The thought that I’d be leaving Gabriele behind in Siena surfaced frequently, and every time I slammed it down—like one of those kids’ games where you use a plastic mallet to hit toy rodents on the head as they emerge from their holes. Suppression worked only partially; I was thinking of him more and more often and with increasing vividness. Sometimes I thought I could hear his quiet voice in the scriptorium as I worked, but the sound never left the realm of my imagination.
On the day before my departure for Pisa, I went to watch Gabriele paint again. This time I stood near the entrance to the Pellegrinaio delle Donne, where I could watch without being seen. For a while I looked at the angels’ flight, but then something made me turn. A stranger stood behind me at the pellegrinaio’s wall, looking up as I had been. He was small and dark, with a long black cloak that reached nearly to the ground. His lips were moving, as if he were talking, but to no one. His gaze was odd too—toward the painting but not at it, as if there were something else on the scaffold more interesting to see. He must have felt me watching him, because he slowly turned his head until his eyes met mine. They were small, deep set, and shadowed underneath.
“Do you know the artist?” His voice was incongruously high pitched for a grown man.
“I know of him,” I said, cautiously. “Why?”
“It is Ser Accorsi, is it not? I have heard of his skill.”
Something made me not want to give him information, but it seemed he knew the answer already. “Yes, that’s Ser Accorsi. Are you an artist too?”
“Just a patron of art.” He looked back at the Ospedale. There was more calculation than wonder in his face, but maybe that’s how patrons were.
The bells rang Sext and I jumped guiltily. I had a lot of work to finish before tomorrow. As I headed back to the Ospedale doorway I looked back. The stranger was still there, watching—whether Gabriele or the painting itself, I wasn’t sure.
* * *
When the woman left, Iacopo remained, the anxiety rising in his chest. She’d seen him, this woman who clearly knew Accorsi and Signoretti both. Perhaps she’d even seen Iacopo waiting outside Signoretti’s palazzo. And she appeared to have business here at the Ospedale. Who knew whether that woman might remember his face, should it come to that. She might make trouble, and Iacopo could not risk trouble, not with so much at stake. He would have to find out more about her, whoever she was. And avert trouble before it could arise again.
*
The next morning, I woke up before dawn, knowing I had to talk to Gabriele before I left. We hadn’t spoken since the safety pin exchange. I dressed in the chilly darkness and fumbled for my shawl.
I made my way to the deserted piazza, which looked flat and surreal in the moonlight. I sat down at the foot of the scaffolding and leaned against the supports. The bells rang for Matins, and the buildings around me became more distinct. A few birds landed on the pavement, pecking for tidbits left the day before. Finally, people started heading to market and the city fountains, carrying baskets and buckets, and leading livestock to graze in the fields beyond the city limits. But no Gabriele. I waited as long as I dared—Lugani was due to leave just after Prime—and finally gave up. Of all the days to take off work, I railed at Gabriele in my head. I’d never known him to miss a day. Had something happened? I had an hour left to find out. I walked quickly out of the Piazza del Duomo and toward the baker Martellino’s house—Ben’s future house.
* * *
On the night before Ser Lugani left for Siena, Gabriele awoke, sensing something amiss. Then he heard the faint moaning, so quiet it might have been mistaken for wind whining through the gaps in the canvas covering the windows. Gabriele threw on his shirt and followed the sound to the threshold of Bianca and Rinaldo’s room, where Rinaldo’s snores bubbled in a lazy counterpart to his wife’s muffled cries. In the dark Gabriele could see the pain etched in the line of Bianca’s back as she curled on the bed.
Gabriele’s mind flooded with an unbidden memory—Paola’s pale face as she struggled to birth their ill-fated son, her golden hair damp with sweat. It had been more than a year since the image had returned to him with such force. At the next wave of pain, Bianca rocked so vigorously that the heavy wooden bed shook. Gabriele approached cautiously. The bed linen was stained dark and the air carried the metallic scent of blood. His whispered greeting was barely audible, but Bianca’s head snapped up as if he’d fired a cannon by her ear. She grabbed his hand and squeezed so hard he thought his fingers might break.
“Gabriele, help me, God help me!” she whispered, the agony and terror in her voice stirring Gabriele to action.
“I will wake Ysabella, and fetch the midwife,” he answered hoarsely. “You will not die here, neither you nor your child. This house will not lose another life.” Bianca released Gabriele’s hand and closed her eyes.
Ysabella woke quickly. She sprang out of bed, dropped her house gown over her head, and raced down the stairs. Rinaldo was awake now, standing with his back against the wall, as far from the bed as possible. Ysabella bent to feel Bianca’s belly, then looked over her shoulder at Gabriele and Rinaldo.
“Don’t stand there like fools!” she barked over her shoulder. “Rinaldo, close the windows, and Gabriele, go run for Monna Tecchini.”
Downstairs, Gabriele pulled on his calze and stepped into the boots at the door, realizing too late that they were his uncle’s, a size too small. He forgot the pain in his feet as he ran through the dark streets to the house of the midwife. Gabriele’s ferocious banging on Monna Tecchini’s front door brought a child’s head to the window—Monna Tecchini’s young son.
“She’s out at a birthing,” the boy yelled down. Gabriele despaired when the boy gave an address near the Porta San Marco, but took off running as fast as he could. There he found Monna Tecchini just finishing with a birth.
Monna Tecchini was a comforting presence in the middle of the night—a good quality for a woman of her trade. She had presided over Ysabella’s birth; then her hair had been brown, not gray. But she also had presided over Paola’s laboring, and she knew Gabriele’s summons carried the weight of loss.
“Bianca’s time has come?” she said, looking at Gabriele’s face. Gabriele nodded mutely. Monna Tecchini began a rapid trot in the direction of Martellino’s house and Gabriele followed, trying to keep memory at bay.
* * *
On the way to Martellino’s house I debated how I would explain my dawn visit, but I didn’t have to. When I arrived, the air was pierced by a bloodcurdling scream, long, loud, and full of anguish. As I burst into the kitchen Rinaldo and Martellino were standing awkwardly against the wall.
“Is that Gabriele back with the midwife?” Ysabella appeared at the foot of the stairs, and I could see her consider her options—two useless, cowering men or a visiting scribe? “Monna Trovato, have you any experience with childbirth?”