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“Are...are there many of you who go around like this?”

“Too much asking questions, not enough drinking wine,” said Lorenzo, filling a cup and shoving it toward Lucia.

“Pshh, don’t be rude,” responded Maria. She turned to Lucia. “At first, there were many, yes, and we would all go around together, but our numbers dwindle as... And, of course, if somebody is from one of the dead parishes, we must shun them for our own safety, though it is a pity.”

“Ah, well,” said Lorenzo. “More for us.” He picked up the wine jug and drained it, then engaged Maria in a passionate bout of kissing that Lucia found quite fascinating.

“Sorry, darling,” said Maria, noticing her stare. “What were you saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything,” answered Lucia awkwardly. “You were talking about how everyone you know is dying?”

They continued kissing and Lucia sensed she was failing at her mission of making friends.

“I’ll go refill the wine!” she said (a strategy used since time immemorial to defuse uncomfortable situations). She tried her best not to engage the lecherous monk and the leerers who sat by the barrels, and managed to get her next jug with only loud squelchy kissing noises from her tormentors. Maria and Lorenzo smiled politely when she came back with the full pitcher.

“I’m sorry,” said Lucia, sitting back down. “I didn’t mean to be unpleasant. It’s just...you see, all my acquaintances are gone, and I’ve been staying in my house, so I don’t know how people are talking of these things.”

Maria sighed. “Who knows what to say or to do in times like these? It’s supposed to be the Lord’s punishment, but I see holy men and women struck down the same as the most abominable whores.”

“It is true,” said Lucia, thinking of her maid Antonella, who was a poor, devout virgin.

“I am inclined,” said Lorenzo, who was slumping lower and lower on his bench as the effects of the wine jug manifested, “to agree with the greatest minds of our day, at the University of Paris.”

“Porco Dio, here it comes again,” said Maria to Lucia with a knowing wink. “There’s no stopping him on this one.”

“On March 20, 1345,” stated the couple in unison, Lorenzo seriously, and Maria in jest. He scowled good-naturedly at her and, with a gracious nod, she allowed him to continue on his own:

“Ahem, as I was saying, on March 20, 1345, the doctors at Paris have confirmed there was a triple conjunction of Saturn, Jupiter, and Mars in the fortieth degree of Aquarius.” He attempted to give Lucia a grave stare, but his eyes were a bit out of focus so he looked more fool than wise man.

“I... I’m sorry,” said Lucia, suppressing a giggle. “I’m not well-versed in astrology. Tell me, what did this observation portend?”

“It made the earthquakes and floods that have bothered us these past years, it made the famines. And they determined that these shakings and quakings released the poisoned air we must now breathe, and this is the cause of the pestilence.” He smacked his hand down onto the table, rattling their cups.

Now Lucia was genuinely intrigued. She had not heard anyone, not even Ginevra, who knew so many things, provide a rational answer to the question of why the pestilence had come to them. Of course, as Maria had mentioned, the clergy said it was a manifestation of God’s wrath, but they said that any time something bad happened.

Maria saw the impressed look on Lucia’s face. “Don’t you listen to anything this drunk fool tells you.”

Lorenzo swiped his hand disdainfully, too stupefied by wine to provide a more articulate rebuttal.

“Well,” said Lucia, “regardless of whether it was earthquakes or floods or something else, I am at least glad to have met the two of you.” This was true, not just flattery in service of her secret task. Even though she knew they were robbers.

“Thank you, darling, likewise.” The two women clinked cups across Lorenzo. Maria’s cheeks were flushed now, and she was on her way to joining her man in his reduced state. Lucia settled more into her surroundings. She remained clearheaded and felt pleasant, and realized that the amethyst was hardly needed. Between her clumsiness and Lorenzo’s thirst, she’d barely consumed any alcohol. Even still, she tongued it in her cheek to check it was safe, and decided the time was right to begin her inquiries in earnest.

“Tell me, Maria, who besides myself is the newest to enjoy your company? What other sorts of stragglers have been hiding away in their homes like me?”

“Hmmm...there have not been so many... Actually, most here were known to us before the pestilence. You said you live in Santa Croce? Who is your baker?”

“I was not in the town often, my husband did not like me to go about,” Lucia offered a bit too quickly. “He certainly would not approve of me visiting Alle Panche. But! I don’t have to listen to him now.”

“Huzzah!” Maria clinked cups with her again. “Oh. Sorry. Is he dead?”

“No, just fled.”

“Well then, huzzah!”

“Thank you! So, I’m the only stranger you’ve met lately?” she pressed.

“Well, not the only one. Who was that guy, Lorenzo? He wore a rough cloak—definitely not a Florentine. Who knows how he got in.”