By the end of the first week of January I was too restless to sit in the scriptorium writing all day. The thought that Gabriele was out of prison and chatting with Umiltà about my future made me frantic. On top of that, I still had no plan to ferret out a possible Medici troublemaker. I put on my cloak and headed out the door, not knowing where I was going.
As I walked, I started to have the feeling I was being followed. Now that I’d provided evidence in court contradicting a powerful member of the Sienese casati, I might be a target. I thought of the ambush en route to Pisa, and walked faster.
I turned onto the Via di Fontebranda; on the wide busy street I felt safer. Soon I saw the fortress-like building that housed the fonte itself. This was the dyers’ neighborhood. Even in the cold weather, evidence of their trade was in the air: the acrid smells of mordants used to make cloth hold the dye. The scent reminded me, not pleasantly, of my trip with Lugani. The fonte had three basins under its arches. At the first, women filled their vessels for cooking and watering wine. At the second, two horses stood shivering as they drank, their masters looking colder than they. The runoff into the third was for washing clothes.
I stepped inside, out of the wind. Light came through the archways under the vaulted roof, but at the far edges the pools were dark. I watched the light playing over the water’s shifting surface, the patterns ruffling then resettling as the few bundled women bent to fill their vessels.
“Depicting the mysterious union between water and light is a life’s work, even for a master.”
The voice startled me out of my reverie. Gabriele stood a foot away from me, in a hooded cloak that hid all but his face.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
“Regarding you, as you regard the water: with wonder at the beauty of God’s creation.” Artists certainly give beautiful compliments—at least this artist did.
“Aren’t we not supposed to meet?” Medieval propriety kept my hands at my sides.
“We are not.”
“But now Umiltà can’t blame us for meeting by accident.”
“This is no accident. I followed you.”
“You what?”
“I came to the Ospedale to meet with Umiltà, and saw you leave by the gate. I stayed a few paces behind you all the way.”
“You had me feeling paranoid.”
“Paranoid? Another of your own time’s words?”
“It means thinking people are plotting against you when they aren’t. Sorry, I keep forgetting to talk properly.”
“You talk beautifully, if mystifyingly at times. But certainly I am not plotting against you.” He tilted his head and the familiarity of that gesture gave me a full-body rush of warmth. “Why were you afraid of being followed?”
“Haven’t you been afraid, since the trial? Wondering who denounced you, and why Ser Signoretti testified against you?”
“I have been grateful for your testimony, which saved my life.”
“My pleasure. But escaping conviction doesn’t mean there isn’t someone out there who meant you harm.”
“I cannot see a purpose to living in fear. I have lost a wife and a son, survived the Mortalità, and now escaped this false accusation. I am free to walk the streets of the city, to paint, and, it seems, to marry. I prefer to enjoy my hard-won freedoms.”
“What if he’s still out there somewhere—the man who had you falsely arrested for murder?”
“Is there something you might know, Beatrice, from your unusual vantage point?”
“I might.”
“Tell me then.”
“It’s suspicion, not fact. Don’t go out and break someone’s legs.”
Gabriele smiled. “Humor in the face of disaster, Beatrice; your singular skill.”
“Thanks. Giovanni de’ Medici has a son.”
“The one to whom he wrote the letter you miraculously produced in the courtroom.”
“His name is Iacopo de’ Medici. And I suspect he’s out for revenge.” The name tasted bitter in my mouth. “But I don’t know whether I’m right.”
“But you may be. So we must find him.”
“Sure. I could go to Florence and ask everyone I see whether they know a guy named Iacopo. Or maybe I could write a letter to his mother; I think her name is Immacolata. It could go something like this: ‘Dear Florentine Noblewoman: your son is trying to kill my future husband. Would you mind telling me where I can find him?’?”
“Do you jest, sweet Beatrice?”
“Can you think of anything better? We can’t send a message to him directly.”
“I shall think upon how we might find this man, or at least prevent him from further mischief—if he is in fact the origin of the mischief. I should hate to accuse someone falsely, having experienced false accusation myself. And a young man who has lost his father has suffered amply as it is.” I’d never thought of it from Iacopo’s perspective. “For now,” he said, “we have escaped our rival’s wrath again, whoever he may be.”
A woman came to fill her bucket, curtseying and smiling shyly at Gabriele. I shook my head, amused.“You seem to charm everyone, Gabriele.”
“Do I charm you? That is all that matters.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you are likely to accept, if Umiltà should present my proposal of marriage? I would be comforted to know my chances of success.”
“Your chances are one hundred percent.”
“Does that mean certain?”
“Exactly. Are we betrothed now?”
He laughed quietly. “There are procedures to follow, as you will see. Now that I know your origins, I understand your peculiar gaps of knowledge.”
“You’d have some peculiar gaps too, if you were transported centuries out of your time.”
“I am certain of it.” Gabriele paused. “Beatrice . . . what befell you?”
“After I left you in Messina, you mean?”
“After you left me dying, or so I thought.”
“You told me to leave you!” My voice echoed, too loud, under the vaulted roof. Only one horse and his master were left—they raised their heads to look at us.
“I meant no offense. But please tell me what transpired.”
“I got sick too,” I said. “The same sort of sick.”
“Ah,” he said. “I feared as much.”
“I thought you would die. For a while I thought I might die too, during the rare moments that I could think at all. But I had a letter written by a friend from my own time, and I believe that letter took me back. I traveled on a current of longing for what I’d left behind.” This was the first time I’d articulated it, the strange story of my return.
“I hoped you had found your way to somewhere safe.”
“It was safe, yes. My time is good at taking care of sick people.”
“Then why, if you had safety in your time—why would you choose to return?”
I was silent for a few seconds before answering. “The beauty of this time called me back.” Gabriele nodded, as if he knew exactly what I meant. “I saw what you wrote.”
“So my words found you, Beatrice?” The last horse had slaked his thirst at the fountain, and his owner led him out.
“They did.”
He smiled slowly. “As I hoped they would.”