Free Poison: A Novel of the Renaissance by Sara Poole Page B

a question. It is well known that only priests know the Bible, and they share only those parts of it they think beneficial for the souls of their flock.
    “Never mind then,” Sofia said. “Let us speak of more recent matters. As I said, I saw your father in March. Giovanni came to say good-bye.”
    “Why would he do that? He had no plans to leave Rome.” At least, not as far as I knew, but already I was beginning to sense that there was much my father had not told me.
    “He did not say that he was leaving,” Sofia told me. “But he wasconcerned that matters were developing in such a way that anyone known to be connected to him could be in danger. Because of that, he told me that he would not be coming to see me again.”
    “What matters?” I asked even as I thought that was about the same time my father had begun to talk of sending me to stay at the Cardinal’s residence in the country. I had protested so vigorously, having no wish to be separated from him, that he had agreed to postpone a decision. But I had feared that he really had made up his mind and would only tell me at the last moment in order to avoid argument. That I argued with him at all shames me still.
    Sofia did not answer at once. She sat back in her chair and stared at the wall over my shoulder as though seeing something far removed from our surroundings. Slowly, she said, “You know that your father was very interested in the cause of disease?”
    “He spoke to you of this?” On reflection, I should not have been surprised. My father must have realized that one of the very few people he could talk to safely about such matters would be a Jew or, failing that, a Muslim. Certainly, both peoples are known for producing physicians of great skill, perhaps because they are willing to entertain thoughts forbidden to Christians.
    “He knew that I shared his interest,” Sofia said. “You must understand, Giovanni truly did want to find how to cure illness. But more recently he was seeking a way to bring about a death that would seem entirely natural.”
    I had difficulty comprehending this, and the reason for my confusion is simple enough: When a decision is made to kill—whether by poison or any other method—it is not enough to remove the victim from this world. Usually, it is also desirable that everyone knows or at least fears that the person was done away with deliberately. Only in that manner can the proper level of respect be assured.
    Seeing my bewilderment, Sofia put out a hand and covered mine. “I am sorry, but there is more.”
    And it would not be good. She would not have breached the distance between us to offer me the simple comfort of her touch if she had anything to say that was less than terrible. I knew that, but even so, I had not begun to grasp the enormity of what Sofia Montefiore was about to tell me.
    I was silent on the walk back to the palazzo. Vittoro respected my mood and kept his thoughts to himself. We parted in the courtyard. I went not to my rooms but to the small chapel where I was accustomed to hearing Mass on Sundays. At that hour, it was empty. The scent of incense lingered on the air. I knelt before the marble and gold altar, raised my eyes to the jeweled crucifix, and I prayed.
    I am not a pious woman. The gift of deep, abiding faith eludes me. Perhaps my mind is too restless, too inclined to question. Or perhaps I simply haven’t tried hard enough. Whatever the case, prayer does not come easily to me.
    But that day, I prayed, clumsily to be sure, but with utmost sincerity. I prayed that the Redeemer of the World would save me from the knowledge I had so thoughtlessly acquired. Or, failing that, would show me what to do with it.
    No sign came, of course. I am always envious of those who claim that their prayers are answered, often with great flourishes of scent, sound, and sight. Saint Catherine of Sienna, for example, she who helped to heal the Great Schism and bring the papacy back to Rome, spoke of