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nothing less. My hands and arms move on their own.
    Long after dawn the last pristine white reel is finished. My fingers blister. My eyes smart. My neck and shoulders ache. And I’m young. Papà must feel half dead.
    The chrysalises already stink. I leave the jar lid off so Valeria will discover them by the smell and tell her father, who will fry them. He considers them delicacies.
    Papà throws his arm across my shoulders. “Home to eat, my amazing daughter.”
    I yawn and shake my head. “Sleep first. I’m almost asleep right now.”
    We go out to Papà’s horse. The poor forgotten thing has been standing all night with her bridle on. I’ll have to bring her a bucket of oats to make it up—but tomorrow. Right now I can barely manage to pet her. We mount, Papà in front, me behind. My shift rides up, exposing my legs. Mamma would blanch. My legs should always be covered and I should go only sidesaddle now. But who’s to tell?
    â€œWe did it,” says Papà. He gives a little laugh. “You’re going to make someone the best wife in the world. Did you know that, my little Betta?”
    I rest my cheek happily on his wide back.
    That’s when we hear hoof beats at a gallop. The messenger pulls up alongside us. “Il Magnifico is dead.”
    Papà shakes his head. “What? What are you saying?”
    â€œLorenzo de’ Medici. Il Magnifico—he died!”
    The leader of the most important noble family of Florence. And Papà’s friend. One of his best customers.
    Papà twists around to look at me. “This is awful.” His eyes glitter with fright.
    My chest goes cold.

CHAPTER Four
    WE STAND JAMMED TOGETHER in the street in front of the Medici family palace. Everyone’s talking confidently.
    â€œI knew it would happen. I saw a comet that night.”
    â€œI heard wolves howl. Did you hear it? Wolves.”
    â€œThe lions in the enclosure by the Palazzo Vecchio—they fought for no reason. Vicious attacks. One actually died.”
    â€œThe most beautiful one. I saw him myself.”
    â€œAnd that thunderbolt! It destroyed the cupola lantern in the Santa Reparata church. Huge stones fell in the direction of the Medici palace. Exactly this direction.”
    I hold Mamma’s arm tighter. An eerie sensation goes around my ears, up my temples. Nothing feels familiar. Florence has changed from the bustling, happy city I’ve visited before to a town with secret ways that make my skin crawl. Faces contort in fear and grief. I nestle against Mamma. She reaches her hand across her chest to caress my cheek. “Everyone saw signs,” she whispers. “Everyone knew Lorenzo was dying—it’s so easy to know . . .” She lowers her voice, till I can barely hear. “. . . after the fact.”
    Ah. Thank heavens for a sensible mother, who can dismiss specters with the briefest words. Maybe nothing phantomlike happened. I straighten up and look around.
    I was last here for the Christmas festivities. A visit of four thrilling days—not nearly long enough. Musicians, storytellers, and preachers posted themselves in the center of every piazza. The greatest spectacle was the nativity play that Lorenzo de’ Medici himself wrote. His children acted in it. The costumes took my breath away.
    And now he’s dead. Lorenzo Il Magnifico—the magnificent one. Many people are called magnificent. But Lorenzo was truly worthy of the title. Papà keeps saying that as people exchange condolences. He died in his villa in Careggi—to the northeast. But the funeral is here, and all Florence has turned out. Most of the countryside, too.
    A man climbs onto a box and recites a poem in Latin. His voice drags. Much of the crowd disperses. The rest of us do our best to look attentive.
    I’m terrible at Latin. I used to have lessons from a visiting tutor, and I learned to read the tongue I speak. But Latin is