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“What do you make of this, then?” asked Ginevra, mind racing. “At Sant’Elisabetta the bread was replaced not with a flask, but this scrap of parchment with a smudge upon it.”

He held the parchment up to the light, then placed it next to the bottles. The tips of his fingers fluttered against his lips. “He leaves something to replace that which he has taken.” He picked up a lavender-colored vial and before Ginevra could so much as utter a warning, he broke its seal and poured a drop onto his finger. He touched it with the tip of his tongue.

“Inquisitor! Stop, drunk fool!”

“Pah. He has added only water. Plain water, poured into bottles and stained by chance from their prior use.”

“How can you know this?”

“Our thief, our penitent jettatore, he needs our relics for his ritual, but leaves third-class relics, created by pouring water over the bones, or in this last case, he must have rubbed a bit of the holy blood onto a piece of parchment. Water would have dissolved the bread.”

“I don’t understand—”

“It’s standard, really,” said the inquisitor, growing excited at his discovery. “A way to make many relics from one. If water is poured over a relic, some of the relic’s power is transferred to the water, though of course the power is less potent than that of the original. But I’m confused—to leave behind these vials, then, is an act of kindness. He is returning a bit of what he has taken. But never mind that now—what will he do with our city’s treasures, now that his composite saint is complete?”

“We must find the answer in San Romolo,” said Ginevra.

The inquisitor nodded. “I will inform the bishop at once. He must send men to recover them. San Romolo is less than a day’s walk from here.”

Ginevra’s coral grew cold upon her chest. She looked at the inquisitor with incredulity. “You have let me do all the work. You have let me do the work, and now the two of you will claim you found the relics, and say I did not fulfill our contract!”

“Don’t insult me! You’ll get what we agreed on—a pardon on your exile, and a recommendation to start your business. If, of course, they are in San Romolo.”

Ginevra did not like this one bit—she remembered from her arrival in Florence the Swiss mercenaries the bishop kept at his door. These were not men she trusted to recoup fragile items from a jettatore. They were bloodthirsty soldiers-for-hire known for their brute strength, not for their finesse. And her future hopes hung upon the relics’ intact return.

“Inquisitor, please. We have come to our most delicate step. We know not what this jettatore means to do with your relics. What will happen if soldiers arrive and he is in the middle of his ritual?”

“They will poke him with knives and tie him up, I suppose?”

“But this man is a jettatore. He knows how to turn iron to rust! He could probably just look at them and their blades would fall out of their handles.”

Inquisitor Michele shrugged. “Then the mercenaries will use their fists to overpower him. This is one man against many. I do not see what you are so concerned about.”

“Ser Inquisitor, you must understand that the malocchio that is living inside the thief feeds on anger. The bishop’s men will be full of it. Surely this twisted creature, in his cilice, must be approached more gently.”

“Monna. This is something that requires arms first and compassion later. A show of physical force. Then after, forgiveness. This is how things are done. I will tell the bishop to send his soldiers to San Romolo, and he will see how wrong he was to think I could not solve this crime.”

“So that’s it, then,” said Ginevra, disgusted with herself for trying to reason with an inquisitor. “THAT’s what this is all about? Proving yourself superior to the bishop? He will not take kindly to that.”

“Womanish worries only. It is natural for you to be frightened, but don’t be. I’ll be right back from the bishop’s. Wait here. I don’t think he likes you very much.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

NOT A CHICKEN

July 11th of 1348, the Residence of the Bishop

Bishop Acciaiuoli was staring at his lunch, served on one of his favorite plates. The plate was painted with the image of a young woman riding some sort of fantastical eel-looking creature. A limited edition from the famed kilns of San Romolo. Normally, he looked forward to the moment when his food was finished, the tantalizing image fully visible. Today, though, it was hard for him to eat at all. His plan to recoup funds for his bank had taken a turn for the worse. Autumn was not far away. The plague would withdraw, as all plagues did with the cold, and his shareholders would resume their hounding. All this was in his mind when the beaming and quick-talking inquisitor arrived, wrapped head to toe in fragrant linens. But as the inquisitor went on, the bishop became more and more interested.

“Let me see if I understand: you believe the relic thief is the man who makes pottery in San Romolo?” He pushed aside a bit of his lunch, and eyed the eel-woman’s green legs clutching violet scales.

“Yes. And I believe he has stolen all he means to steal, so may be returning back to his home.”

The bishop shook his head and resumed eating.

“Well, anyhow, haste is of the utmost import, we must intercept him before our relics are subject to unholy ritual—we must pray we are not already too late! If your guard leaves now, they can make it there early in the day tomorrow.”

“No,” said Acciaiuoli between bites. “But, have the woman go on her own. I’ll not risk my men on this foolish journey.”