The Procurator's son wasn't the only man under Giovanna's care who had survived the night. When she arrived home, her father—albeit tremendously weak and continuously feverish—was thankfully also still alive.

While helping him drink a cupful of bone broth infused with basil and ginger, Giovanna inspected the buboes on his neck and torso. Although red and swollen, they weren't nearly as bad as some other cases she had observed. Their lack of intensity most likely attributed to the doctor's continued survival, and while many of the plague's victims died within the first twenty-four hours after first contact, Agostino Rienzo had made it past that hurdle. His chances at full recovery were now much greater.

Content with her father's progress, Giovanna finally allowed herself to rest. Yet slumber wouldn't come as her mind filled with anxious thoughts. After cracking open one of her father's medical books, Giovanna's vision soon blurred as her heavy eyelids drooped. Intending to sleep for no more than an hour, she awoke from her cot with the sun high in the sky. In spite of amusing dreams involving a dark-haired boy chasing her, she was less cross with herself for nearly sleeping the whole day away than at the realization that she wished he'd caught her before waking.

Matteo Barozzi was dangerous. Not explicitly, of course. Why, before last night Giovanna had never even met him. But she had known of him, and most importantly, of men like him. Second only to Niccolo Grimani among bachelors within the city who sat so close to power they could taste it, he may have seemed tempting—oh, so tempting—but she had to keep her distance. That's why she had made one of her demands last night that he stay away from her. It may have appeared to him that it was to keep her father's secret safe, but it also ensured to guard her heart. Ottavia's dread of becoming tied to the man whose family openly ruled Venice politically and in the shadows economically had been a forewarning that Giovanna could not ignore. And while her poor friend had no choice in the matter, she wouldn't have risked her own future for a fleeting dalliance.

Not that it could ever become a possibility, anyway. Matteo most likely looked down on girls like her. Girls whose family name couldn't be found in the great book or who had to work for coin to keep food on their table. His appreciation last night came from a place of delirium rather than conscience. If their paths were to cross along the canals, she was sure he'd have no trouble keeping to his promise of looking away.

For a brief moment, that determination made Giovanna's heart ache. But just as quickly, she realized that Matteo wasn't less threatening than Nicco, but rather easily surpassed him. Because while Nicco had very little chance of ever ascending to his father's position of Doge because of the nature of Venetian politics, Matteo was practically guaranteed his place as Procurator.

But enough of daydreaming!

Jumping to her feet, Giovanna diverted her attention to more important things by inspecting her stock of medicinal ingredients. Having brewed numerous batches of elixirs the previous day, she'd depleted several of her most useful materials needed to make the healing potions. Although some supplies like turmeric and honey could be easily procured at a local market stall, many of her special herbs and fungi had to be harvested on the mainland.

Although Giovanna hated to leave her father alone again, she felt as though she had no choice. After giving him more of the broth and finishing the rest herself with a bit of dried bread, she reluctantly donned her cloak, grabbed a wicker basket, and set off.

She walked to the canal behind San Polo's church and found one of her favorite oarsmen there. The Republic paid her father's monthly stipend, and along with it, his transportation costs. As his assistant, Giovanna could utilize his running bill throughout the city and only needed a polite nod and smile to secure a lift.

"The southern tip of the Mestre, Signore, across from the San Giuliano islet," she instructed the man as he dipped his paddles into the water. "I will start my search in the forest today before it gets too dark."

"Yes, Signora," he replied as he began to row for his usual fifteen ducats.

In smooth waters, the trip was expected to take less than a half an hour. First winding up north to the Canal Grande, then cutting across to the cannaregio tributary that gave the adjacent neighborhood its name, the boat glided peacefully over the green-tinted water, under the shadows of buildings and past other small craft, giving Giovanna ample time to ponder the peculiarities of her home.

Even after almost a millennium of existence, Venice was constantly changing. The past remained infuriatingly inescapable, the present proved to be gratifyingly unstoppable, and the future seemed to be strangely unpredictable. And it was all thanks to geography.

Everyone knew that water was life, but there were few places that this was truer than in Venice. Certainly the lagoon provided safety, transportation, and food for those willing to sacrifice a conventional lifestyle for it. But the canals were also the heart and soul of the economy, the politics, and most importantly, the culture of the one-of-a-kind city where locals could identify an outsider merely by his dialect, or more precisely, his lack of one.

