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“I know,” she said, finally, “that I am not the sort of woman that would—excite the admiration of your family.”

“Which is precisely why I am excited about you.”

“You are excited here in this dark room, when nobody is around to know about us.”

“Yes, very,” he answered, and began to let his hands wander anew.

“Please, I’m being serious—”

Ludovico squeezed her tight to him and kissed the top of her head. “I know, I know you are. You are my life. Do not doubt it. I will find a way.”

Ginevra curled into the crook of his arm, afraid to utter another word, afraid to show her happiness, for it was so great she was sure it would scare him away if he knew the extent of his powers.

She slipped back through the gate of Sant’Elisabetta just before the city’s curfew began, and nearly jumped out of her skin at Taddea standing by the door, wringing her hands.

“What are you doing here?” asked Ginevra, still angry from their earlier conversation.

“Waiting for you—I’m supposed to tell you to go to Sister Agnesa’s cell straightaway.”

“What for? What has happened?”

“Ginevra, don’t be upset—I was worried about you—I told her how you and Ludovico Acciaiuoli have become...particular friends—”

“How could you?? This will ruin everything—”

Taddea turned red in the face. “It is for your own good.” She walked away toward their shared room and, fuming, Ginevra went to Agnesa’s cell.

She knocked and entered. “Taddea knows not of what she speaks—”

“Ginevra—you’re a fool if you’ve allowed an Acciaiuoli to charm you. But I cannot chastise you tonight. I don’t have the heart—child, bad news has found its way to us. My dear cousin, your teacher...” She covered her mouth with her hand and held out a letter. Ginevra knelt beside her and read:

For my Ginevra,

Your mother and father send you their love and say they pray for you daily and look with joy toward the day you may be reunited.

And I, Vermilia, say to you what you have long known—dear one, my time is now, as the stone told me, and you shall not hear from me again. Be glad for me; I am curious to know the broader reaches of God’s kingdom as I have known His earth.

I send you the ring, which told me of my hour. It is the last gem I kept, but I need it no longer. It has diverse powers, only a few of which have been revealed to me. Perhaps you may divine more. What I do know is that each of the stone’s powers may be used but once. So do not bother asking it for your death date—I have already drained it of that ability.

I have saved the ring for you for another reason: because you are prone to act on instinct, without considering consequences. If you find yourself in danger after offending the wrong person, this stone can help. It has the power to change even the most stubborn minds. This is my last gift to you, who has been so willing a pupil, when I had no daughter of my own.

The letter ended with a note from the monk, saying he would not be transcribing any further correspondence from Ginevra’s parents, as he could not bear to be reminded of his sweet Vermilia. Ginevra held the parchment in both hands, staring at it, willing the letters to rearrange themselves into any other message. All the years she had been in Florence, she had never once tried to go home. The letters had tricked her—they had kept coming and given her a false security that—that what? That Vermilia would live forever?

Into her hand, Agnesa placed Vermilia’s ring, set with its orange gem, engraved with a winged woman atop a wheel. Ginevra knew now, from her studies, that the stone was jasper, and the winged woman was Nemesis, pagan goddess of retribution. She turned it over and saw a Greek spell carved on its reverse, where it would touch the flesh of whoever wore the ring. She placed it on her left hand, as Vermilia had worn it, and left the room. Agnesa, face buried in her hands, did not try to stop her, though she still closely guarded the rest of Ginevra’s inherited stones.

In her own room, Ginevra lay down on her stomach, shoved her face into her bedding, and sobbed. Taddea came over and apologized profusely for snitching about Ludovico; Ginevra did not bother to correct her by explaining the true meaning behind her tears. Her time with Ludo in his beautiful room seemed a thousand years past. How could one day contain such joy and such sorrow?

SEVENTEEN

LUCIA, TORN APART

July 7th of 1348, City of Florence,

the Palazzo Tornaparte

Lucia awoke, alone in her room. A sinking sun cast long shadows through her narrow window, shutters open to the outside for the first time in many weeks. She wondered if she was dead, but if that were so, she’d be in hell since nobody had heard her last confession, and surely hell would be worse than her own empty room. Slowly, her brain separated the weird fever dreams from reality. She remembered her husband’s cruel departure and her wordless promise, made earlier that afternoon, to a woman who listened to goats. Was that stranger still in her house? She touched her throat. The hated swellings were gone.

She found she had strength to prop up onto her elbows, and noticed several pleasant changes had occurred while she slept. Most obviously, the body of her maid and bucket of vomit were gone. Poor Antonella! She was a hopeless cook and a worse maid, but she had been kind and well-meaning. Lucia looked down and saw she was sleeping in her wedding sheets.