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Fra Michele was allowed, on account of his status, to roam the whole giant cube of the prison building, and stood in front of the locked door of Ginevra’s cell, speaking to her through the bars. “Ginevra, Ginevra, forgive me, I’ve brought this whole mess upon you.”

She answered from her place on the floor. “It’s alright, Michele. Death comes for us all.” She held no ill will for him. She was too tired.

“Don’t die yet,” he tried to joke. “We still have work to do.”

She rolled over and remained stoic with her back to him.

Michele continued to speak, anyway. “I never liked the bishop but I didn’t think he was evil. Disagreement in politics is a healthy thing, for the commune. I know times are strange but to collude with a thief...and what will he do with our relics now that he has them?”

He muttered like this all night outside Ginevra’s door, talking about how he would write a letter to the Pope and all would be settled, even though he knew it would take weeks to get there, and that the Pope had sided with the bishop in the expulsion of the last inquisitor. After hours of monologizing, he grew tired of Ginevra’s silence, but when he drew breath to admonish her properly he saw that she was not being obstinate but was overtaken by great black swellings rising at her throat.

The jailer gave Fra Michele access to her cell, so he could perform last rites. He who had been too afraid to serve his constituents now rested Ginevra’s head on his lap as her breathing became more labored, and helped her as the spasms of vomiting came and went. This is how Becchino found them in the morning.

“Ah—Ser Inquisitor, bad luck, eh? One day, you’re sending sinners to the stinche, the next day you yourself are a sinner in the stinche—”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve come for the lady Ginevra.”

“She’s not dead yet. Perhaps tomorrow.”

“In that case, she might like this? Sent from her friend, the Dama Tornaparte.”

Fra Michele placed Ginevra’s head gently down upon the filthy pallet. He went to the bars, and was passed a lumpy pie, the burnt head of an eel poking through the crust, and a bottle of wine.

“I don’t think she can eat much.”

“Well, if I was you, I’d still open that pie immediately, best fresh, you know.”

“I don’t need a gravedigger telling me about pies,” he said, uncorking the wine with his teeth and taking a big swig.

“What I’m trying to say, dense sir, is there might be more than eels in this pie.”

“OH. Oh. I see. I see. I will eat it right away, then. Carefully.”

“Now you’ve got it. Enjoy. I’ll be back the day after next to collect the lady.”

The jailkeeper walked by on his rounds, and Becchino hurried away.

Fra Michele knelt back by Ginevra and inexpertly poured wine down her throat, which made her choke and sputter but raised her from her stupor a little bit. “Look!” he said, breaking the pie apart once the jailkeeper was out of earshot. “You have a message from a Signora Tornaparte—do you know her? She says that Giancarlo is with her.”

Ginevra smiled weakly at the news. It hurt too much to talk.

The inquisitor read the letter in hushed tones, one eye out for the jailer. It detailed how Piero was to spy on the bishop. Ginevra stirred at Piero’s name—he had not left her! He had been trying to find her! Fra Michele took a huge bite of the pie. He yelped in pain and spat out a mouthful of eel bits, a broken tooth, and two little green stones speckled in red. He held them out in wonder.

“What sort of eel part is this?”

Ginevra’s eyes opened: How could she have forgotten? It was a plain truth that fish dearly love to eat magic jewels. Lucia’s eels must have swallowed the bloodstones when the medicine jar exploded over their well! She forced herself up on the rough boards, took the stones from Fra Michele, and pressed them against her throat until the golden strings hummed and the air filled with vibrations. But her hands were too weak and she kept dropping them. Fra Michele put them back and held his own hands flat against hers, all the way through the spasms and twitching that followed. This way the bloodstones stayed in place until their magic forced the sickness out and she puked up a great black glob and fell asleep. He whispered into her unconscious ears that if this was not the magic of God, then nothing was, and swore he would do everything in his power to see that she was admitted to the Guild of Doctors, Apothecaries, and Grocers.

FORTY-FOUR

THE SLEEPING BISHOP

Night, July 12th of 1348,

the Bishop’s Chamber

Piero’s master returned from his night away in a very good mood and with a brand-new donkey. After supper, as was usual, Piero lay down on his truckle pallet on the floor of the bishop’s chamber. As was not usual, in the dark hours of the early morning, he crept over to the grand platform bed and eased back the curtains, staring hard into the dark until the shape of a person could be discerned upon the silk sheets. The bishop lay on his back, his face stern in sleep. Piero started to be afraid, but then stopped. He’d been frightened so much already that he’d grown used to it. He leaned over his master and placed the gold-and-amber brooch on his left chest, just as Monna Lucia instructed. Immediately, the bishop’s eyes opened wide, their whites glinting in the faint light from the window.