Murder at Midnight (11 page)

A
FTER WAVING WHAT SHE’D WRITTEN IN THE AIR TO DRY
, Sophia handed the parchment scrap to Fabrizio. “Give this to the Zeanzis and return as fast as you can with their reply. Remember, your plan — good as it is — depends on secrecy.”

The rain was still coming down when Fabrizio burst out of the house. “With permission,” he called to the soldiers across the way. “May I do a small errand for my household?”

“Our orders are only to keep people out,” replied one of the soldiers.

Hiding the scrap of parchment in his tunic, Fabrizio ran off.

He reached Maria’s house quickly. When he knocked on the door, Maria looked out, appearing much as she had when Fabrizio first saw her in the Hall of Justice — begrimed with ink. Seeing him, she grinned and pulled him into the main room.

“Fabrizio! Look! We’ve put the press back together.”

The messy heap of odd pieces was gone, replaced by a large bulky table with six legs standing in the middle of the room. To Fabrizio’s eyes it looked like a wine or olive press, but there were no grapes, no olives, nor the smell of either. Two middle legs rose up to the ceiling where they seemed to be attached and connected by a crossbeam, through which a long screw had been placed. Underneath the crossbeam was a long screw with a pole inserted sideways. At the bottom of the screw a flat piece hovered above the tabletop.

As Fabrizio looked on, Maria’s father pushed the pole to the left, causing the screw to come down, which in turn caused its bottom flat piece to press onto a sheet of paper that lay atop the table.

Maria’s mother bent over, closely observing the place where this flat piece pressed against the paper.

“Up!” she called. Maria’s father pushed the pole in the opposite direction. The screw revolved, lifting the bottom plate from the table. As soon as it was high enough, Maria’s
mother stripped the paper away. Fabrizio could see that type — letter faceup — had been placed atop the table in something like a box.

Maria darted forward and, holding a great black ball of cloth, rubbed ink over the type. “Now you see what a printer’s devil does,” she told Fabrizio. “I just inked the type.”

Her mother, meanwhile, held the paper in her two hands and studied it.

“Well?” asked Maria’s father.

“It’s working!” said her mother with great relief. She placed another piece of paper beneath the bottom plate, atop the type. Maria’s father worked the rod; the screw went down and then up. The second piece of paper was drawn out.

“Mama,” said Maria, “show them to Fabrizio.”

The woman held out the two pieces of paper. Both contained a few words and they looked
exactly
the same.

“Forgive me. What does it say?” he asked.

Maria read what had been printed:

“It means that we’re not dead, that we’ve put the press back together, and we can take it apart and go elsewhere.”

“Where, hopefully, we will be appreciated,” put in Signora Zeanzi.

Fabrizio made a bow. “Signore, Signora, I offer my deepest congratulations. And with my mistress’s compliments,” he said to Maria’s father, “she wishes to know if you can … what you call … print something for her.” He handed him the parchment.

Signor Zeanzi studied it and bowed to Fabrizio. “My dear boy, I’m truly grateful for the kindness you have shown Maria. But, by my life, I swore to your Count Scarazoni that we’d leave Pergamontio as soon as possible. And that we would not print anything else here.”

“Signore, please, it’s the only way to save my master.”

“I don’t know … the danger —”

“Papa,” said Maria, “you made the promise to Count Scarazoni, not me. I can print it.”

Signor Zeanzi looked at his wife.

“Without the boy’s help we might not all be here,” she said.

Signor Zeanzi nodded and handed Maria the scrap of parchment. “So be it.”

Maria turned to Fabrizio. “How many do you need?”

“Enough for two hands.”

“Easy enough. But you’ll need to help.”

“Thank you. I must tell my mistress.”

Maria led him to the door. “The type will be set by the time you come back. We’ll do the printing, then. And you can tell me about your plan.”

“I’ll return as fast as I can,” said Fabrizio, and he sped home.

“Maria’s parents were able to put their printing machine back together,” he reported to Sophia. “I saw it working. It’s amazing, Mistress. They made two pieces of writing, which, with my own eyes, I could see were exactly the same. It’s truly magical.”

