Although the island's name unwittingly invoked the man miraculously brought back to life in the Gospel of John, everything about Lazzaretto Vecchio was reminiscent of death.

The air reeked of rot so strong that not even the quicklime used to bury the corpses could fully cover the stench. It mixed with the sweet aroma of sage and rosemary smoldering in clay pots scattered throughout the courtyards, the smoke creating a low haze where the spirits of the newly departed could wander undetected. Highly unusual for a region built on maritime activities, there was also just a single dock, and even this was placed outside a protective wall. Formed by a maze of red-brick buildings lining most of the perimeter, the design was just as much to detain the sick inside, as it was to keep the well out.

But of all the morbidity imbued into the old lazaret, the near silence was the most ominous. Not even sea gulls—so prevalent elsewhere in the Veneto—flew over the island of disease. Their hungry cries were off in the distance, far enough away to avoid the Lazzaretto altogether. The only sounds here were the quiet lapping of the tides against the reinforced shore where small boats tethered, the reticent shuffling of footsteps of new arrivals heading to the infirmary, and the repetitive creaking of cart wheels taking their eventually deceased bodies to their final resting places.

While the birds instinctively chose to avoid the wretched isle, the presence of human visitors was regulated by law. Those who showed any signs of illness were naturally condemned to stay either until recovery or—more likely—death. Oarsmen who ferried these latest victims of the plague here like ethereal gondoliers delivering them to Pluto underwent strictly prescribed steps to purge themselves of the miasma before returning to the main island. Casual callers meanwhile were outright banned for fear of spreading the pestilence across the lagoon.

But Giovanna Visconti was a rare exception.

Staying on the worn path leading away from where her rowboat waited, the young woman kept her head down and quickened her stride. With one hand, she held her long cloak tightly around her body, more as an act of personal reassurance—she came out of necessity rather than desire—and less to keep out the February chill. With her other hand, Giovanna pressed a thick scarf against her shapely mouth and dainty nose. It was of little use. In spite of the spices sprinkled onto the fabric, every staggered breath she took was still filled with the smell of pain and suffering.

It was an odor she had gotten to know well—much too well—over the last two seasons, yet no amount of familiarity could ever bring her to truly get used to it. Taking the last one hundred meters at a sprint, Giovanna skidded to a stop in the hospital's open doorway. From above, a carved stone relief of three, toga-wearing men topped with St. Mark's ubiquitous lion stared down. Between the figures, the number 1423 was etched.

1423. That was the year—after the first major plague wave swept across Venice, but before the historical second instance—that this facility for the gravely sick opened. Two hundred and seven years later, tens of thousands were once again dying at an alarming rate for the third time. Incredibly, because of the Great Council's forethought and the existence of places like the Lazzaretto, those numbers were kept from climbing even higher.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about this island. It was one of hundreds of almost identical, tiny outcroppings along the shoreline dotting the lagoon, formed by silt deposits within the Adriatic marshlands. Its greatest feature was its location to its neighboring landmasses: close enough for observation, yet far enough for quarantine, the quaranta giorni or forty-days, which was the required duration of isolation for disease prevention. There was little need here for a semblance of opulence or guise of comfort that could be easily found in Venice proper just a two kilometer boat ride away. Because all of the unfortunate souls brought to the convalescence facilities on Lazzaretto Vecchio were dying. And most would never leave.

That tragic outcome, however, was due to the nature of the horrid disease, not for the lack of care. The sisters of St. Mary of Nazareth who ran this hospital used the latest treatments and thankfully believed in the medicinal properties of vapors—both good and bad. Leaving all doors and windows open to circulate the fresh, sea air into the sick wards while replacing the stale, disease-ridden air inside was a practice Giovanna's own father had persuaded them to adopt. It was he whom she sought now, but the most revered plague doctor in all of Venice could be anywhere in the sprawling compound.

Pushing the thick, wool hood off her hastily upswept dark hair, but keeping a firm hold on the scarf on her mouth, Giovanna stepped inside the building. Candle flames flickered from the slight breeze in the entryway that branched into two corridors. Giovanna took the one to the left, her steps echoing off the stone floor in spite of walking with the utmost care in order to cause the least disturbance.

The long, narrow room held hundreds of patients. A few coughed, others moaned, and some even sobbed. But most just lay in bed—some packed two or three wide—and awaited death. It would come soon enough. And even those who survived the agonizing fever of the first few days often wished it had taken them in the end.

"Signora," a reclining man called to her, reaching out with a frail hand. "Will you get a message to my wife in Murano? Tell her that I love her and not to worry for me."

