Next I dove into Ben’s collection of books; it might be my last opportunity to learn about Siena’s past through modern eyes. I skimmed through titles and opened a few, not knowing exactly what I was looking for. I reminded myself of the Plague’s timeline and I read quickly through several texts, trying to memorize as many useful facts as I could.
I left Ben’s bedroom for last. Books were still piled on the bed table and the floor, all covered with a layer of dust. I’d looked through them on my first visit, but this time I found something I’d missed. At the bottom of one pile, hidden in the pages of a dog-eared copy of Asterix the Gaul, was a nondescript-looking manila envelope. Inside that was another envelope, unmistakably archival. Ben must have hidden it here, maybe because he was suspicious of his rival scholars. Having had my own experiences with their willingness to go as far as was necessary to achieve their aims, I was not surprised.
The document inside was a fragment of a single letter. The recipient’s name and the signature were both missing, but the text made my skin prickle with fear.
Conception of the Blessed Virgin, 1348
Now that Accorsi is back in Siena, you must seek him out and go forward with the plan we have discussed. The painter must pay the price for his testimony. Send me word when it is done.
And so I learned two things, in one wonderful and awful moment. Gabriele had survived the Plague, and someone was planning to kill him. I could not continue to read crumbling documents in my own ineffectual century for a minute longer. I took the papers with me and closed the door on Ben’s dusty room.
* * *
It was time to pack. Assuming I could get back, I needed a lot more than I’d come with the first time. First, I dumped the contents of my medicine cabinet into a bag, including my new self-prescribed antibiotics. Then I moved on to clothing. The blue dress I’d come home in had been destroyed during my hospitalization for fear of infected fleas, but I found a nice medieval replica in a historical reenactment boutique, along with a warm wool cloak with a hood. I added two pairs of wool tights and then assembled a pile of bras and underwear. It wasn’t as crucial as antibiotics, but I’d missed modern lingerie on my last trip. In Ben’s closet I found an old camping canteen that looked vaguely medieval. I searched in the pantry: a package of whole wheat crackers, dried currants, almonds. What else? I still had the necklace from my mother and added whatever jewelry I could wear; I wasn’t certain the bag would come with me. I’d return Fabbri’s ledger but I kept the papers I’d found inside it.
I still had the letter from Donata inviting me for coffee, the one that had brought me home. I found it in a drawer of my desk, creased and grubby but still legible. I folded it carefully and packed it too. The person is the portal, not the place . . . maybe I would need it again someday.
I put my last letter to Nathaniel in an envelope, addressed it, and added a stamp. I left it on the kitchen table, then brushed my teeth and went to bed. I needed sleep before my appointment early the next morning with a 650-year-old journal.
* * *
It was Gabriele’s book, looking old again, the way it had when I’d first seen it. My hands shook when the docent handed it to me. I thanked her, and she looked at me oddly, probably wondering what kind of idiot would leave something so obviously important, then wait six months to retrieve it. Fortunately, no one seemed to have opened it and discovered what it really was. I curtsied by mistake, a medieval habit, and fled before I could make any more errors.
I wanted to be in the Ospedale to read the journal this time, someplace that felt like home. I followed the route I’d learned in two different centuries until I was looking at the blank space over the entryway where Gabriele’s Assumption had once been.
Instead of entering through the front door, I headed for the Cappella delle Fanciulle—Young Women’s Chapel—that led into the Pellegrinaio delle Donne, my first medieval home. Inside I hardly recognized it—the chapel was decorated with fifteenth-century frescoes—the Trinity, a scene of women praying at Christ’s tomb, the Crucifixion, and a fourth labeled the Madonna of Mercy. I moved closer to see the angels holding the Virgin’s mantle, and the worshippers at her feet, praying for protection. I imagined myself among them, looking up into the Virgin’s radiant face. There was no one else in the room. I opened the journal to the last page of writing, and began to read.
I cannot paint now, as I am too weak to stand, and I can barely wield a pen. I have taken the last of your bitter tablets, Beatrice. The bitterness reminds me, by contrast, of the sweetness of your face. After you left me, I felt a sudden tear in the fabric of my knowledge of you, as if you had gone a great distance, beyond the reach of my soul. I pray that this is not a sign of your departure from the world of mortal men—and women.
I know now, because of what you have told me, that this book will survive me. It may therefore serve as a medium through which I can speak with you in your own time. With that knowledge I write now, imagining that your eyes might gaze upon this page, and through it, know my thoughts. I hope, for both our sakes, that you have gone far enough to be free from the grip of the dark beast that claws now at my lungs and burns my skin with fever. Perhaps you have found a path back to your own century, and if so, and if it is a haven for you, I bid you stay, free of danger. But if I survive this terrible ailment, and the way for you is safe, I pray, with all the strength that remains in my body, that you will come back to me, and to our Siena, where we may intertwine our lives before my family and in God’s name.
With all my love and prayers for your safety, and your return,
Your Gabriele
Messina 1347
It was the last entry. I felt the little book slip from my hands, but I never heard the sound I expected—there was no thump of the journal as it met the ground. Instead it fell soundlessly, endlessly, as if it were traveling a great distance, into a chasm rather than to the marble floor beneath my feet.
PART X
TESTIMONY
It was much worse this time: maybe because I knew how far I might be going, and how much I was leaving behind. As I fell, I imagined the ties to those I loved stretching to the breaking point. I saw Donata stirring risotto, Nathaniel smiling at me over a dusty book jacket, Linney pulling off her blue surgical cap on the way out of the operating room. I could hear a high-pitched whine, and felt a thump of pressure in my ears.