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They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. The struggle had dislodged the white wimple, which was evidently too large for her, and her black hair broke free, whirling like a whiplash about her head as her hands curled into fists, coming up to beat at his chest, her little teeth bared for attack. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings.
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