Holding the lamp over her rigid but beautiful features, Jonathan, with some anxiety, placed his hand upon her breast to ascertain whether the heart still beat. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. He was beautiful and perfect, his blue eyes smiling at her. She pushed at the closer of the two soldiers bearing the precious burden. “You permitted me then to call you my friend. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk.
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