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Ginevra nodded, and sat down next to her. “I will wait with you.”

“So, where were you this morning?”

Ginevra took out the brooch and handed it to Lucia. “Ludovico left this for me.”

“‘Not my wife/But my life?’” Lucia read. “So he was not just your friend, then?”

Ginevra answered her with silence.

“It’s not so bad if you don’t read the words—it has this lovely jewel in the center.”

“It is an amber. Do you know what an amber does?”

Lucia shook her head.

“When put on the left breast of a sleeping woman, she must admit all her secrets—it’s used to make adulteresses confess.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way—”

“I ruined my life for an idiot,” said Ginevra.

“I think you should still wear it—the words are on the back anyhow. It’s a pretty thing.”

“It is yours, then, if you like it.”

“Fine. I’ll wear it for you until you want it back. And now the message means something nice... You’re not my wife, but you saved my life.”

Ginevra managed a faint smile as Lucia pinned the brooch to her shoulder.

“Do you think it would work on a man, too? Make him tell his secrets, I mean.”

Ginevra shrugged. “Probably. Whatever man wrote down the amber’s powers probably didn’t want his wife to know she could turn it right around on him.” The women fell into silence, and Lucia busied herself adjusting Antonella’s shroud. Ginevra needed to distract herself from the worst possible morning. So she gestured across the piazza and asked, “Do you know this church well?”

“Santa Trinita? Of course. It’s where I’ll be buried; my husband bought us a chapel inside. Though it’s dark and damp now since the last flood. Why?”

“What relics does it hold?”

“The most famous is the crucifix of San Giovanni Gualberto, who spared his enemy after receiving a kiss from Christ. It’s supposed to grant wishes if you pray to it correctly... You don’t think?”

“Why not?”

“It’s been locked for months, since the plague first started.”

“Let’s go and see anyhow—”

“I’m sure it’s safe—I have a wish on it!”

“Lucia, I must see the inquisitor the day after tomorrow, and so far I’ve found nothing to tell him. Won’t you come with me since you know the inside?”

Lucia thumbed the golden jewel she had just accepted. “Alright, but only if we’re quick. I don’t want to miss the becchini.”

Santa Trinita was fronted in plain brick, pierced by three arched doors that led into the sanctuary and aisles. All of which appeared quite locked. The women walked up to the central door and Ginevra gave it a gentle push. At her slight touch, the entire door fell inward and slammed down onto the hard floor. They screamed in tandem, but there was not a soul around to hear the noise or chastise them for the damage.

Shaking her head, Ginevra stepped lightly over the fallen door and into the sanctuary, Lucia following timidly. Light poured through high windows onto mismatched murals and cracked stone floors that showed fantastical beasts rendered in black and white. It smelled of mildew, and dark stains crept up the walls—damage from the flood Lucia had mentioned. The flaking eyes of the holy martyrs and their painted benefactors did not appear to welcome them. Lucia stopped at the stone font and filled a small flask with holy water, tucking it back into her purse. “This way,” she said, leading them toward the chapel of San Giovanni Gualberto. “Look! It is still here. I told you so.” She pointed to a small sculpture: Dying Christ carved in ivory on a cross of gold, the points studded with shining red carbuncles.

“Lucia,” said Ginevra, “what is meant to be below the crucifix?”

Upon a velvet pillow was a tiny bottle, filled with a deep green liquid.