“Beatrice, I must confess that since the earliest days of our acquaintance, I have thought many times of asking you to be my wife. But your revelations tonight have made my thoughts more urgent, as I fear the time we have remaining together may be shorter than I could have imagined. Is it so difficult for you to believe that I might know, without doubt, that I wish your life to be entwined with mine?”
I thought about my answer. When I was a child, Ben told me the story of our grandparents, Sofia and Luca, whom I’d never met. Luca first saw Sofia behind the counter at her father’s grocery store in Brooklyn. “That’s the girl I’m going to marry,” he’d said. Sofia ignored him for six months while he courted her doggedly, and then she realized she was in love with him. They were married for fifty-two years, until they died within a week of each other in their respective sleep.
Gabriele cupped my face in his hand and put his thumb against my lips, silencing and caressing me at the same time. “Do not answer me now,” he said firmly. “A husband is a difficult enough matter to decide upon; a century is another choice entirely. I will understand if the creation of a tie that would bind you to this time might make it impossible for you to accept my offer. But if you do choose me, and the time I inhabit, I will make your wait worthwhile, I promise you.” He leaned forward to put his lips to my forehead. “No part of you will be spared when you are mine.” I wanted him so much I would have attacked him in the storage hold of the ship, but I could tell he wouldn’t bend. “May I offer you an escort back to your cabin now? It would not be seemly for you to be found here at daybreak.”
“I’ll take the escort,” I said, feeling like my voice wasn’t in my control. “And . . .”
“And?”
“Don’t propose marriage to anyone else in the meantime, all right?”
“I will restrain myself,” Gabriele said, bowing. He saw me to the door of my shared cabin with Clara. My legs were trembling from fatigue and desire, but I managed to get myself into the room and fall into bed.
PART VII
MESSINA
I woke to the sound of waves slapping against the hull. I stretched out under the weight and warmth of the wool blanket. Blankets? I found two piled over me, and a third layer came from a dark wool cloak. I buried my face in the cloak and the scent—a faint tang of plaster and paint and the almost herbal muskiness that I now recognized as Gabriele’s own—brought a full-fledged memory of the night with it.
Finally, someone knows the truth. The exquisite liberty of that realization, dispelling months of fearful silence and deceit, coursed through me. Had Gabriele really asked me to marry him? I tried to imagine what a medieval wedding might be like. Feeling suddenly hot, I threw off the layers of wool, dressed quickly, and went up on deck.
Clara accosted me within seconds of my appearance, bubbling with excitement.
“Signora, have you heard the news? The sailors say the storm gave our ship great speed, and we should enter Messina’s port sooner than expected! I can hardly imagine what Sicily must be like.” Clara stopped effervescing and peered at me with concern. “Monna Trovato, are you seasick?”
“I’m well enough, thank you, Clara,” I managed to say. But my thoughts answered silently—where we are headed, no one will be well again for a long, long time.
Clara raced off to tidy our cabin while I remained on the deck of Il Paradiso. Three months had passed since my arrival in the fourteenth century, months during which I should have done more to prepare for this looming disaster. I scanned the horizon for the first sight of our deadly target, the port of entry to Europe for one of the greatest public health disasters in the history of the world. I had modern knowledge but no modern tools to change the path of the Black Death through Europe. No city, village, or tiny hamlet would be spared the assault, and eventually there would be nowhere to go.
I walked back to my private space behind the barrels and sat down on the deck. My reading hadn’t often veered into fantasy, but obviously any story about time travel, mine included, posed difficult logistical and philosophical problems. Had my arrival already shifted the fabric of history to accommodate my appearance? Would any attempts I made to alter the course of events be rolled into the relentless forward motion of time’s wheel, picked up and scattered like gravel from the tires of a car? Or perhaps small changes could go unnoticed while the great ones hurtled along—deaths, births, battles, peace treaties, the building of cathedrals, all a massive backdrop to the mutable tiny movements of daily life. Could I get in the way of the forces that doomed Siena to her particularly brutal losses? I had no idea. I thought of Gabriele’s painting, the one with me in it, painted before July of 1347. Had the past made space for me in preparation for my imminent arrival—or had I always been here to be painted? The deterministic pondering gave me a headache. I didn’t even know whether I could die here. And Gabriele—I hadn’t seen any entries in his journal that were dated after the arrival of the Plague. Was there a terrible reason for that silence? Or had I simply not read far enough?
Once we got to Messina my job would be done, and I could leave, ideally with Clara and Gabriele—before it was too late. I’d go talk to Lugani now, to clarify the terms of the end of my employment. After we landed, I could return to Siena, where at least I’d have more time.
As I left my refuge, I saw Lugani conferring with the grizzled captain at the ship’s prow. The captain sounded smug.
“I have word, Ser, from a small ship sent to meet us this morning, that the Genoese galleys have dropped anchor in Messina. Your contact will be glad to see you’ve arrived so early.”
I felt a wave of dizziness and held on to the barrel at my side to steady myself. If the Genoese galleys were here, the Plague was too.
“Excellent news. I shall pay you well for the quick journey.” I drew up behind Lugani, trying to keep my expression neutral.
“Good morning, Ser.”
Lugani turned to face me. His face was cleanly shaven this morning, his cropped dark head topped with a red biretta, his scarlet cloak brilliant against the gray-brown of the weathered ship.
“Good morning indeed, Monna Trovato. You look well rested, which is for the best, as we will all have much to do today. We shall arrive in Messina earlier than expected.”
“I heard.”
“I sent your maidservant—Clara, is that her name?—to arrange your possessions. If you will excuse me, I have business to discuss with our captain.”
You bastard. You know her name as well as you know the rest of her.
“I need to speak with you immediately. Privately.”
“How intriguing.” He seemed to be considering whether he’d have time for a few minutes of pleasure before we dropped anchor. “Captain, we will resume our discussion shortly.”