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“Good,” said Ginevra. “And besides, I have an idea.”

She turned back to the becchino. “We’ll pay, but I’m coming with you to make sure that she is buried properly where you say.”

The becchino shrugged. “As you wish, Dama.”

“Well, aren’t you going to put her into the cart?”

“Aren’t you going to pay me two florins?”

“Ugh. Rude man. We’ll be right back.”

He grinned a horrid grin. “I’ll wait.”

“Are you sure you want to go with him?” whispered Lucia once they were inside.

“I’m sure—he is one of the few who still goes about the city. He may know something about the thefts.”

“Ah! You are clever. Very well. I’m going to go to Santa Maria Novella to pray. I’ll see you back here this evening for supper?”

Ginevra was touched by the hopefulness in her voice. “Yes, I promise. And—since they are on your way anyhow—would you consider stopping in at Santa Reparata and the Baptistry?”

Lucia stiffened. “And what would you have me do there?”

“Just look, that’s all. It’s where the first two thefts took place, so you might see if there are any signs or clues, any more of these strange bottles...”

Lucia tried to think of an excuse, but really she couldn’t see the harm in simply walking into two churches in the middle of the afternoon. “Alright, since you are being so good as to accompany Antonella to San Paolino. I have no desire to see any more corpses.”

“Don’t look at the scaffolds at Santa Reparata, then.”

The women went back outside, embraced, and parted ways. Ginevra pressed two heavy gold coins into the becchino’s palm, then habitually felt for her coral pendant to make sure it was securely in place. A plague pit was no place to take chances.

The becchino hoisted dead Antonella into his cart with surprising speed, and then rolled along toward San Paolino. He said nothing as they walked, preferring to whistle the tune of his earlier song, including all sorts of trills and flourishy notes that made the melody inappropriately cheerful for the ghastly lyrics it accompanied.

“What is your name?” asked Ginevra, to make him stop whistling.

“You may call me to my face what you call me to my ass: I am the same as all who toil like me. For you, my name may be just Becchino.”

“Very well, Becchino. You know, it’s hard for some, to accept they are despised. But you do not seem to mind it?”

“Well, it is better not to be, when one has a choice, but I haven’t a choice. Because I was born a poor man, my existence was despised before I ever earned it. Now, at least, I do my best to earn it.”

“By singing perverted songs and cheating those in desperate situations?”

“Aren’t you a lofty one! I do a great service with my songs. Death comes for everyone. Mocking it is the only way to remove its sting.”

Ginevra thought about this. Laughter to drive away darkness, as Vermilia had taught her so long ago about the malocchio. “Alright, Becchino,” she answered. “But how does that explain your exorbitant billing practices?”

“Ah, yes. Well I am a bit greedy about it.”

Suddenly, Ginevra became aware of a low humming sound. “What’s that?”

“That’s the sound of the yard at San Paolino.”

“The sound?”

“You’ll see.” They rounded the corner. “Which spot is good enough for your friend?”

TWENTY-FIVE