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“All the gatekeepers are dead,” offered Lorenzo without lifting his head from the table.

“How do you know he was foreign?” asked Lucia.

“Well, he asked lots of stupid questions, about how to get around the city, which churches were the best—” Lucia’s ears pricked up.

“And he stank like he was from the country,” said Lorenzo from the table. “Awful. Wouldn’t look you in the eye. Gave me the chills just to be near him. Could practically see my breath.”

“Do you think he was from a dead parish?” asked Maria, crossing herself.

“No—although, did you hear?” said Lorenzo.

“Hear what?” asked Lucia.

“Santa Maria Novella is missing its San Tommaso finger—it was shouted from the ringhiera this afternoon. Another relic switched for a bottled potion. Another parish, dead.”

Lucia was stunned. How could this be known? When she discovered the theft of Tommaso, she had taken the bottle with her. Had one of the other women seen her take it? “Shouted by whom?” she asked.

Before either could answer her, another man sat down roughly on their bench. The disheveled drunk, from over by the wine barrels. He reached his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly to him. Lucia struggled to keep her face away from his wine breath.

“Hello, Maria, Lorenzo.” He grinned across the table. “Why are you keeping such a fine young thing to yourselves?”

“Hello, Bertoldo,” said Maria dryly. “You know fine young things need no prompting to keep away from you. Why don’t you let go of her? The poor girl is wriggling like a caterpillar.”

“Yes, I insist you let go of me!” cried Lucia with as much dignity as she could muster.

“But it is a game. The more she struggles, the tighter my hold! If she becomes gentle and gives me a kiss, I’ll set her free.”

In Lucia’s whole life, no man had touched her besides her own husband. She pushed with all her strength, but he was large and she was small, and she could not get away. In response to her shoving, he squeezed her so hard she thought her chest might crack. He laughed at the little squeal that escaped her involuntarily. Maria stood up to put a stop to it, but Lucia could not take the pain any longer so she did what the man asked and gave him a dry peck on the cheek.

Bertoldo released his grip and Lucia fell onto the floor, gasping. “See,” he sneered, “that wasn’t so unpleasant, was it?”

“Bertoldo, you slimy goat, say you’re sorry,” scolded Maria. “You’ve hurt her!”

But Lucia had had enough for one evening, and gave up her plans of learning more about the stinky peasant and the person who announced thefts from the ringhiera. “Goodbye, Maria. Goodbye, Lorenzo,” she whispered, and fled toward the door.

“What’s the matter, my sweetest heart?” called Bertoldo after her.

Lucia held her tears as long as she could, but when she was far enough away from the tavern, she wept at how such a low man had ruined her plans and gained mastery of her. Overcome by emotion, she forgot to be afraid of the black night outside the light of the heliodor she carried, and her sobbing gave a terrible scare to a few people who were on their way to Alle Panche and could hear but not see her. Lucia tried to compose herself before she reached her home, but her face was still red and puffy and was noticed immediately by Ginevra, who was at the fire stirring her nasty pot.

“You’re back so quickly, what happened?” she coughed through the acrid steam. “Are you hurt??”

“Just my pride,” said Lucia, who plopped down next to the kitten and relayed her misadventures.

“We should have waited and gone together,” said Ginevra. “I knew it.”

“I was doing so well, too! I was talking to people, they said there was a man who smelled awful and made everyone cold and asked directions to churches—”

“Cold?” said Ginevra quickly. “This man made them cold? In the summer?”

But Lucia was not listening. “Ohhh, what have I done? My brothers would murder me if they knew. I can’t believe you let me go there by myself.”

“I didn’t let—never mind. Lucia: your brothers, be they living, won’t find out because nobody will tell them. You’ve never had to go places by yourself—I’m sorry to say that every woman who does is accosted like that from time to time. But the fact is a lady on her own, as you are now, will inevitably have to fend off a man at some point.”

“It was humiliating.”

“This Bertoldo is the lowest worm.”

“It is unkind to worms, to compare them to Bertoldo.”