Because Venetians not only vocalized in a distinct, lilting cadence unlike anywhere else on the Apennine peninsula, but they also created their own terminology heavily influenced by German and Greek tongues. So a visitor to the city would see calle on a map labeling an alley instead of the Roman via, go to an apoteca for a healing tonic instead of a farmacia, and ask for a plate of bigolo instead of spaghetti. It was a not-so-secret, yet peculiar code for those who belonged to the islands.

As much as the distinctive language, the ever-present water defined Venice both building it up while also tearing it down. The tides shaped the layout of dozens of islands as deposits of silt shifted with each ebb and flow, forcing Venetians to heed as much attention to keeping the soil under their feet as an army would devote to managing an invading force.

The sea was an enemy as much as it was an ally. It was a master as much as it was a servant. And it was a descendant as much as it was an ancestor.

Every element of design was functional, but that didn't mean that it was lacking in beauty. There was literally no room to spare, which meant that architectural attributes almost always served a dual purpose of both utility and decoration. An arched tympanum over a doorway doubled as a window, a balcony extended the living quarters while allowing for a better view of the canals, and a portico offered shade along with classical elegance.

The city grew by strict design. The incalculable number of piles driven laboriously into the sediment to stabilize the islands were placed to follow the natural curve of the original canals. Yet in spite of men's carefully devised plans, la Serenissima occasionally took fate into her own hands. When fire destroyed several small, but ancient buildings near the Rialto in 1513, a parcel of land was kept undeveloped as a communal square, bringing a collegial feel to the neighborhood despite the much larger and more imposing structures erected in place of those lost.

But this type of reconstruction in Venice was also quite rare. Once something had been built, it was expected to stand forever. So even by 1630, this had become a city where old and new coexisted. Progress was organic. There was an appreciation of history and heritage alongside a thirst for innovation and advancement. There was an overwhelming desire for progress, but an equally strong reverence for tradition. It was a city of contradictions.

The meadows and forests of the mainland didn't excite Giovanna nearly as much, but they did provide most of the balms of her father's trade. As the rowboat moored at a small dock whose thick pillars were flanked by dry reeds, she gathered her cloak around herself and disembarked.

"I shall be no longer than an hour," she promised, just as San Marco's bell tower struck four.

Although the shoreline was swampy marshland, immediately past the tall grasses was a forest comprised mostly of poplar and oak. These trees held no particular importance for Giovanna except in that they grew far enough from each other to leave room for the low-growing flowers, mushrooms, and bushes she sought. Of course, flowering herbs like chamomile, calendula and lavender wouldn't reappear until spring at the earliest, and fruit or seeds such as elderberries and fennel only ripened by the fall, but there were still other treasures to be found on a chilly late-winter day. 

Starting in a familiar clearing between a mossy rock outcropping and a softly trickling stream, Giovanna set to work. She filled her basket first with rose hips consisting of the plump spheres where once radiant petals bloomed. They ranged in color from bright yellows to deep reds and would make excellent teas to ward away colds and maintain general health. She then picked wild mint to aid with digestion and cure insomnia, followed by the unripened, green berries of the juniper shrub. The small, pungent balls didn't get a chance to mature into juicy, blue berries before the first frost, but they would be useful against all kinds of urinary ailments when properly prepared. Finally, under the warm glow of the setting sun, Giovanna foraged for mushrooms.

Hoping to find the hearty, yellowish funnels of the galletti, she could already taste the delicious stew the aromatic fungi would make. The relatively mild, but wet weather in the Veneto recently provided the perfect conditions for their growth, and Giovanna quickly found a large cluster of the scallop-edged mushrooms on a decaying tree stump. Kneeling on a clump of damp leaves, she began to carefully pick as many as would still fit in her increasingly full basket when she heard a noise behind her.

It was just the crack of a twig, but in a forest that had until then been eerily quiet, the interruption was jarring. Setting the basket down, Giovanna turned around even as the thumping of her heart echoed in her ears.

"Who's there?"

The answer came in the form of light, shuffling footsteps in the fallen foliage.

Slowly standing, Giovanna clutched the basket to her chest in protection. "Please, reveal yourself," she asked with a shaky voice.

