His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. Lead, worth nothing at all until Hoddy picked them up; then they became full of magic. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. 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. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. Nothing. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister.
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