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“He is the mud, then, that worms crawl through. Do not waste your thoughts on him.”

Lucia spit the amethyst into her palm and drained the rest of the claret straight from the bottle.

“Ginevra, right before Worm Mud interrupted me, the people I was speaking to...they said that the theft of Tommaso’s relic had already been shouted from the piazza. How could that be when we only just discovered it?”

Ginevra stirred her bubbling pot, thinking. “It has to be somebody with prior knowledge of the crimes. The thief must want everyone to know of his misdeeds. The city has stopped the processions, so he spreads the word himself.”

THIRTY

THE APOTHECARY AT THE TWIN JANUS

July 9th of 1348, City of Florence

Dawn came and Ginevra decanted her noxious brew into a jar, and dropped in the two bloodstones. The viscous liquid foamed, then settled, and she placed a lid, purposefully askew, atop it. Lucia, too bothered by her encounter at Alle Panche to have gone to sleep, watched her with puffy eyes from across the table.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Give it an hour, maybe less. It will become clear and golden, and then it is ready.”

But an hour came and went, and then two, and it was still a frothy, fizzy mess.

“I don’t think it’s working,” said Lucia unhelpfully.

“It must be because it’s so hot out,” said Ginevra. “It just needs a bit longer.” In truth, she was beginning to doubt that her gutter kitten was an effective substitute for a rare lynx.

“Come on, let’s go,” Ginevra said, tired and frustrated and impatient for progress in any of her current endeavors.

“Where?”

“To the crooked apothecary that Becchino knew. To see if he stocks the relics of Florence on his shelves. By the time we’re back, this will be ready and I’ll bring it to Zenobia.” So they rushed out the door, bringing Lucia’s rock-hard bread along for breakfast. Business hours were always ephemeral in Florence, and now finding a shopkeeper at his post could nearly be considered a miracle. Either way, he was certain to be shut up by midday. As they walked, they took the bread from their purses and tried to eat. Ginevra nearly broke a tooth before throwing her piece down in the street. Lucia pretended not to see and ate the whole thing out of vanity.

The twin Janus head identifying the shop was not easily found; they walked past it three times before noticing it carved into a wooden lintel above the partially sunken door frame, steps leading down to it from the street.

“Lucia, let me speak first,” said Ginevra quietly.

Lucia nodded blearily. Her head ached and her mouth was dry from the terrible bread. She just wanted the whole meeting over as quickly as possible so she could go to bed. They walked down to the sunken door and before they could even knock, a small peephole, disguised within the grain of the wood, opened and a pair of black eyes with drooping lids appeared. The eyes looked them up and down.

“How can I help, ladies?”

“Ser Apothecary?” said Ginevra. “You were recommended to us by a friend, as one who provides useful articles for pilgrims?”

The peephole shut and the door opened to reveal an ancient man with puffs of white hair clinging haphazardly to an otherwise bald head. His robes were dirty with grease spots of many a meal, and his fingers were crooked with arthritis. There was an odor that reminded Ginevra of the Genoese port for a moment, and she realized the source was an entire anchovy dried into his beard.

She looked over his shoulder and saw the shop was as derelict as the proprietor: dark, damp, and smelling of moldy earth. She saw a few jars of pale powders, the ink on their parchment labels now faded to illegibility. The stacks of comfits had melted into one large sticky mass, and the ubiquitous bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling were now anchors for cobwebs that spanned the width of the room. The decayed condition of the goods ruined their intended illusion; none of them were meant to be sold. They were only a lazy disguise so the apothecary could conduct his true business: the buying and selling of “holy relics.”

“Good afternoon, signoras, good afternoon,” he said, the anchovy jiggling precariously as he spoke. “What brings you to me?”

“We’re new to the city, pilgrims from Genoa,” Ginevra said, knowing she could not hide her accent from a man used to travelers. “We’d like to see as many of the Florentine saints as possible. Do our part in getting the pestilence lifted, you know?”

“Genoa?” he asked, raising a dusty eyebrow. “I would not be too loud about that, my dear, seeing as the sick came first to your city, after the earthquake. I myself am not afraid of such things, but it is a surprise that they let you in!”

“All the gatekeepers are dead, it seems,” explained Lucia.

The apothecary tutted for a whole minute. “What’s the point of paying all these taxes, dealing with all these municipal regulations if they can’t even keep the damn door shut?” He stopped talking, narrowing his eyes until they disappeared under the drooping lids. “How did you say you found out about me?”

“Others on the road. They said you are known to help pilgrims like ourselves by providing—guidance—in how best to keep our journey blessed.”

“Others on the road, hmmm?” he repeated.