Maria habitually took Umberto something to eat and a small jug of watered wine at about Vespers bell, now that the Little Arsenal was working so late. It was amazing how purpose had transformed that place. Everyone but a few of the Illyrians seemed to be getting on fairly well.
She walked out carrying Alessia and a basket, closing the door behind her. Few people owned locks here. Maria and Umberto weren't among them. There was little enough to steal and besides the goat was turning into a terror. All she wanted was food, but then, would a thief be aware of this? The thief might of course want to steal her. . . . With each passing day the taste of meat became more of a memory.
There was of course food, even meat, to be bought. Some of it legitimately and on the open market: the produce of a few gardens; or hoarded by the wise before the event; a few fish caught over the walls that went down into the sea. Some—undoubtedly stolen from the Citadel's stores—on the black market that flourished for those who had real money. Maria and Umberto didn't number among them.
She was deep in these thoughts when the bleating of Goat—she'd never acquired a name, despite Umberto wanting to call her "Satan"—penetrated her brown study. She turned back to the house. The door was closed. But it sounded as if the goat was inside.
There was no telling what the creature would do if she'd got into the house. Maria turned and ran back as fast as a baby and a basket would allow. She unlatched the door and burst into the small living room.
Goat had someone cornered by the hearth. A cloaked woman who was thrashing away at her with a bunch of something. Maria had a moment's delay, to put the baby down, and then she sprang forward. She didn't think the intruder dangerous—half her mind was on restraining Goat.
She abruptly changed her mind. The intruder was all manic, scratching strength. Only the fact that the woman wore gloves saved Maria's eyes. Maria swung the basket. It and the strange bunch of stuff in the woman's hands landed just short of the grate. The woman grabbed desperately for the bunch. Maria lunged for her. The woman's gloved hand and forearm ended up in the hot ash as they wrestled.
The intruder might be manic, but Maria had both the weight and upper-body strength advantage on her opponent. Maria pressed her opponent's arm down against the fire grate. Was rewarded by a terrible scream, and a savage bite on her shoulder. Then, as the woman broke free, grabbing a poker, someone called: "Maria? Maria are you all right?"
Maria used the moment's distraction to grab the poker-wielding left hand, as well as the other arm. There was a frantic moment's struggle as old Mrs. Grisini—whom, to Maria, seemed half-absent from her own mind most of the time—peered at them. Then the strange hooded and masked woman wriggled her hand from the glove and tore free, bolting for the open back door.
Maria ran after, but she slipped on the spilled wine from her basket and fell, winding herself. By the time she got up, gasping, Mrs. Grisini had picked up and was comforting Alessia.
"She reminds me of my own babes. I lost all of them, you know," said the old woman in a dreamy voice, as if she had not just witnessed a savage fight.
The old lady's minder, a young Corfiote girl, hurried in. "Kyria, kyria? Where are you?" She saw the old lady with considerable relief. "Oh, thank heavens . . ."
Then she took in the rest of the scene. "What happened . . ." She looked at the bunch of strange stuff on the hearth that Goat was sniffing, screamed and pointed.
Maria nearly had her breath back now. She weakly shooed Goat off. Then, took a closer look at what had made the young Corfiote girl scream. It was pretty unappetizing, whatever it was. There was a rat skull and some hair. And some plants. Maria had grown up in Venice. She wouldn't have recognized many food plants before they'd gone to stay in Istria. But there old Issie had at least showed her some of those that were dangerous—including the deadly nightshade which she recognized in the bundle.
"A curse!" The girl crossed herself hastily. So did Maria. Old Mrs. Grisini just looked dreamily at Alessia.
Maria reached for the revolting bunch of nastiness to toss it into the hot ashes. "Don't touch," squeaked the girl. "Don't touch, kyria!"
Maria looked at the glove she was still clutching. "Makes sense. So what do I do with the damned thing, then?"
"You must take it to the Papas . . . the priests, kyria," said the girl fearfully.
Maria shook herself. "I suppose so. But how?" She didn't have so many pots that she wanted to sully any of them with the horrid bundle. Then she had an inspiration. The pot beneath the bed. It was only clay and could use replacing anyway.
The curse bunch fitted into the pot. The pot fitted into the basket. She tossed the glove in too. Poor Umberto would just have to wait for his dinner. Most of it was in the ashes anyway, and Maria didn't know what she'd find to give him instead. There wasn't too much to spare in the cupboard.
