In my bed lie an old woman and her daughter—at least I think it is her daughter, as the old woman calls lovingly to her through the day. The younger woman rarely answers, but the old woman keeps talking, whispering, singing, moaning. Sometimes the old woman turns toward me, her sour breath spreading over my face. I turn my back, but I still hear her whispered complaints, nonsensical words in a tongue I have never heard before. Her voice sounds like a song. After a while, I stop trying to understand the words, but lull myself into oblivion on the cadence of its strange, lilting melody and long sighs.
Why are they here? Are they waiting for a gilded box? I must get up and finish at least one. Surely they will be delighted with its beauty. Surely they have never seen one like it. If only my head would stop hurting, I could finish it. My cousin. Paolo. We can work on it together. He can help with the gilding so that I can fill the molds that Master Trevisan gave me.
Master Trevisan. Where is he? Has he returned from terra firma? I must ask his wife.
Darkness.
Long, silent darkness.
The sound of a bell tolling. The call of a ferryman traveling over the still water. The scrape of metal gates.
Darkness again. Merciful oblivion.
Then pain.
Suddenly there is nothing but sharp stinging in my armpit, so painful that white light flashes across my closed eyelids. I gasp and try to sit straight up in bed. I open my eyes to see two women dressed in white pressing my shoulders to the straw-stuffed mattress. A man with a black leather mask over his face leans over me. All I see are clear, green eyes.
He is the one causing the pain. I try to swat his hand away, but the women press my other arm to the mattress.
“Where is she?” I demand.
“Where is who?” one of the women asks. Her face is serene except for a birthmark on her cheek the size and color of a strawberry.
“My aunt!” I say.
They do not answer. I feel my eyes open wide, but all around me are shadows, darkness. Disoriented, I grasp for any familiar sight or face. I make out a long hall with wooden beams above my head, and a few windows open to the fading light of dusk.
“This is not the convent infirmary.” My heart pounds in my chest and I struggle to sit up. The women beside me shift in the bed.
The medico’s voice comes out muffled through the mask. “Lazzaretto Vecchio,” he says, and I see his eyes crinkle with what might be a smile. “Benvegnesta.”
The pesthouse. I gasp for air and blink hard in the darkness to try to see clearly, to try to clear the clutter in my head. I struggle to push myself from the mattress, but the woman with the strawberry stain on her cheek pushes me back again.
“Be still, cara,” she says. “Almost finished.” Her clear, bright eyes are full of compassion.
I feel the sharp sting in my armpit again, and I wince. Then it spreads into a dull ache across my chest, and I hear the splash of liquid streaming into a metal container. The doctor stands. He looks down at me over a cup held with a bloodstained glove.
“Combative,” the doctor says through the mask. “A good sign. I will check you again tomorrow,” he says before he disappears from view.
Another woman in white brings me a cup and props me up to drink. She says nothing, but presses it to my lips. I take a sip, filling my cheeks with a foul mixture that tastes of urine and eggs. I retch over the side of the bed.
“You will get used to it, I promise,” she says, then the women disappear and I fall back against the mattress.
Darkness again. Long, condoling darkness.
In the night, I hear the swish of silk robes and the voice of a priest intoning rites at our bedside. The old woman’s whispers fall silent and I only hear the moans of others farther away.
Later, I hear my father’s voice at my ear.
“What comes next, Maria?” I hear him whisper.
A challenge. A test.
I know the answer. Surely I do. In the fog, I cannot seem to grasp it.