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“The baby would have starved, Piero.”

“Now WE will starve.”

“No. We will not starve because we are clever. Surely, you can see they needed our help? They would have perished without it.”

“So? Everyone else has already died. My mother and father and sister—all gone! And nobody helped them.”

“My parents are dead also, Piero. I know what it is to ache for family, but you must not be cruel.” She reached out to touch him but he jerked away.

“You are old! Your parents are supposed to be dead. Everyone who ever lived along this road is dead besides you and me and those wretches in the hut. You think one goat will save them? All you’ve done is stretch out their suffering a little longer!”

“Piero, you are too young for such evil thoughts.”

“You care more for them than you do for me! Me, who brought you a letter all the way from Florence.”

“Shhh. Do not be jealous. The malocchio hears such things. It will come and make it worse for you.”

“The Eye is not real,” he said, though more quietly, unsure of himself. “It is a story women use to scare children.”

Ginevra said nothing.

“It’s not real, is it?” asked Piero.

“It is real, and I have felt it and you must be careful or you will, too.”

FOUR

OCCHIO MALOCCHIO

1333, City of Genoa

Ginevra remembered vividly. The golden strings pulled her, connecting her back to her past self. She was no longer twenty-eight, a woman of advanced age. She was thirteen and her mother had made her a new dress to replace her old one, which was so worn-out it wasn’t any good even for a poor girl.

“Keep it clean,” her mother said. “It’ll have to do until you’re married.” Ginevra vowed to be careful, and then went away, beaming, to show off her new garment to the world. Her reverie was shortly interrupted by a tug at her hem. It was a beggar girl whose lip was twisted up so her front teeth showed. She held on tightly to Ginevra’s dress and thrust out her empty bowl.

Another day, Ginevra might have run home and found an old piece of bread—but today she fretted that her dress would be soiled by the girl’s dirty hands. She pulled it away pointedly and kept walking, casting a curious glance over her shoulder at the girl sitting in the dust. Their eyes locked. Ginevra’s breath caught in her chest. She looked away and continued onward.

Early the next morning, Ginevra put on her new dress and found it unbearably itchy. So itchy she regretted her old one had already been torn into rags. Doing her best not to scratch all over, she began her daily journey to draw water from the public fountain. At the little square where it burbled, she stubbed her toe so badly that the nail broke in half and bled.

“Porco Dio,” she muttered, and then clasped her hand to her mouth. It was an extremely rude curse that only sailors would say. She’d never dared to blaspheme even a little before. She looked around to see if anyone had heard, then carried on with her task, filling the heavy water jug and limping toward home.

On the way, dogs that normally kept to themselves chased her, and she only just escaped by throwing her jug at them where it shattered on the ground. Camiola, displeased that a perfectly good jug was ruined, let alone that she had no water for the day, combed Ginevra’s hair so roughly that the comb caught in a snarl and a whole lock was pulled out.

Clutching her head, and squirming around inside her clothing, Ginevra hurried to the home and shop of her mentor in search of solace. She huffed her way into Vermilia’s room, expecting her immediate sympathy, but the old woman was hunched over a low fire in the hearth and appeared to be muttering at the orange stone on her ring.

“A-hem,” coughed Ginevra.

“You are early,” said Vermilia, not turning around.

“Tell me what you are saying to that stone!”

“It is I who give directions here. Get to your work and leave me be!” Vermilia went back to her muttering.

Cowed, Ginevra tried to focus on her chores—preparing nettles to be boiled in wine for men who could not satisfy their wives. But she was so clumsy that the plants’ vicious hairs stuck all into her hands. She fanned them in the air for relief, but then her stomach itched and she jerked quickly to scratch it, knocking a cup of wine down the front of her new dress. Tears welled up in her eyes as a purple stain spread across the gray fibers.

Vermilia finally stopped muttering and hid the stone among her robes. She turned to her pupil. “And so what’s wrong with you today?”

Ginevra’s bottom lip trembled with the effort of keeping a neutral face. “Since this morning, I have lost my toenail, my mother’s water jug, and a chunk of my hair. I was chased by vicious dogs, and now I have stained the only new dress I have ever gotten, which has grown tight and coarse overnight. Have you ever heard of a more terrible day?”