The Novel-to-Be

Prologue

"Poison," Francesco said, placing a small bottle on the table, next to his own glass. "It will work the best. Swift – and deadly."

The Genovese man leaned forward, and observed the powder inside for a moment. He pushed his drink away from him and picked it up. The bright white of the poison shone against the dark of his eyes. "And what if your plan does not succeed?" His voice was calm, yet menacing – the voice of an experienced conspirator, comfortable with the idea of death.

"It will work. It always works."

"Have you tried it?" He replaced it on the table.

"It's cantarella. Arsenic and the powder of the Spanish fly. What is the need to try when I have seen it used before?"

"What is our second option?" In matters of murder, mistakes and miscalculations were not uncommon.

"Is there truly any purpose? We both know that this is foolproof."

"No, not both of us. When was the last time you attempted such a thing?"

Francesco didn't have an answer. They had been planning this for months, and he had rehearsed it over and over again in his mind – it was almost as though he had done it before. He took the bottle off the table and returned it to his pocket, leaning back in his chair. Between the silence, they could hear birdsong and branches rustling in the spring breeze.

"They might not drink from those cups," the Genovese prompted. "They might decide they aren't thirsty. What if one drinks and the other doesn't? What if they spill it? Perhaps they will have someone taste it for them first? What if they have some sort of antidote?"

Francesco didn't have a response.

"What if it is not enough? Perhaps they will just have a slight stomachache, or only be sick for the night. We might cause the people to think that the plague has returned to the city, not that we are removing one for them."

"It was you who suggested poison in the first place." His voice was steady, hoping not to offend.

"We also decided upon a second plan."

"Yes..."

"In the monastery up the hill," the Genovese said. "The secret stairway."

"Yes, yes, I know," Francesco said abruptly.

"Very well."

The two remained silent for a moment, studying each other's faces. Slow footsteps pattered in the far distance, perhaps someone going out for a morning stroll in the garden. Francesco held his hands in his lap, blankly looking out the window.

"Let us toast," his companion decided, raising his glass, "to our fortune, and all of our future endeavors."

"To Florence," Francesco agreed. And together they drank, just as their victims would do later that day.