The Plague Doctor's Daughter

21. Matteo

The morning fog was as thick as a hearty, Tuscan soup.

On such days, a man could barely see the tip of his outstretched hand, and most Venetians stayed inside. Although inconvenient, the ever-present fear of catching the plague from the miasma floating like a ghostly specter among the buildings and above the canals outweighed any need to pursue daily activities. Going to the market was not worth dying for.

But Matteo was not like most people. He had already reneged on a promise once in the last twenty-four hours, so his dignity didn't allow him to make that same mistake again. In conditions like these, however, this gallantry was easier conceived than done. Stepping through the canal-facing door of the Ca' Calergi, the procurator's son nearly stumbled off the curt pier while braving the ethereal, cloud-like conditions to hail a gondola.

He should have been sitting on that bench a full day earlier, and as he neared his destination, Matteo mentally chastised himself for the blunder. What he had sincerely intended to be a quick discussion over a single hand of cards had turned into many more as both the wine and conversation pleasantly flowed. Before he knew it, it was midday and his table mates—who by then had grown to nearly half a dozen—easily talked him into staying for a prodigious meal. Afterward, it would have been quite rude to miss the show from a visiting troupe of commedia dell'arte players. By the time he had resigned himself to leave, the sundown prevented his getaway.

With his back aching from a restless night on a lumpy chaise, Matteo squirmed in his seat while the oarsman paddled the short distance across the Canale Grande. From there, he would cut through the northern part of Santa Croce before entering San Polo. The brisk walk would do his body good, and it would most likely be faster than taking the gondola the long way to approach from the south.

"Be well, good sir," Matteo said, placing a coin in the man's hand when he disembarked.

In less than a quarter of an hour—in spite of taking several wrong turns in the blinding conditions—he finally entered the courtyard he sought.

"The Dottore is not at home." The warning came before he had seen its source, much less before he even had the chance at an inquiry.

Looking up, Matteo noticed an open window on the second story, a void of darkness among the thinning wisps of fog. "Good morning, signora," he said with a bow to the old woman leaning against the ledge.

Unprompted, she talked freely like so many of her age tended to do. "He has gone to help the sick. So many of them these days. Why, I don't think he's been home for days—"

"I am actually looking for someone else," Matteo interrupted, thankful for the inadvertent confirmation that Agostino Rienzo had successfully stayed hidden in his convalescence, but conscious of the value of each passing moment. "If you could then tell me if the esteemed husband of Signora Giovanna is at home, I'd be ever so grateful."

The old woman cackled. "Signore Visconti?" she asked once her mirth subsided. "Why, he's still off in that godforsaken war in Milan, is he not?"

Matteo looked away and smirked. If the return of Giovanna's husband was unknown to neighbors, then it was likely that he was still being held in the doge's jail cell. Perhaps he wasn't too late, after all. Now he could have that promised conversation with Giovanna he'd missed the day before.

"I must be mistaken," Matteo said, looking up at the old woman again. "I will then try my business with Signora Giovanna."

After a quick bow, he made his way toward the staircase leading to the Rienzo's loft, but the woman yelled after him. "Oh, you won't find her home, either. Giovanna left merely minutes before your own arrival."