From the courtyard the raised voices reach her again. She can make sense of them now: Bruno is chiding Alonso and Luca for some crime of indolence or omission. Her cousin has become ever more agitated in the past few days, consumed by his determination that the Arte dei Astronomi shall be accorded its rightful status in the forthcoming festivities. She smiles. At least one person close to her has an unswerving and thoroughly optimistic view of what the future holds.
When she has washed and dressed, she goes down to breakfast. The courtyard is enveloped in a sullen mist, like a bathhouse after the fires have been doused. The sound of Bruno’s chivvying seems to come from some distant place, flat and listless with the travelling. She finds Nicholas inside, at the dining table. He offers her bread and cheese from the plate Luca has laid there.
‘You haven’t told me of your meeting with Hella Maas,’ she says, taking the chair opposite.
‘There is nothing to tell. I warned her she might be in danger. She didn’t seem to care. Even poor Matteo’s death seemed hardly to move her.’
‘Then we are done with her?’
He looks at her, his head slightly tilted, his eyes uncertain. ‘I am done with her. The question is: are you?’
‘This is Bruno’s day, Nicholas. I refuse to let her sour it.’ Aware she hasn’t answered his question, she adds, ‘I wish to go to the Basilica of St Anthony, before they close it to prepare for the procession. I want somewhere where I may sit quietly in contemplation.’
‘Do you wish to be alone?’
‘You may come, if you want. But I will not speak of… her. So do not waste your breath asking.’
They walk together mostly in silence, each unable to unburden themselves, both acutely aware that silence is not the natural state they share. In the mist, Paduans of all shapes and sizes, colours and estate surge around them. Priests and clerks hurry here and there on missions of organization, like black wraiths moving through a churchyard. Streets are being cleared of obstacles and sanded for the horse race scheduled in the afternoon. Vendors are setting up their stalls. The city heaves with a common expectation, as though it is a single organism stirring after hibernation.
At length they emerge into the cobbled Piazza del Santo. Nicholas knows enough of the city now to recognize Donatello’s great bronze equestrian statue of the warrior Gattamelata. Skirting the plinth, they approach the stern brick façade of the Basilica. To Nicholas, it looks like a Moorish temple that has drifted in on the tide of mist. Flanking its six domes, two spires lance into the opaque heavens, each more like a minaret than a Christian bell tower.
‘Are you going to make confession?’ Nicholas asks as they enter the echoing interior.
‘Why, do you think I might have committed a sin?’
‘No, of course not, I…’ He stops, unable to breach the walls of Bianca’s reserve.
‘If I do, promise me you won’t go wandering off. Remember what happened in Den Bosch.’
‘If I had my time again, I would have left Hella there,’ he says. ‘You must know that?’
‘We are both responsible for what has happened, Nicholas. Perhaps the maid is right: once knowledge is out, it cannot then be put back in its cage. We must each deal with it as we think best: either placate it or defy it.’
As she walks on towards the altar, leaving Nicholas in the doorway, Bianca wonders if perhaps she should make confession. But how could she admit what is in her mind, even to a faceless priest behind the confessional screen? How much penance will he expect from her for the sin of wishing someone dead? How much more for actually planning it? And she suspects he could never answer the question that has plagued her since the notion first came into her head: if Hella dies, will the curse she has laid die with her? Or will it live on, like a malignant pestilence, waiting for the moment to strike?
She settles quietly in a pew near the altar rail and tries to calm her racing mind. She imagines she must glow with guilt, visible to all around. Yet no one pays her attention. The roof does not fall in upon her. The flagstones do not crack and gape beneath her feet. God does not whisper even the softest condemnation to her. In the end, she thinks He must understand that she is no murderess, but simply someone trying to protect her husband from a threat she cannot quite put shape to. And more than that, even – protecting the child growing inside her.
Eventually a peace she hasn’t felt for weeks comes over Bianca. She rises, genuflects, crosses herself and walks back to where Nicholas is waiting. As they leave the Basilica, she takes his hand. ‘Whatever happens, Nicholas,’ she says, ‘I did not bring you back from your darkness only to let another have you.’
He is about to ask her what she means when they notice, simultaneously, a small band of citizens gathered in the mist by Donatello’s statue. A woman’s voice reaches them, throaty and insistent.
Hella Maas is standing with her back to the plinth, her face transfused with righteous vehemence, her words laden with warning. The small crowd stares at her in appalled wonder.
Before Nicholas can stop her, Bianca lets go of his hand and pushes her way forward. He follows, fearing what she might do. The crowd parts for them. In an instant Bianca is within striking distance of the maid. Startled by the sudden movement, Hella glances at her. Her eyes widen in recognition, but her voice does not falter.
Bianca stops for a moment. Nicholas reaches out to grab her sleeve, to restrain her. But then she steps forward again, not aggressively, but calmly, until she is close enough to the maid to embrace her.
Hella stops her ranting. She lowers her arms and regards Bianca with a quizzical expression. Bianca leans in close and says something Nicholas cannot hear. He knows it cannot be a threat, because Bianca’s body remains loose and calm. There is no anger in the way she holds herself.
Hella bows her head in thought. Then she replies – in Italian, and too softly for Nicholas to catch. Bianca turns, walks back to him, takes his hand once more and leads him out of the Piazza del Santo.
‘What did you say to her?’ he asks.
‘What does it matter? I have already forgotten her,’ she replies. ‘What was the phrase you used? As if she had never existed.’
Bianca’s new gown has arrived in the nick of time. She takes one look at the pearl-coloured brocade with red lace trimmings and proclaims it the most exquisite thing she has ever seen. Nicholas thinks he has never seen her looking more beautiful.
‘I wish Rose were here to see it,’ she says, after thanking Bruno so profusely that he has begun to blush.
‘I insist on paying you,’ Nicholas says, drawing him aside. ‘This is too generous to stand, even for you.’
Bruno pats his arm. ‘I told you before: it is my way of thanking you both for saving my life when I came to London. If you want, you can pay for the panels when they’re needed.’
‘The panels?’
Bruno’s hands spread outwards from his doublet, in imitation of a swollen belly.
‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean: when she’s… larger.’
‘Exactly,’ says Bruno.
The mist still clings to the city like a spurned lover. The sun has not been seen all day. Those citizens who have listened to the warnings given by the strange maid in the Piazza del Santo go about the streets with troubled faces, wondering if her predictions are coming to pass even sooner than she had claimed. Their mood does not improve when word spreads that the hour-hand of the great clock on the face of the Torre dell’Orologio has stopped moving.