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“Foolish? There could be no quest more sensible! To rescue the items that protect our citizens, give sanctity to our churches, and a soul to our city!”

“I know what a relic is, Inquisitor. I’ll not send my last healthy men on a long journey to an infected town. This theory is rather fantastical, you must admit.”

“But...the bottles! The moonless nights! The saint made of saints!”

“Please, Michele, a saint made of saints? You sound ridiculous. But still, I agree your Ginevra should at least go. As inquisitor, you must be thorough. On the small chance she finds something in San Romolo, she can report back, and I promise you’ll have my men at your disposal.”

“But...we need our relics back as soon as possible! That is the whole point.”

The bishop put down his bread. “You don’t think I know that? That I do not pray they will return, reveal themselves to the individual they deem most worthy?”

“Yes, such a thing would be the greatest of miracles. But to be stingy with resources now? When we have identified the criminal? Every moment they are in his custody, they are in danger of unholy violation—”

“Enough! Enough.” The bishop wiped his mouth and stood up, walking over to the inquisitor. “Michele, let us speak as men to each other: I have indulged you for some weeks now. I helped you bring back a most strange investigator. I understand how it is. It is a hard time and, frankly, you’ve been drinking too much, so you needed the help. But now, do you see what pathetic result it has come to? You really can’t expect me to use my personal resources to solve your problem.”

“Indulge me? Signore, you insult me! I will not leave until—”

“Control yourself!” said Bishop Acciaiuoli, slamming a fist down on the table so hard that his plate leaped off and shattered on the floor. “You forget it is I to whom you owe your position—and do you know why I nominated you? I chose you because I thought you would shut up and respect your place, unlike your predecessor. But you’ve been nothing but a fly buzzing around my face. Make the strange Ginevra go by herself. That was your plan, wasn’t it? To have her do the job for you? I’ve extended myself enough on your behalf.”

“Why will you not help me, Bishop?”

“Michele, you had better go home before the miasmas get to you. It’s only a matter of time, with how widely you open your mouth. You know the way out.”

Inquisitor Michele turned on his heel, leaving red and furious. As he hurried out, he bumped into a nun clutching a broken crystal orb.

“YOU—” said Ginevra as the inquisitor burst back through his own door. She had worked herself up. Yelling at an inquisitor would be the only redemption she would gain from this long and futile journey. She gesticulated wildly as she spoke. “You make a fool of yourself, like the chicken who sits at the back of the butcher stall, watching the other chickens get their necks wrung and thinking it will never happen to him. They ran the last inquisitor out of town. They will do it to you—”

The inquisitor grabbed her wrist, which was wagging a pointed finger in his direction. “I am NOT a chicken. And YOU. You were right. The bishop will not help us on our journey, insisted that you go alone. And so we must discover the answers for ourselves. Too long I have left my work to others. Woman, we go to San Romolo. Right now. If I die, I die inquisiting.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIS JEWEL IS MAGIC

July 11th of 1348, City of Florence

Lucia sat alone in her dim palace, wondering if this was what the rest of her life would be like. Her hangover had faded to a dull nausea where both eating and not-eating seemed equally bad. Her spirits lifted at a knock upon her door. Finally! Ginevra had returned. But when she opened the door, there was only a young boy wearing the uniform of the bishop’s page.

“Excuse me, Lady, are you a ghost?”

“What? No. I’m not dead! I am alive and this is my house. Why does everyone think I should be dead?”

“Oh...well, then, are you a friend of Ginevra di Genoa, who walks through pestilence but will never be ill?”

“Who has said this of me?”

The boy smiled. “I’m Piero di Piero. I’m her friend, too. But my master, the bishop, he is not—I must speak to her before she leaves for San Romolo.”

“San Romolo?” said Lucia. “Where they make the chicken plates?”

Piero shrugged.

“Come in and tell me everything.”

They went into the garden, where it was coolest, and Piero explained it was he that fetched Ginevra all the way from Genoa. The bishop was impressed that he managed to bring her back all by himself without dying, and immediately hired him as a servant. Piero had meant to find Ginevra and tell her, but he hadn’t known where she was staying until that very afternoon.

A nun came to the bishop’s palazzo, and she complained that Ginevra used magic to try to heal another older nun. But the magic didn’t work, and the older nun died and now their holy bread relic was missing. The bishop told the complaining nun that Ginevra had run off to San Romolo, but not to worry, he already knew she was stealing relics and had a plan to arrest her when she came back. He said his guards were stationed at the Porta San Niccolo to get her. Piero knew it could not be true, that Ginevra would not hurt a nun or take their bread, and the complaining nun had mentioned that Ginevra had taken over the house of the Tornaparte, where everyone was dead, which is why Piero took Lucia for a ghost.

Lucia’s head reeled. “Why would she go to San Romolo? What else did you hear?”