“Excellent,” said Sophia. “But will they do as we asked?”

“They won’t, but Maria and I can. I’ll need to go back and help her.”

“Good. Now, while you were gone, I went and told the soldiers that the prince suggested you bring a coffin to the trial and requested permission. So that, too, is done.”

“Mistress, forgive me, was it wise to tell anyone you’ve come home?”

Sophia blushed. “I didn’t think of that. They were just soldiers. We’ll hope for the best.” She tried to smile.

There was a knock on the door.

“Keep out of sight,” said Fabrizio and he ran to the door. One of the soldiers was standing there.

“Permission to visit the magician has been granted for this evening. A soldier will come for you this afternoon. Be ready.”

“Who grants it?” asked Fabrizio.

“Prince Cosimo.”

“Mistress,” said Fabrizio when he returned to Sophia with the news, “we don’t have much time. I still need to arrange for a donkey and cart. Then I must go to my friend and make those papers.”

“I wish I could do more.”

“Just stay completely hidden. In fact, best lock the door behind me.”

Sophia gave him a hug and let him out the door. The rain had stopped. As Fabrizio leaped out onto the street, he heard Mistress Sophia bolt the door behind him. Feeling a sense of urgency, he ran as hard as he could.

F
ABRIZIO DASHED TO
S
IGNOR
L
OTI’S OLIVE OIL STORE
around the corner. The old man was working on his oil press with two of his apprentices.

“Signore,” said Fabrizio, “I have no time to explain, but my master and mistress are in great distress and beg permission to borrow your cart and donkey this afternoon and evening.”

“I’m sorry to hear such news,” said Signor Loti, not for a moment ceasing to work the press. “But, of course, they may borrow it.”

“A million thanks, Signore,” cried Fabrizio. “I shall be back.” He tore away.

“I’ve been wondering where you were,” said Maria as she drew him into her house. “I have everything ready.”

Fabrizio looked around. “Where are your parents?”

“They don’t want to have anything to do with this job. So they went out. We have to do this alone.”

Fabrizio bowed. “Signorina Devil,” he said, “you need only tell me what to do.”

“I’ve set the type,” Maria explained. “And locked it in with the wedges.”

She handed Fabrizio an inky black ball of wool. “I need to keep my hands clean. So this time you’re the printer’s devil. There’s the ink.” She pointed to a wooden box in which cloth was stuffed. The cloth was black with ink. “Dip your pad in that ink and rub it over the letters. Do it as evenly as possible.”

“Like this?” Fabrizio asked.

“Not too much ink, nor too little.”

They set to work. Maria stripped away the first paper, looked at it, and held it up for Fabrizio to see.

“Forgive me,” he said, “I can’t read it very well.”

She laughed. “A printer’s devil has to read.”

Within the hour some fifty papers were printed. They spread them about the room to dry. Once dried they made a bundle, which Maria tied together with string. As they worked, Fabrizio told her about his plan.

“And do you really think it will work?”

“We have no choice.”

“When will you leave for the trial?” she asked.

“This afternoon.” Holding the papers in his arms, he went to the door and was just about to open it, when he halted.

“What’s the matter?” said Maria.

Fabrizio put his finger to his lips. “I heard a voice right outside.” He opened the window shutter a small gap, peeked out, and jumped back.

“What is it?”

“There’s a troop of blue coats out front.” He ran through the house to the back room and spied out. “No one.” He pulled open the door. “I’m going.”

“I’m going with you,” said Maria. “To make sure you’re safe.”

“What about your parents?”

“I’ll tell them later.”

“Maria …”

“Go!”

They jumped into the alley. Even as they did, a troop of blue coats appeared at the far end.

“Run!” cried Fabrizio, and he tore down the alley in the opposite direction. Maria was right at his heels. Only when Fabrizio was sure they were safe did he stop.

“What does it mean?” asked Maria.

“I don’t know. But I must make sure Mistress is safe.”

Running, Fabrizio took as roundabout a way as he knew. At every corner he checked for signs of soldiers. They saw many.

