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“Hurry!” whispered Michele.

Ginevra followed the pull of the jasper ring leading them up, up, up through the pitch-black until they burst in a cloud of beetles into the church’s sanctuary, and ran past the green-and-purple-painted hell, into the piazza, into the full light of day, where, struck temporarily blind by the sun’s brightness, they spun around and beat the shimmering beetles from their faces and hair.

“Has he followed us?” said Michele, coughing up insects.

Ginevra touched her coral, and it burned her fingers. “He is near! We must hide.”

But she was too late, the thief was upon them. He grabbed the rope that lay between them and yanked it hard so they fell upon the stones of the piazza.

“Close your eyes or he will curse you!” cried Ginevra to her inquisitor.

“We are all cursed, Virgins!” said the thief, dragging them across the stones and tying them anew to the well’s winch so they were pulled tight against its wall.

Michele cowered with his hands over his eyes. Ginevra, whose vision was adjusting back to the light, saw the thief pick up a lumpy beetle-covered sack. He shook it and out tumbled the arm of San Filippo, the thigh of San Barnaba, and the rest of the relics of the great churches of Florence. In a frenzy, he began again to piece them together into a man. His hands were shaking as he batted at insects with the blessed finger of San Tommaso. He accidentally kicked the sacred head of Zenobio and then had to chase it to the edge of the piazza.

“He has gone even more mad,” whispered Fra Michele, peeking through his fingers. “It is that hair shirt—such a device turns even the most pleasant individuals into complete nightmares.”

“It certainly isn’t helping,” agreed Ginevra, “but worse is the malocchio. Look.” She pointed to the coral that still smoldered against her dress. “It is here and it revels in his misery.”

The thief ran back to his pile, clutching the head, and hastily pushed the relics together, giving up his attempts to align limbs to trunk. “Stop whispering!” he shrieked at them. With a piece of chalk he began to draw another magic circle around the priest and the woman but the cobblestones were rough and his chalk broke so he was left dragging the white dust with his fingers to make his marks.

Ginevra said, quieter still, to the inquisitor, “Like the discomfort from his shirt, the malocchio pushes him further away from his humanity. We must try to bring back the part of him that donned it in the first place, sacrificed his own body to save the souls of his village.”

The thief picked up a loose cobblestone. “With this I will beat you on the head until you are willing.”

“Wait!” cried Ginevra. “Giancarlo di Sporco—this is what you called yourself in your spell? Giancarlo, your spell is made up. Written by charlatans. It’s a shame you didn’t ask me, before you tried it the first time. For I am a witch and could have given you a good spell, a genuine one.”

“You lie in your throat. There is no such thing as a witch.”

“I will prove it to you, jettatore, that I have the magic to change a person from one thing into another.”

The inquisitor gasped.

The thief scoffed at her, still clutching his cobblestone. “I am a wealthy and learned man; for months I studied secret texts. A low woman like you could not succeed where I have failed.”

“I speak the truth, Giancarlo. And I’ll wager you for our freedom that I can change you from one thing to another.”

“And when you fail, as sure as I wear the cilice, I will beat you and then leave you tied here to bake to death in the sun.”

The inquisitor peeked nervously at Ginevra through his fingers.

Ginevra swallowed against the nausea and the sting of the smoldering coral. Laughter to drive away misery. “Cilice? You wear no such hair shirt.”

“What?? Do you think I know not what shirt is upon my own body? That I am not every moment aware of its itching and chafing.”

“I tell you, you wear no such shirt.”

“What is this, then?” He rent apart his tunic and revealed the appalling garment.

“That is no shirt, but your own hairy belly!”

“You mock me! I will not stand these base insults. Look, obnoxious woman.” He dropped the cobblestone, and, for the first time in months, peeled the cilice from his skin and held it out, shaking it at her. “See, see-est thou!”

Ginevra choked at the stink of the garment, and replied, “And see-est thou—I have changed you from itchy to comfortable. A worthy spell, all can agree.”

The jettatore let out an involuntary “ha,” then clasped his hand over his mouth. And whether it was Ginevra’s small play of wit or simply the physical relief of being free from the tortuous hair shirt, Giancarlo suddenly recovered the small bit of himself that was not owned by the Eye, and the violent fiend plopped down upon the ground and began to sob.

“I did everything right,” he wailed. “I purified my mind and punished my body, followed every specification the book required. I prayed and prayed, but it mattered not. I am forsaken by God.”