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Lucia stooped to pat the little cat who followed her pacing. Piero had not come to her with the bishop’s secrets, nor had Ginevra returned. She had spent one night alone and now another was approaching. She was afraid to leave her house lest she be discovered as not dead by the bishop. A gentle rapping at the door brought short-lived relief, but she opened it upon a blindfolded stranger.

“Who are you, then?”

“Dama Tornaparte? I am the relic thief, at your service. Monna Ginevra sent me.” He knelt and held up the heliodor.

Lucia slammed the door in his face. Then opened it a crack. He did have the heliodor. And he didn’t smell anymore.

“Where is she, then?”

The thief frowned. “Your bishop—”

It was all Lucia needed to hear. “Come inside. Quickly.”

Lucia sat rapt as Giancarlo told her all that had come to pass, of how Ginevra had taught him to bandage his evil eyes, how he had failed at his spell, and how the bishop of Florence had betrayed him and stolen the relics for his own self. Lastly, he told of his escape and how Ginevra and Fra Michele were now locked up together in the stinche.

A song floated on the evening air through the window, pausing their conversation.

King and miller, priest and nun

Last night they supped and drank their wine

Now bones are whitening in the sun

On dirt unturned, ’neath untamed vine

“I do not like that song,” said Giancarlo.

“Becchino!” cried Lucia, who leaped up and waved her arms from the window.

The gravedigger stopped his cart. “It’s Dama Dionysia! Pleased to see you alive and well—I thought you’d have drowned in a wine barrel by now.”

“Aha—yes, that was an interesting party. Listen, does your work take you to the stinche?”

“Sure, I go in every day or so to get the dead ones.”

“Can you carry messages as you carry the dead? To somebody held within the walls?”

“That depends—”

“I will pay for your discretion.”

“In that case, I am the trusted squire of your secrets. They’re expecting me tomorrow morning. What lucky debtor is getting a love letter?”

“Don’t be rude!” said Giancarlo from inside the house.

“Shh, it’s alright, it’s his way.” Lucia turned back to Becchino. “It’s my friend with the scar on her nose.”

“Interesting pair, you two. Sneaking around church altars and getting all drunk as monks. It’s no wonder she’s in the stinche. Only surprise is you’re not there with her!”

“Yes, well, my freedom depends on your discretion. You will come here first thing in the morning?”

“As it pleases you and, Dama, you might want to pack some food and drink for her as well. Those who sell food to the prisoners in regular times are all dead. There is but one guard and he doesn’t get around to cooking every day. A pie, if you can make one, is a good place to hide a message.”

On the splintery wooden floor of the stinche, Ginevra curled up and waited to die. It would come for her now, and it would be unpleasant. Without her coral, she was no more protected from plague than anyone else. From the smell and the dark stains on her straw pallet, she guessed the current plague was but one among many that contaminated the cell.

Giving her only dose of medicine to an inquisitor would be the last bad decision she made in a life full of nothing but. Why had she involved herself in this ridiculous scenario? To try and join a guild? She was a fool with a far-fetched plan and an impossible goal; she saw that clearly now. As if the truth of it was written on the moldy stones of her jail cell.

Already she felt unwell. Her stomach cramped, her head ached. But perhaps it was only despair she felt, not pestilence. Ah, well, if plague did not find her, she would be convicted as—what had the woman on the docks in Genoa been called, so long ago?—a witch and unrepentant heretic, and burned up. The malocchio had been lurking in the shadows since she was a child, and now it was close, and ready to pounce. She closed her eyes and remembered Vermilia asking her so long ago, What do you know? But her mind was blank. Her world was silent. The Nemesis stone did not tug at her hand. No golden strings played their notes of truth. Her luck, such as it was, had run out.