She had no other choice—she couldn’t walk all the way to Florence without food or water and she’d have been easy pickings for bandits if she’d tried to steal a horse and ride alone. Her broken fingers turned purple and green and black and throbbed with every beat of her heart. She tried to wash them—wash a wound with wine and comfrey root to drive out the evil humors, Nonna always said—but it hurt so much she couldn’t manage it on her own. The broken skin puffed up and turned red and shiny. As they traveled, she kept far away from Don Paolo in his enormous litter, from the dark Cavaliere Massimo, and most of all from the makeshift coffin. The July heat was unrelenting and Isabella’s body had been tumbled into the box with no embalming, not even a shroud or the traditional bathing and dressing by her ladies. Father Elicona had been dragged from his hiding-place and compelled to give her a conditional unction, so at least there was that. Was her soul at peace?
What do You think about The Red Lily Crown (2014)?
