’ ‘Nothing of the sort,’ Gerald said calmly, sipping at his burgundy. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. She felt his tongue press into her mouth. ‘Fiddle, Gerald. But when she learns that you are a fugitive from justice…. A gaunt, powerful man: no feature of his face decided, and yet for all that it had the significance of a countenance hewn out of rock. ‘You’re not going to kill me this time.
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