She went to old Mrs. Grisini, who reluctantly parted with Alessia and allowed the young Corfiote girl to lead her home. Maria set out once again.
She was heading for the church, at first, but then she changed her mind and headed for the small Hypatian chapel. If there was one person who knew all about magic and witchcraft it was that terrifying Eneko Lopez who was now staying in the monks' cells behind the chapel with his companions.
If they were there, of course. They seemed very busy these days trying to wander around the Citadel looking innocent . . . and failing completely. They were up to something, Maria was sure.
Fortune favored her, this time. They weren't in their rooms, but they were at prayer in the chapel along with the nun whose gardens were a byword in the town.
Not knowing how to disturb them, she waited. One, the tall dark one, noticed her. "Can we help you, signorina?"
Eneko Lopez's heavy line of dark brow drew together as he looked at her. He nodded. "Maria Verrier. The friend and maid of honor to Katerina Montescue. Are you looking for us?"
Maria nodded. "Father. Uh, yes. You are an expert on witchcraft, I think?"
Lopez smiled wryly. The others chuckled. "I have had to deal with various forms of pagan magic. Whether that qualifies me as an expert, I don't know. But how may I help you?"
She opened her basket and, to everyone's surprise, took out the very recognizable pot and pointed into it. "I interrupted someone leaving this in my house."
Looking up and seeing the bemusement on the faces of the monks, she realized the possible confusion. "Uh. I just used this pot to carry it in. I didn't want to touch it. I think it is a curse."
The priests came up and peered into the pot. "Come. Put it in front of the altar. Let us exorcize it anyway," said Eneko Lopez, taking it from her. "And this other thing in here?"
"It's a glove. The woman who was putting it in my house lost it in the struggle. She was using gloves to carry the thing."
Eneko's line of eyebrow raised. He went and placed the pot in front of the altar. He and the others arranged four candles very precisely around it, and then began to sprinkle salt, and then water, and burn incense as they chanted a psalm while walking around the pot.
Maria tried very earnestly to pray. Not for herself, so much, but for Alessia. Children were very vulnerable to disease. She wasn't sure, but she thought they might be especially vulnerable to black magic also.
When they'd finished, one of the priests went and fetched a pair of fine tongs—simple black iron things, but surprisingly delicate. They blessed the tongs and asked for protection on them, and then they began examining the bunch of plants and other fragments carefully. After a few minutes Eneko came over to where Maria still knelt.
"Maria." He spoke gently, and in a way she'd not expected from such a man. With understanding. "I know this is very frightening, but I have some good news for you. That revolting thing is as magical as a brick. It was someone playing a very unpleasant and particularly nasty trick. It's a complete fraud."
One of the other priests had come up too. "A fraud by a person who knew more than is good for them about black magic and its symbols, but a fraud nonetheless. The words on the strip that bind the bunch together are indeed some demon names. But two of them are misspelled and there are no words of summoning. And one of those is the demon associated with senile dementia and the others are of little relevance, either."
"But the smell . . ."
The other monks had come up by this time. "I think you put it in the right place," said one of them. "It has been dipped in night soil. Unpleasant and smelly, certainly, but quite unmagical. Of that we are certain."
"A pity," said the other. "I really thought, Diego, that at last we had a lead on these devil-worshipers."
The short dark saturnine one shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
Eneko patted Maria, reassuringly. "Although you're disappointed, I don't think Maria is."
Maria shuddered. "No. Not at all. But . . . are you sure it is harmless?"
"Absolutely certain. There is not even a trace of magic about this thing."
"The woman I interrupted didn't think so. She fought me like a mad thing. She obviously believed in it."
Eneko walked back to the pot. "You say this was her glove? A wealthy enemy, this one of yours."
Maria had come over to it, too. She looked at the glove. It was made of the finest blemish-free kid with small pearl studs. Yes. Someone wealthy beyond Maria's dreams of avarice. Someone who could afford to spend on a pair of gloves the kind of money that Maria didn't spend on clothes in a year.
She shook her head. "But who? I don't really have any enemies—not that hate me that much, surely? And I know hardly any wealthy people. Here on Corfu, at least."
"Hmm. Do you want this pot back right away? We might try divining on it if we fail in this project we're currently busy with," said Eneko. "It may not lead us any closer to the devil-worshipers we seek, but it may be a good idea to root out whatever fraud is preying on people and letting their worst natures lead them into this."
Maria looked at the pot and shuddered again. "I certainly don't want it back. Ever."