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“No man, but look! Look here...” Once again, the inquisitor rifled through his papers.

“Aha! Here it is: Do you remember the rogue ward of Fra Simone da Cascia? She was exiled after the water sickness of 1340.”

The bishop shook his head incredulously. He knew what Michele was proposing. This was not what he had intended—having two annoying people to deal with instead of just one. All he had meant by this visit was to make sure the inquisitor was doing his job.

“You would entrust a woman and a convicted heretic with such an important task?”

“Don’t you recall?” said the inquisitor. “She moved among the sick without ever becoming afflicted.”

“It’s true, it was unnatural, but—”

“She kept a book of secret spells, too—it’s recorded here in her sentencing. Exactly the sort of person who could explain these strange bottles.”

“I can’t see how any of this matters,” said the bishop, examining his fingernails. “We punished her rather severely, as I recall. Why would she travel now, in these times, to help us?”

“Lord Bishop, wasn’t she in love with your nephew?” asked the inquisitor quietly.

The bishop’s silence answered the question.

“Well, let’s have him write to her, then?”

“He is already dead, along with his father. I am the only one left.”

“My condolences, Bishop, but does the lady need to know that before she gets here?”

Acciaiuoli opened his mouth to argue further, but stopped. If this was how the inquisitor wanted to handle the matter, fine. The woman was probably dead anyhow. And he did not want the Pope to hear he was standing in the way of an inquisitorial investigation. The relics would return, God willing, when the time was right. He had faith. So what did it matter to him who Michele hired in the interim? The bishop had more immediate problems requiring his focus.

So, he obligingly forged a letter in the hand of his late nephew, and hired a boy, Piero di Piero, to go and fetch Ginevra. The plague had taken both the child’s parents, and Piero had been moping about the piazza of Santa Reparata ever since, weeping and begging for food. It would be good for him to have something to do. He was a bit young for such a journey, but he was the only one the bishop could find that would not die along the way.

TEN

FRA MICHELE DI LAPO ARNOLFI

July 7th of 1348, City of Florence

And, just as the bishop predicted, Piero did not die. Still, nobody really expected Ginevra to show up, from such a distance, with only a boy as an escort. So when the pair arrived at the bishop’s residence just a fortnight after Piero was dispatched to Genoa, the Swiss mercenaries guarding his doors regarded them with suspicion. They conferred among themselves in their native tongue, and after a few minutes told the travelers to go meet with the inquisitor first.

A tight knot formed in Ginevra’s gut.

“But the bishop said he’d find a position for me if I delivered his letter!” Piero explained.

“After you drop her off,” said a soldier gruffly, slamming the palazzo doors.

Piero shrugged. “Come on, Ginevra. The inquisitor’s palazzo is just around the corner.”

“We are not expected. Someone has tricked us,” she said.

“I swear it was the bishop who sent me. He promised he would place me with a good family in exchange for delivering you. Come, let’s do what his man says.”

“No. Something isn’t right here.”

“Please, Ginevra, I can’t be alone anymore!”

She let herself be dragged to the inquisitor’s door. The lintel was inscribed let no man commit error in word or deed and painted in with gold foil. The gold was peeling.

“I’m going to knock,” said Piero.

“Wait—I need to think for a moment!”