Giovanna kept walking, but nodded in the invalid's direction as she passed by. "You shall tell her yourself when you are well," she replied over the swish of her billowing skirts, hoping he'd understand she meant kindness and not disdain. But as much as she pitied him, she couldn't acquiesce for fear of becoming inundated with such requests. It was simpler to relay hope than to make empty promises. Still, she hated herself for choosing the easy path.

Of course, there was a small chance her wish for the stranger could materialize. While most who took ill quickly succumbed to their ailments, a small proportion had been known to recover. Their pain was considerable and their suffering was lengthy, but once well again, they could freely come in contact with the disease and not catch it for a second time.

Reaching the far end of the room and finding only more patients, Giovanna turned the corner. An identical setup with beds lining either side under open windows met her. But at least here, a woman in a dark habit was tending to the sick. Although this particular nun was unfamiliar to her, Giovanna rushed over.

"Good day, Suora. I am looking for my father Dottore Agostini Rienzo. Have you seen him?" she asked, wringing her hands anxiously after dropping the scented scarf to her neck. The subsequent breath of foul air left a bitter taste in the back of her throat and made her gag.

The nun gave her a sympathetic look and hugged to her chest the clay jug she'd been carrying. "The Dottore? Yes, of course. He has been here for days. We are blessed to have—"

"I'm sorry, but I must know where I can find him," Giovanna cut her off, trying her best to breathe through her mouth.

There was no need to hear of her father's importance. She knew of it well. She was also aware of his prolonged absence from home after he hadn't returned for two whole nights. It was unusually careless for the oft predictable man. But at least now she had confirmation of his general whereabouts. Worry that he had been assaulted by robbers in a dark alley or kidnapped to a faraway land was what had driven her to begin the search today. She couldn't have waited another day to see him safe.

The older woman shrugged. "The last I saw of him was during morning prayers in the chapel. But perhaps Suora Violetta can assist you," she said, motioning to the woman who'd just entered on the far side.

"Thank you," Giovanna said before hurrying along. By the time she had made it to the end the long room, Suora Violetta was busy helping a flushed woman with disheveled hair drink.

"I will be with you momentarily," the second nun said without turning when Giovanna stopped behind her.

Respecting the polite command to wait from the woman who had been a regular fixture in the infirmary since the beginning of the outbreak, Giovanna stepped backward unaware of how close the adjacent bed really was. After bumping into the mattress, she muttered an automatic, "Pardon me," before her gaze fell on the bed's occupant.

The man was gaunt, his tan skin stretching across his cheekbones like worn leather, which made the fist-sized protrusions on both sides of his neck even more obvious. His dirty blonde hair was also long and unkept, almost reaching to his bony shoulders that he clawed at with one hand.

"It itches. It itches so much," he said as his bloody fingers scraped the skin raw.

"You mustn't . . .," Giovanna began, but she fell silent when she caught herself reaching for the man. She shouldn't come into physical contact with him no matter how much the fever-induced frenzy overtook him. And she definitely couldn't touch his buboes, not even with the gloves on her hands that nearly everyone in Venice was wearing these days. It was one of the few things she had to promise to get access to the island, and she had no reservations about doing so.

Sticking her hands in her pockets, she looked at him with sadness. "Please don't do that. You are only making it worse," she said.

The man let out a weak laugh that ended with a wrenching cough. "There's nothing worse than this," he said hoarsely, a stream of spittle hanging from his chin. "Get out and save yourself while you still can."

Giovanna turned away, overcome by shame. She couldn't tell the dying man that she wasn't in danger. That in more than half a year of being exposed almost daily to the disease, she had never even had as much as an elevated temperature or stomach ache. And it wasn't because she had recovered and was now protected. No, she was among the lucky few who never contracted the plague at all. Just like her father.

"What is it, child?" Suora Violetta's question snapped her back to attention.

"I . . . I," Giovanna began, but her gaze had inadvertently returned to the man. He'd stopped the scratching, but a scab on his left shoulder appeared to move. The more she stared at the raised bump the more absurd it seemed, yet the bloody, red spot continued to jiggle. Giovanna was mesmerized, unable to speak as she watched a thin, black thread poke through. It was quickly followed by another, then two more before the wound burst open to reveal a fully formed fly, unfurling its shiny wing and stretching its scraggly legs.

Giovanna screamed. Backing away, she forgot about Suora Violetta and her need to ask about her father's whereabouts. All that mattered was getting away, getting out of the sick ward, getting anywhere, but there.