The Borgia Betrayal: A Novel by Sara Poole Page A

river, the streets of the ghetto were swept regularly by tidal floods, invading many of the shops and tenements, and bringing with them swarms of mosquitoes that made life a misery. Only the wealthy—and they did exist—fared any better, residing as they did on slightly higher ground in what amounted to fortified palazzetti. Whether to protect their wealth or simply because they saw no alternative, the merchants had long since joined forces with the senior rabbis to enforce a policy of cooperation with the authorities. Not everyone agreed with them.
    Sofia was bandaging the arm of a young boy when I arrived. “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll be done in a moment.”
    I smiled at the boy and did as she bade. The front of the shop was sparsely furnished with a few stools and a simple wooden counter behind which Sofia dispensed the powders, tinctures, lotions, and poultices that offered some relief for the conditions that plagued so many. Unlike others of her calling, she prescribed only those remedies that she knew to be effective. Many of these were not even in evidence, being confined to cabinets in the back room for discretion’s sake.
    The air smelled pleasantly of the mingled scent of thyme, rosemary, lavender, and the like drying in the rafters above. Several large barrels of vinegar stood along one wall. Sofia believed vinegar to be most helpful in preventing infection in wounds and in maintaining cleanliness in general. She used great quantities of it but at the cost of her skin, her hands being always red and hardened.
    Yet her touch was unfailingly gentle, as I could see with the boy who, though pale, remained calm under her ministrations. As she finished, she bent close to him and whispered a few words in his ear. He nodded and sprang up, pausing only to thank her before running off.
    When we were alone, she washed her hands in the basin and dried them before she looked at me. Her dark eyes were unfathomable. I resisted the impulse to squirm under her scrutiny.
    “How are you?” she asked.
    “Fine. I saw Rocco yesterday. He is concerned about what happened at the villa but there is no indication that anyone was caught—”
    I would have preferred that no one else know of the events in Portia’s apartment but that was not realistic. The hard truth was that the danger to Lux might begin and end with me. I, not anyone else, might have been the target of both attacks. If that were the case, the other members had the right to know, if only the better to protect themselves.
    Sofia heard me out in silence. A look of dismay crossed her face when I spoke of killing the assailant but she waited until I was finished before she said, “Are you certain that you are unharmed?”
    “Completely. I even slept last night, thanks to your powders.” Not for the world would I speak of the creature I became in extremis, when the darkness within me howled for blood and could scarcely be sated.
    “Look at me,” I said and, having stood, I threw out my arms and twirled around like a heady girl showing off a new gown. “Do I not look perfectly fine?”
    It was an absurd thing to do, as I think I realized even in the midst of doing it. Yet I could not seem to stop myself. I was that set on acting as though the events of the previous night had left me unscathed or, better yet, had happened to an entirely different person.
    “I am sorry to say that you do.”
    I stopped in mid-step, my arms falling to my sides, and stared at her. Why would she, above all, wish ill for me?
    Seeing my expression, she seized my hands in hers and spoke most earnestly. “I have seen others do what you are doing, try to cope with a terrible experience by denying that it has any power to affect you. But what we think buried and forgotten can return ten-fold to harm us.”
    What could I say to her? That she need have no such worry for me because I had enjoyed killing the attacker? That far from being dogged by terror, I still basked in the lingering