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“I can help with that,” said Becchino. “Wait here.” Several minutes later, he appeared with a withered arm, the hand frozen with rigor mortis in a gesture of pointing.

“Jesus Christ, isn’t there just a regular stick?” said Ginevra.

“No. Want to see what’s in the box or not?”

She grimaced, and grasped the shoulder socket so that the dead hand looked like an unnatural extension of her own arm. She lay down again on the floor and the grisly tool did its job and soon the box was in her own live hands.

“Here you go,” she said to Becchino, handing him back his corpse arm. They walked back toward the entrance, to where there was enough light to see into the box. It was a bundle of red velvet, tied up with gilded thread.

“Well, that looks as it should,” said Becchino. “Let’s put it back quick before we get ourselves cursed...”

“No,” said Ginevra. “Look!”

The fabric was very old, and there were faded lines on it, the ghosts of careful creases that were no longer in their place. The gilded thread was in a loose and messy knot, not a neat bow. Somebody had put this back together recently and hastily. She pulled on the thread and the packet fell open, revealing an old sandal with holes through the bottom. The relic of San Paolino remained in its place.

“The shoe of San Francesco,” said Becchino, touching it reverently. “Dama, I’ve got a friend watching my cart, but he’s not such a good friend. Please put the shoe back. It’s bad luck to steal from the poor.”

“Yes, go. I’ll be out shortly. Let me just return this.” She rebundled the shoe and put it back inside the altar, then took out the inquisitor’s list of thefts again. San Paolino was not so far from Santo Stefano, one of the four Rogazione churches that had been robbed in May. And the church of Santa Trinita, also, was but minutes away. Had the thief struck all these churches at the same time? But why take the time to break into San Paolino’s altar, only to leave his prize where he found it? He must have been looking for something else. The shoe of San Francesco was a worthy relic by anyone’s estimation—surely, it had significant monetary value. With lead stylus, she made additions to the list, her crude characters next to the inquisitor’s expert flourishes:

Santa Trinita—shoulder of San Giovanni Gualberto.

Theft noticed: July 8. Relic last seen: unknown.

San Paolino—shoe of San Francesco.

Attempted theft noticed: July 8. Relic tampered with, left behind.

It struck her, then—the golden crucifix of San Giovanni, overlooked in favor of the less-valuable shoulder. The shoe of San Francesco, inspected and then put back in its place. He only wants the relics that are body parts. Ginevra had the sudden urge to be in full daylight. She tucked the inquisitor’s colorful parchment away and went back outside, where her Becchino chatted to another.

“Well, Becchini,” she said, “you must be rich men, with business so booming.”

“Ha! It’s true, the world’s misfortune is our fortune. Were they to redraw the guilds, the gravediggers should be placed above the bankers, the physicians, all of them, for we are the only ones who keep to our posts. But even with this good run, I will never be a rich man.”

“Why not?” asked the new becchino.

“Because! None of us are here for long, so I spend my money as soon as I get it.”

“Where does one spend money right now?” asked Ginevra. “Whose business is open?”

“There are people with things. Live ladies and barrels of wine, if you know where to look for them, and anything fun right now costs almost as much as a decent burial.” He winked at Ginevra. The camaraderie she was beginning to feel faded.

“You are wise to spend everything as it comes,” said the new becchino. “I’ve just come from the dead parish of Santo Stefano; the Lord Girolami has expired.”

“See what I mean?”

Girolami... Ginevra knew the name—they were rich enough to be famous even during her youth. “You mean the Girolami who say they are descended from Zenobio, whose head is missing?”

“The same,” the second becchino said. “He spent all his days being mean, gathering and guarding his fortune. This is why Zenobio cursed him and left.”

“Why do you think Zenobio would do that? I thought the Lord Girolami built him the chapel in Santa Reparata, that he paid for the silver head casket.”

“Everyone knows the chapel was only because it saved him on his taxes. And the rest—all these things they say they do for Zenobio are only for themselves, to gain the favor of the populace. But all Ser Girolami’s grasping has been for nothing. I hear his wife and his sons are sick, too, so his whole pile of gold will probably go straight to the commune.”

“The children and wife—they are sick, but not dead yet?” asked Ginevra.

The second becchino shrugged. “If they are sick, they are dead. Along with the rest of their parish. It was only a matter of time; the relic was taken from the parish church weeks ago.”

Ginevra remembered how the Girolami family were intimately involved with the annual mass celebrating his head relic. If anyone had the opportunity to see something, notice something amiss, it would be them. But already the man was dead. She must hurry if she was to speak with his wife.