Page 72

“What were you thinking?” asked Ginevra for the fifth time.

“I’m sorry. I told you, I thought I was helping,” was all Lucia could answer.

“The selenite—perhaps that was my fault. But my bloodstones—gone due to your carelessness. And still, after all this, you take more of my stones without asking, you lose another precious gem.”

“Please, my head aches so. I told you I am sorry.”

“So you said. You’re sure of what you saw at San Miniato, what you felt? What you smelled?”

“I told you, I am certain. Please, I must go lie down.”

“Tell me again. I want to make sure I understand all the details clearly.”

“I told you, a man dissolved the iron mesh of the tomb of Miniato and stole his leg. He poured liquid into this bottle and left it in the tomb. Then he came close to me, and I became overwhelmed by his stench—like a dead dog left in the gutter. It made me so cold I thought I might die.”

“You were a fool to approach him. Lucia—this thief is a jettatore. I’m sure of it now. The cold you felt confirms it. You are very lucky. The darkness of night protected you from his cursed gaze—I think the plague must be drawn to him. This is why everyone is dead in the parishes he visits, not because the relics are stolen.”

“He must have given it to me again. I have never felt so low.” Lucia buried her throbbing head in her arms on the kitchen table.

“It’s not the plague. It’s the wine.”

“You might have warned me that would happen, if I swallowed the stone.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were going to steal it to compete in a drinking contest.”

“I told you, I didn’t plan on the contest. It just happened.”

Ginevra scoffed.

Lucia changed the subject. “What of the little girl, then? Did you go to her? Was there enough medicine to help?”

“I—I don’t know if it was enough. She died the night before I arrived, while we sat on your roof, gossiping and eating salami.”

“Oh, Ginevra, I’m so sorry. If only I hadn’t ruined everything.”

Ginevra said nothing, and began flipping through the apothecary’s guidebook of saints. “San Miniato is not listed in here.”

“Because the book is only the Divine Nine. I told you—”

“Stop saying I told you!” Ginevra swept the book off the table in frustration. As it flew, a sheet of accordioned paper unfolded from the back cover and trailed behind the volume like the tail of a comet.

The women looked at each other. Neither of them had noticed this feature. Ginevra picked it up.

“What does it say?” asked Lucia.

“It is a poem.” She held the book vertically, so the hidden sheet hung down, and read out loud:

Good Pilgrim

If you have some extra time

After all the Divine Nine

Or should a priest stop you and say

The Baptistry is Closed Today

Or Crowds are too great, for your taste