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“Wife! What is this? The girl could not help?”

“Who knows, Husband. She has done nothing! Refuses to apply her remedies.”

Ginevra looked, hurt, toward Lady Aldobrandini, who averted her gaze. The wife could not admit she disobeyed her husband. Certainly not when it involved the survival of their child.

“Ungrateful girl,” spat Lord Aldobrandini, “did you think I brought you here to enjoy a meal and a warm place to sleep at my expense? Do you know how much money I send to Sant’Elisabetta every year? You would not have a home or a wage were it not for me!”

She wanted to respond that she would have much preferred her own bed and Taddea’s porridge to his kitchen floor. That she knew he only gave money to the convent because more than one of the bastards born there were his own. But she looked instead at the lady’s desperate eyes, and stood silent as he threatened to ruin her if she did not save his son. When his anger was spent, the lord assigned his clerk to remain in the chamber and make sure Ginevra did not leave until she had done what was expected. He then stormed back to his studio, where he could sob in private.

Ginevra knelt down by the boy on the opposite side of his bed from where Lady Aldobrandini was crouched in prayer. She placed her hand on the boy’s chest: his breath was slow, but his heart raced. She did not know how to cure him. It was too late for the river water. How stupid of her to come here. She looked across the room at the maestro’s wringing hands, now at her eye level. She hated him for the money he extorted from desperate people; wearing fine rings to attend a sick person just showed he never intended to lift a finger himself. Rings. On his pinkie, there was a blue-violet stone, transparent and deep, the color of the sky just before the sun has risen. She took out her book of notes and flipped through:

Here is the hyacinth, which will take your place in death.

Agnesa would be furious if she found out. But Ginevra was frightened of the Lord Aldobrandini. Trapped between the opposing wishes of two people, both with very real control of her fate, Ginevra made a choice. “Maestro—Maestro, give me your ring please?”

“My ring?” he sputtered with indignation. “It is a precious thing, delicate—”

“GIVE IT TO HER or I will see that you are cutting boils out of the assholes of beggars on San Pancrazio Street,” shrieked Lady Aldobrandini. The shocked physician handed over his jewel. Ginevra rested it on the child’s navel. She closed her eyes and placed two fingers on the gem, focusing all her energy toward it. For a minute, nobody said anything; the air in the room became completely still as though a window had just been closed. Then, vibrations, inside, outside, everywhere. Their teeth buzzed as if a lute were being strummed deep inside their bellies. The boy began to shiver and the relics fell from his forehead.

“Leave them, it’s alright,” said Ginevra when Lady Aldobrandini reached to replace the fallen bits of bone. “It’s better to not interrupt the stone.”

“What are you doing? What is that book?” asked Maestro Ficini, eyeing her notes.

“I am trying to remove his disease,” said Ginevra, not looking at him, not wanting to break her concentration.

“Such arrogance! To claim you can do things that only God can control.”

But Ginevra was not listening. All her efforts were focused on holding on to the ring. It shook now, so wildly that it sprung out of her hands and clattered to the floor.

The mother, the maestro, and the two servants all gathered round it: the stone had turned to black. The doctor let out an indignant gasp that turned into a screech of horror when Ginevra took it and threw it into the fireplace where it broke in half with a loud CRACK and evaporated, leaving the empty gold ring behind. The child sat up and looked around, confused by the gaggle of distressed adults that filled his room.

Ginevra was the first to notice him. Everyone else was still staring in amazement at the fireplace where the hyacinth exploded. “Hello, little one,” she said. “Welcome back.”

Lady Aldobrandini whipped around.

“Dama,” said Ginevra calmly, “you will have a bath made for your son, and then he will be like he was before and will not be sick again.”

The lady flew to her son and embraced him.

The maestro opened and closed his mouth like a dying fish. “My ring!” was all he could say. “My ring, my ring!”

Oh, no, oh, no, I have gone too far, Ginevra thought.

“Maestro—we will compensate you for the loss of your miraculous jewel,” said Lady Aldobrandini, wiping tears of relief from her eyes. She picked up the relics from where they had fallen, and made the sign of the cross over them.

“How, how, how??” yelled the maestro, crossing to Ginevra. “I have worn it for years and never has the stone performed thusly!”

The lady stood up between them. “You must be tired, Signorina Ginevra, you’d better go. Now.” She looked at her pointedly. Unspoken gratitude flowed between the two women.

The clerk stepped forward and took Ginevra’s arm, guiding her toward the door.

“I will ensure a proper payment is sent to Sant’Elisabetta,” said Lady Aldobrandini.

“Actually, there’s no need—” called Ginevra. But the clerk had already steered her out of the room.

TWENTY

SMARAGDUS