She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. ‘You see, I had another reason for visiting your grandfather. ’ ‘Was. There is no further hope. 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. Nothing, however, could be discerned, except the crumbling brickwork. I think that I will tell you. It moved a trifle, stepping back and lifting an arm to rub the sleeve against the glass.
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