The Tenth Falcon Renzo’s heart hurt. He wanted to stop right there in the street and press both of his hands against it. He wanted to let his knees fold, sit back on the paving stones, and curl up like a sleeping bird. Just breathe there for a while. See if that would ease the pain. But he did not. He kept his hands down by his sides. Kept walking. Made for home. Hanged, the captain had said. They were going to hang them. Almost certainly. In twelve days, on the last day of Carnevale, right before Lent. Not just the old woman but the children as well. Renzo’s feet dragged to a halt. A vast and terrible darkness welled up inside him. His hands moved to press against his heart. A woman, passing, looked at him with concern. “Can I help you?” she asked. He shook his head, forced his hands back down. Somehow he hadn’t believed that they would do it. That they would actually kill the children. And hanging . . . He started running then, moving through streets and alleyways, weaving in and out through patches of bright sunlight and shadow.
