Much thanks to my reviewers. I apologize (again) for my slowness with this story. I’m trying to do some research, and I guess my fear of making this unbelievable keeps me from updating. I suppose, though, that having a picture of Florence in my head really does help. Again, if you see anything worth fixing, please let me know! Thanks. I know this is short… oh, well. Enjoy!

Chapter IX: Dawn

He is a handsome man. His hair is black—like a raven’s feathers, like my favorite quill, or a pool of ink. It’s straight, just long enough to tickle his neck. His face is clean-shaven, angular, as pale as my mother. When he looks at me, his eyes narrow like they want to see deep inside me—and they do. He knows me better than my father, better than Helena, better than I know myself. I can feel his fingers in my hair. I can feel his breath on my cheek; he leans close enough to kiss me. His lips are cold.

And then I wake up, my eyes filled with tears.

I did not care that Helena was beside me, her hand twitching beside where my head was. I did not even remember falling asleep there, or coming home. My hair was still damp from the rain. I knew that Death had touched me, and I that had brought him home with me. That was why I dreamed of Lucifer. The man I imagined him to be, anyway—the man I had written about. I could hear his laughing in my ears, low and mocking me, his voice filled with a thousand curses uttered in a thousand tongues. I deserved them all.

The window in our room was mine when I was too weary of imagination. But I would imagine its view anyway, when the streets of Firenze were too monotonous to satisfy my hunger for adventure. I imagined a vast sea sometimes: a thousand shades of blue. Neptune and his trident, rising out of the waves to wave at me. But there was little outside for me now. What if I had fled to the foothills beyond the city? What if I had gone alone? Am I safer alone? I am always better alone.

Dawn was upon us now. If I closed my eyes I thought I could feel its light on my skin. I did not welcome it, though. Night was always here to cloak me. Its darkness masked my every move and I could do what I pleased, even if it was just thinking about things. Night was when the world slept, and when the dead were like those sleeping—except they were the ones that did not wake in the morning.

I had almost forgotten Andrea’s words. I returned to the bed and sat down on it, moving my hands across the mattress like I would find something hidden in the straw. It was then that I heard a loud knocking at the door. I slowly fixed my gaze on it, unwilling to go away from this place where I dreamed.

Helena pulled my sleeve after a while; I scowled at her, my disdain for her returning the moment I saw her alert face. She pointed at the door: do you not hear the knocking?

“It is no one,” I murmured my reply, hurrying to the door. But I hesitated before leaving my sister, and then turned to face her. “Gather all your things—anything worth carrying. We are leaving the city this morning.” I inspected her pale face, what skin I could see below her crumpled sleeves—wondering if I should find any trace of the illness there. But there was nothing. “Well, hurry.”

I remembered suddenly that I had forgotten to inform our father. He, too, had left his room to go to the door. A servant had dressed himself hastily enough to greet our visitor before us. “The physician’s apprentice, Signor,” he said in a worrisome way. “He says that he has come to escort you and your daughters to his master’s villa.”

Signor Miseria said nothing. He merely turned his head to look at me, gladness in his eyes, I think, and shame, that I had come back.

“I’ve forgotten to tell you,” I started, allowing Andrea a small glance before giving my full attentions to my father. “He says it is safer there in the country—away from the sickness. Ettore is there already, though we cannot find Alessandro anywhere… no word from any monastery. Alonso has sent servants there to prepare—”

“We will not be allowed back into Firenze’s walls,” my father said. “We will be trapped out there!”

“We are trapped in here!”

“My master has entrusted your daughter… with his daughter,” Andrea said, motioning for the servant behind him to step forward. “He almost came here himself, but he did not think it the right thing to do.” The servant, an older woman who resembled the child’s nurse, held the child in her arms, wrapped tightly in linen. Maddalena was asleep, her eyes and nose and cheeks barely visible above the fold of her cover.

“No, no—get out of my house!” my father cried, throwing up his hands. He refused to even glance at Alonso’s daughter. “You physician’s apprentice… you and your profession. All frauds… witchcraft… all lies.”

“No!” I heard myself cry in turn. I reached out to take the girl from Andrea, my arms trembling, and still I attempted to be gentle. I pulled back the linen from her face, exposing her curls. I touched her face with my palm, and then her neck. “What is this?” I questioned quietly, when my fingers snagged the cord around Maddalena’s neck. “A necklace?”

“A talisman, I think. Jade. To ward off the illness. Her nurse put it there before she died,” Andrea replied, his eyes still locked with my father’s. “Please, Signor, my master was only thinking of the safety of his betrothed… and her family.”

Signor Miseria went nearer to him, and Andrea stood still—unflinchingly. He sniffed the younger man’s clothes sharply. I knew what he would smell on him. The smell of incense—rosemary or lemon leaves—clung to his garments. He wrinkled his nose. “Take her, then; I will stay.”

Helena appeared at the bottom of our staircase. She was not dressed for traveling, her nightcap still pulled over her unkempt hair. Her cloak was draped over one arm, and she stood there like a mute—which was what she was—and listened intently. Her face was vacant of any hope.

Maddalena had begun to stir in my arms. She smiled when she looked up at me, sleepily yawning. And then she buried her face into my hair, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. I wished I could be her then, ignorant and unaware. The plague made a body suffer for three days; we suffered more in our worry.

“We must go now,” Andrea said, looking to me, and then to Helena. “Do you have a kerchief, Signorina?” But before I could answer, he retrieved one from inside his cloak. “Already wet with oils. Hold it to your nose when we go outside. A servant will help onto a horse—you and the child—and we need not stay in the city for much longer.”

The bells made there sounds again, even though they were supposed to be silent. Father once told me noise drove away evil, and that the bells were run to do just that. I would rather be deaf.