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Ginevra went to the dark cellar where she had stored her medicine pot. It was still frothing and oozing out from under its askew lid. Not ready. Now she was very nervous it would not work at all. She would wait a few hours longer, and return to the Girolami tower today either way, do what she could for Zenobia with what she had. She would use the time to draft her report for tomorrow’s visit with Inquisitor Michele.

She went back upstairs to gripe to Lucia, but Lucia had already gone to take a nap and no amount of heavy sighs or loudly moved plates could rouse her. She sat down at the long rectangular table in Lucia’s dining hall. The little cat ran in and burrowed under her skirts to nap on her feet. Feeling slightly better for the company, she pulled out the original list of robberies drawn up by Inquisitor Michele, and looked over the new discoveries she had added in her own rough handwriting.

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.

Santa Maria Novella—finger of San Tommaso D’Aquino.

Theft noticed: July 8. Relic last seen: winter 1348.

The dates and letters began to swim before her eyes. The inquisitor was expecting her, and all she had discovered was apparently already known to everyone in Florence.

She shook the cat off her feet and went to the cellar to look at her jar again. Still oozing. An eel made a little splash in the well, and she realized that she hadn’t really eaten anything of substance since Taddea’s porridge. She could make another eel pie? No, that would take hours, and Ginevra was hungry right now. And she needed to go to Zenobia. She filled her fancy green-and-purple cup with vinello again and drank the whole thing. She filled it back up and carried it to the garden, intent on picking some apples. The peacocks gathered round her, hoping for treats. “I could make you into a pie, too,” she said to them, already a bit drunk. They took no notice of her idle threat, and went back to pulling worms out of the spaces where dirt showed between flagstones.

She picked up a nice-looking apple from the ground and took a bite. It was sour and made her mouth dry. She sat down fully on the sun-warmed stones. The vinello was working its own magic, dulling the thoughts that refused to quit her exhausted brain. Perhaps Lucia was right. She would just lay down for a moment and rest her eyes. She listened to the pecking of the peacocks and burbling of the fountain. A line of cool shade crept over her face as the sun shifted its position behind the tall walls of the courtyard.

A peacock stared at her. “What are you doing here?” it asked.

“I—I’m helping.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes?”

“Trouble follows you. The malocchio waits for you to drop your magic jewel.”

“I will not drop it.”

“Are you sure?”

She felt desperately for her amulet, but her hands became tangled in her clothing until she could not move them. The peacock came forward and snapped at her nose with pointed teeth.

“Ginevra! Gineeevra!!” She woke with a start. A peacock hopped off her with an indignant “scree.” The courtyard was all shadows. She had been asleep for hours! She looked up and saw Lucia, waving from the roof terrace of her home. “Did you sleep in the dirt all afternoon? You know we have three empty beds in here, right?”

“Um, yes, it looks like I did... The peacocks...”

“What about them?”

“They—nothing—they ate the rest of my apple!”

“Well, pick another one and get me one, too. Come on up to the roof. It’s lovely and cool up here. We’ll have supper.”

Ginevra brushed the grit off her cheek and went to join her. A much-needed meal, then to Zenobia. Up on the roof, the city was laid out before them, and the waning toenail moon, as if in tribute to San Gregorio, rose in the still-light sky. Lucia had fished down the shriveled salami from the kitchen rafters, and found more of her husband’s expensive claret. Ginevra wanted to protest—the salami would keep for ages, and they didn’t know when they could get more—but she was too hungry. She took the knife from Lucia, who was struggling to cut into the unwieldy sausage, and sliced them both a generous portion. Dainty nibbles became hearty bites, followed by large draughts of the pomegranate-colored wine. The fat and salt and sugar were restorative. Ginevra felt the fog lifting from her brain with each swallow.

“It almost seems like a normal summer night from up here, doesn’t it?” said Lucia.

Ginevra looked out at the bell towers and rooftops that stretched out from the Piazza Santa Trinita. The bricks of the church gleamed yellow and lovely. No sign that inside it was covered in mold and emptied of its relic.

“It makes me ache in a way. When I was younger, I thought I would find my own husband and we would have a house like this, and I would sit on a peaceful terrace as we are now, with children.”

“You have to marry a rich man, for that. And trust me, it’s not such fun.”

“Well, it hasn’t been much fun for me without one, either. But—no matter. It never could have been; he did not—he did not need me how I needed him.”