Another branch snapped before a sly predator slinked out from underneath a hawthorn bush. It's russet coat practically shone in the dying sunlight, making the absence of color in the tufts of white at the end of its tail and throat that much more prominent.

Giovanna gasped and instinctively took a step back.

A single fox was often seen as a harbinger of good luck, but as duplicitous these beautiful, yet often harmful creatures could be—just ask a peasant's wife who'd had her coop robbed of chickens—so double-edged too was the lore associated with them. Crossing paths with a fox was an omen to keep your wits about you. It warned that there was either danger around or, in the very least, you'd need to be extra alert and ready to use measured thinking to get out of a tricky situation.

That was no less true now judging by the animal's bared teeth and guttural growling.

"Stay back," Giovanna urged, her open palm extended in emphasis. "I mean you no harm."

The fox not only continued to display aggression, but it also kept advancing.

Looking for an escape, Giovanna's eyes darted from one side of the clearing to another, but there were too many rocks, logs, and plants in the way. She was certain she couldn't outrun the animal. A broken branch nearby, however, was just big enough to do damage with a good blow, yet small enough to pick up. Grabbing the end, Giovanna held it out in front of her and swung it from side to side.

"Go away! Shoo!"

The fox opened its mouth even wider, baring its sharp eye teeth while throwing its black-tipped ears back. The scream that emerged put a chill down Giovanna's spine and she retreated even more. Only the hard bark of a tree at her back made her stop.

"Who are you?" came the question in a child's voice from somewhere nearby.

"What? Where—?" Giovanna asked, turning her attention away from the animal to search within the surrounding foliage. To her right, just out of her peripheral view, she caught sight of a light dress through the dry branches of a wild rose bush. "Oh. Don't come any closer," she warned. "There is a dangerous animal here—"

"She won't hurt me," said the girl as she stepped forward, her long, fair hair bouncing with every step.

Thin and delicate, she walked with purpose, and for a moment, Giovanna was ashamed for her own lack of courage when facing a wild animal a tenth of her size compared to a child a quarter of her age.

"How can you be certain? Do you live in these parts?" Giovanna asked as the little girl neared.

She laughed, her voice tinkling with the happiness only found in children. "Yes, and no. I live where my Papa takes me," she said as she stopped next to Giovanna. Rolling up the sleeve of her threadbare dress, she held out her arm. "And I know she won't hurt me because she's my friend."

Giovanna's eyes tried to focus on the scene in front of her, but she was sure the light and shock of the situation were playing tricks on her. Because what she saw on the girl's small wrist was the mangled scarring of flesh that had been violently ripped and skin that had haphazardly healed.

"No friend would do this to you," she whispered, reaching to take the girl's hand in hers.

The girl touched the closed wounds, rubbing her fingers over the dark scars. "Oh, but you don't understand. I am completely healed, and nothing bad can happen to me now. She has kept me safe."

Giovanna didn't understand, but she was also at a loss for words. What type of delusion made this child believe that anything good could have come from a fox's bite? Or that the animal had even purposefully attacked just to keep her from further harm?

Yet, as if to reinforce her beliefs, the girl pulled her arm from Giovanna's hold and headed to the fox. After crouching down beside it, she threw her spindly arms around the animal in a familiar embrace.

To Giovanna's surprise, the fox's demeanor automatically changed. Its lips relaxed, the jaws closed, the ears perked up and its frightful scream was replaced with what could have only been described as happy chirping.

"See?" asked the girl, stroking the animal's shiny fur. "Would you—?"

She didn't get to finish the question. Instead, as the sound of shuffling in the dry underbrush rang out, a look of horror washed over her face.

"What is it?" Giovanna asked, as the girl jumped to her feet and searched the growing shadows in the distance for the source of the disturbance.

She shook her head. "You must go now. Run! Don't look back."

With everything she'd just seen, Giovanna didn't need to be told twice. Grabbing her discarded basket, she idled just long enough to see the fox run off into the direction of the footsteps. The girl quickly followed. Because that was also her way back to the rowboat, Giovanna had to take the long way around. Running amongst the trees, over rocks and under branches, she thought she was almost back on the right track when an unseen obstacle tripped her up.

Flying through the air, Giovanna didn't have a chance to guard her head against the rock laying in her path before she crashed to the ground.