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“What is happening?” said Fra Michele, still covering his eyes with his hands.

“I wore the shirt! I had not one, but two virgins. Woe, woe to me!”

“Um—there, there, it is not your fault,” called Ginevra. “Only God decides who is living and who is dead, and we cannot sway it.”

“It was not God, but I who brought death here. The plague came to San Romolo, potent and vicious! My whole life I have brought only misfortune! I heard what you called me—a jettatore—you are not the first. Before the plague struck anywhere else, it came here, in the late winter. My whole village, dead in a day! My mother, my father, and neighbors! All dead besides me... This is why your bishop would not help me in the end. I am cursed.”

“Wait, what did you say?” cried Fra Michele, still covering his eyes. “What about Bishop Acciaiuoli?”

“I went to him with my spell. Asked him to share the relics. He said it was a good idea! Gave me his blessing. Showed me a safe place to keep them, while we were gathering them together.”

“This is impossible,” said Fra Michele. “Impossible. I cannot believe it. The bishop is a learned, sensible man. He does not believe in such spells.”

“If the bishop said you could take what you needed, then why all the sneaking?” asked Ginevra.

“He said the people would not understand, that they would not approve.”

“Of course they wouldn’t! I don’t,” retorted an indignant Fra Michele.

“He said our relationship must be kept secret, that I must do it all on my own, so I had to go around and slink and ask for directions.”

“If you were to keep it secret, why did you shout your thefts from the ringhiera platform for all to know? Why if not to shock and scare Florentines? To cause panic and disorder?”

“I know not what you speak of. I did no such thing. I love all people. I left saint water in place of everything I took so nobody would be without divine protection.”

“Lies, lies from a thief. A jettatore! You have failed, so you seek to cast blame on someone other than yourself. A typical sinner,” said Fra Michele.

“No! I am many things, but I am no liar. Here is proof.” The thief took something out of his tunic and moved toward the bound prisoners at the well.

“Stop!” said Ginevra. Her coral glowed like a coal. It had never been exposed to a jettatore for so long before. The fabric of her dress beneath it was black and singed. “The malocchio still does its vile work through your eyes... Come no closer or you will burn me up!”

“Enough of my cursed gaze!” he wept. “If it is my eyes that bring this misfortune, then it is time I put out my eyes! I would rather be blind than see the misery I have caused.”

“Stop it!” said Fra Michele. “Stop crying! If your eyes are causing all this misery, then just put on a blindfold. That should work, right?” He turned toward Ginevra.

“I—I don’t know...but...I suppose it’s worth a try...before you go through the trouble of putting out your eyes, at least?”

Still weeping, Giancarlo nodded and ripped a piece off his tunic, binding it around his face. Immediately, Ginevra’s coral stopped burning and she felt as if a weight had been lifted in her chest.

“Did it work??” asked Giancarlo, spinning around in his new blindfold.

“I—I think so,” she said, gasping in relief at the release from pain. “Make sure it is tight, that you can see no daylight through the cloth.”

Giancarlo fumbled with the blindfold, pulling it down farther around his face, then strode toward the well, smacking right into it. He fell into a seated position, clutching his shins, then groped forward and at last untied the ropes that trapped Ginevra and Fra Michele.

The inquisitor gave a little squeal and leaped away, toward the jumble of relics, and prostrated himself before them.

Ginevra got up and stood over the thief, her strength returning. “Where is your proof, then?” He held up a silver key, surmounted by a lion rampant. The crest of the Acciaiuoli.

“Michele, do you recognize this?” Ginevra brought the key to him.

“It cannot be! The jettatore speaks the truth. That is the bishop’s personal key to the Baptistry!”

“It is where we kept the relics, the bishop and I. They needed a dignified hiding place.”

“You said he would not help you in the end,” said Ginevra. “Why?”

“He did not like when I broke the leg off San Miniato. He said that God had changed his mind, that it was no longer a good idea to make the Holy of Holies. He told me to return his key, but instead I shoved him, and ran to the Baptistry, took the relics that we hid together, and brought them back here with me to San Romolo. I never told the bishop where I lived, so I knew I had time before he would find me. You must understand: I had to complete the spell! It was the only way to save us all. God has not been listening to normal prayers.”