orphan musician of the Ospedale de la Pieta.
Ten-year-old Agata's world is shaken at the sudden death of her mother. Left only with her egregious father, a working musician in Venice, her ailing grandmother sends her to the well-known orphanage, hidden from everything she's ever known.
Agata auditions for the conservatory style music school where music is both salvation and spectacle. Hidden behind ornate metal grates, adorned with poinsettias in their hair, the singers are veiled in mystery, their ethereal music drawing noble audiences, including gilded young men who see them as treasures-not only for their sound but as coveted marriage prizes.
Just as she reaches the height of her musical journey, a marriage proposal from someone outside the audience tempts her with the promise of a new life-a return to the old neighborhood she's longed for and a home she barely remembers. Torn between the music that has defined her and the hope of belonging to a family, Agata must confront the most profound question of her life: is her purpose rooted in the music that shaped her, or in the love that might free her?
Excerpt
Margarita closed the door to her bedroom and entered the hall with some of her spunk back in her step. She needed those afternoon naps more than she had in all her years in the Pietà. Every day, when early afternoon came, she’d feel her shoulders slumping and her patience waning, ready to shut out the worries around her and blow her bedside candle out.
She would never admit that to anyone. It would make her sound old, and then there would be all their fussing. While her schedule no longer consisted of classes, private lessons, or choral rehearsals, it was as full as the girls in new lace collars. She still had hers, that lacy shawl, a little more cream than stark white- one could never stop the cycle of aging. She would wear it when special occasions called for it: a full choir for a dignified guest or a celebration, but mostly, it hung in her closet, a trophy of her femininity, not the public image of virginal and ethereal but the honest image: persevering, unruffled and wise.
The Pietà took careful measures in recording the names, titles, entrances, and exits of every woman who spent any time behind its protective walls. Some listings were short, poor, sick babes that only lasted a night or diseased women who spent their final days cared for with the dignity society did not give them—others, like herself, whose decades were sub- marked by all her different roles in the Pietà. The path was different for everyone. Some women did not possess the musical predisposition to train for the Coro, which is why they tested every foundling’s aptitude by the age of eight.
The less musically inclined girls trained in textile arts or medicine, with the potential of working in the Pietà’s ground-floor ventures in their later years. The hospital administered vaccines and cared for the unwanted, while the textiles area had a successful laundering and hat-making business.
In her current assignment, she was listed as Discrete, a nice way of inferring: a retiree with no more obligations to the Coro—and as Margarita internally joked, whom they decided to keep around a bit longer instead of shipping off to a convent. Indeed, she was worth more than the average old woman slippering around.
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