Page 5

Yes, she could fix it, Sanchia thought in weary exasperation, but it would take all night and most of tomorrow.

Thank the saints Bartolomeo had put the rest of the folio neatly away in the cabinet as soon as he had finished setting the type for each leaf, or this accident could have been a true catastrophe.

He had only left these last two leaves out to have them in readiness to set the type early tomorrow morning.

Though this disaster was certainly bad enough.

Messer Rudolfo was a scholar as well as a merchant, and he would have been furious to have his original Convivio destroyed.

He might have yielded to the current fashion of having copies of books in his library printed on the modern marvel of a printing press, but he still had a fondness for the beauty of the originals as well as a merchant’s appreciation for their intrinsic worth.

She would have not only to replace Rudolfo’s original leaves with two of equally fine script but to start setting the type herself tonight.

She and Bartolomeo had judged it would take both of them working at high speed from the first light of dawn tomorrow to print those last two leaves and finish on time.

Now that Bartolomeo would be forced to do the printing alone while she did the hand copying, some of the typesetting must be done tonight.

“I’ll clean off the table.”

Sanchia turned to see Piero at the door leading to the small storage room.

He was rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands and looked endearingly tousled and warm, even younger than his six years.

She felt a rush of affection and suddenly the world didn’t seem such a grim place.

Life had its ugly patches but it wasn’t all ugly.

There were children like Piero and beautiful words on parchment and probably hundreds of other wonderful things she couldn’t recall or still had to learn about.

“Go back to your pallet,” she said gently. “I can do this myself.”

He shook his head as he came over to the table and began to clean up the shards of pottery.

His small, sturdy body was swaying a little and he was almost asleep on his feet, she thought tenderly.

Yet she knew he would stubbornly continue to try to help her.

Yes, there were many wonderful things that men like Caprino and Giovanni couldn’t besmirch, and companionship and love were two of them.

“I’ll get Bartolomeo up.” Piero carried the pottery shards to the big straw basket across the room. “He can set the type.”

Sanchia shook her head. “Bartolomeo went to sleep only an hour ago.”

“You haven’t slept at all,” Piero answered. “I’ll get Bartolomeo up.” He disappeared into the room where the four of them slept.

A moment later Sanchia heard the grumbling protests of a very sleepy Bartolomeo and then Piero’s determined voice. “No, I won’t let you go back to sleep. Sanchia needs us.”

Sanchia smiled. Young as he was, Piero could never be deterred once he had decided something must be done.

Her smile faded when she remembered it was only his stubbornness that had kept him alive when his mother had abandoned him to the streets and gone into one of Caprino’s brothels.

Piero had been like a fierce young animal for weeks after Sanchia had found him in an alley off the Piazza della Signoria two years before.

Bartolomeo was yawning as he appeared in the doorway. “Sanchia, I don’t—” He stopped, suddenly awake, and shouted, “Dio! Can you save anything?”

Sanchia shook her head. “They’ll both have to be recopied.”

Bartolomeo glowered at the door leading to the room where Giovanni lay snoring.

“It’s the third time this month. Soon no one will come to him.

Messer Arcolo does much better work and doesn’t drink like a swilling pig.

” His gaze went with possessive pride to the printing press crouching like a giant wooden grasshopper across the room.

“Giovanni doesn’t deserve such a fine instrument. It’s wasted on him.”

“But not on you,” Sanchia said affectionately. “I don’t know if you are mother to that press or it is mother to you.”

Piero was tugging at Bartolomeo’s wool shirt. “Set the type.”

“Dio , give me a minute.” Bartolomeo frowned down at Piero. “Will you at least let me wash the sleep from my eyes?”

Piero shook his head. “Sanchia needs you. She’s tired and wants to go to bed.”

Sanchia made a face. “There’ll be no sleep for me tonight.” She handed Bartolomeo the leaf that could still be read. “If you can get this now, I’ll try to have the other leaf recopied by morning.”

Bartolomeo nodded briskly as he glanced down at the page.

His drowsiness had completely vanished, and Sanchia could see the familiar eagerness light his face as he imagined changing the elegant script to his beloved block print.

“I can do it.” His tone was already abstracted as he crossed the room.

“It will only take…” He trailed off as his fingers began sorting through the letter blocks.

Piero finished cleaning off the table and then began moving about the room putting things in order.

Sanchia went to the cabinet, drew out a leaf of Giovanni’s finest parchment, crossed back to the scribe table, and seated herself.

She glanced at the ruined document and quickly set it aside.

No help there; the letters had run together until they were completely indistinguishable.

Thank the saints she had read the entire work earlier in the week, as she almost always did when Giovanni received a new commission.

It was the third Convivio the print shop had copied this year, but there were several tiny differences she had noted in this version.

Rudolfo’s folio had been obtained from the monks of a Franciscan monastery, and the holy man who had copied Dante’s work had arrogantly deleted a number of sentences and added others.

It would be futile to hope that a scholar like Messer Rudolfo had not pored over these leaves until he had memorized them to the last stroke of the pen.

Piero dropped onto the floor beside her chair and leaned his head against her knee. She absently stroked his fair hair as she tried to clear her mind of weariness.

She felt a sudden rush of panic. What if she couldn’t do it this time?

What if she couldn’t remember? She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself.

There was no reason why she shouldn’t remember.

Since she was a small child she had been able to remember everything she had seen down to the tiniest detail.

Surely she hadn’t lost the ability now that she needed it so desperately.

God was not always kind, but he couldn’t be so cruel as to take away this gift.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax, willing memory to return to her.

And it did!

The leaf was suddenly before her with all its willful inaccuracies. Sweet Mary be praised, Sanchia thought with relief.

Her lids flicked open and she quickly reached for the quill.