“Are they looking for you?” asked Maria.

“I hope not.”

They ran on and didn’t stop until they reached the Street of the Olive Merchants. When they arrived, Fabrizio stole a look around the corner.

A carriage stood in front of the house.

“Maria!”

She looked and saw what Fabrizio had seen: blue coats milling about Mangus’s door. The door had been broken.

The next moment Mistress Sophia was escorted out of the house and pushed into the carriage. It was a matter of moments until it lumbered away, the soldiers running after it.

M
ARIA AND
F
ABRIZIO RUSHED TO THE HOUSE AND STOOD
gazing helplessly in the direction in which the carriage had gone.

“I’m sure it was the prince who took her,” said Fabrizio. “Mistress should never have talked to the soldiers.”

They pushed the bashed-in door back into place as best they could, then stepped into the hallway. “It feels deserted,” said Fabrizio.

He led the way into the study, where they sat down. It was a long while before Fabrizio could speak again. When he did he said, “Cosimo will do anything to make certain Scarazoni is accused. You’ll see, he’ll be sure Master knows he has Mistress Sophia so he can make Master say it was Scarazoni who tried to topple the king.”

“Would your master do that?”

Fabrizio shrugged. “For Mistress’s sake he would. I would, too.”

“Then your whole plan is … gone.”

Fabrizio didn’t reply. He placed the bundle of papers they had printed on the table, and stared at it.

“Fabrizio …” Maria said after a while.

Fabrizio could not even look at her.

“I’ll take your mistress’s place. In the coffin.”

Fabrizio lifted his eyes. “You will?”

She nodded.

“It will be very dangerous.”

“I’m still willing.”

“W … why?”

“Look how awful your prince is. A murderer. He did all this to your master. And mistress. He tried to execute you. He destroyed our printing press. With DeLaBina, he had me arrested. Even if my parents and I go free, we’ll have to move. I want to do
something.”

“You’d have to lie in the coffin a long time. A really long time. And … there’s nothing sure about what will happen.”

Maria nodded again. “I still want to do it.”

“You’re not a devil. You’re an angel.” Fabrizio stood up. “Come. I’ll show you the coffin.”

After showing Maria the coffin and explaining about the false bottom, Fabrizio went out and returned with Signor Loti’s old gray donkey and his two-wheeled cart. He left it in the narrow alley behind the house. A load of hay was provided for the donkey, who was content to stand patiently, nibbling on his food.

In the alley, with no one watching, Fabrizio and Maria hauled the coffin from the house and set it onto the cart. It was heavy and bulky. Once it almost fell. But they managed to get it loaded and tied down. Fabrizio even placed a blanket inside for Maria’s comfort.

“We have to make sure you look like a ghost,” said Fabrizio.

They searched Mistress Sophia’s bedroom and found white powder, along with a white shift. Maria daubed her face, arms, and neck, even her red hair.

With everything ready, Fabrizio and Maria waited in the hallway for the soldiers to summon them.

“Fabrizio,” Maria said suddenly. “You’ve never told me when I’m supposed to show myself.”

“Mistress and I only agreed that she would listen to what was happening. She was going to decide for herself.”

Maria said nothing, but Fabrizio could see she was more nervous than before. “A million, million thanks for your courage,” he said.

Fabrizio kept looking outside, waiting for soldiers to come. Rapidly churning storm clouds had turned the sky dark. A cold wind rattled shutters and swirled the street dust. A clay pot was dislodged from some ledge and fell, smashing. Thunder rumbled. Fabrizio felt tense.

Finally, a knock sounded on the door.

Fabrizio jumped up and opened it. A soldier stood waiting.

“Signore,” said Fabrizio, “Prince Cosimo directed me to bring a coffin. My donkey and cart are out back.”

“Lead it around. Hurry.”

Fabrizio rushed into the study and grabbed the papers. He and Maria dashed through the courtyard and out into the alley. They opened the coffin lid. Maria climbed in and lay down. Fabrizio placed the papers on her chest.

“Ready?”

“I hope so.”

“God keep you safe,” Fabrizio whispered, then he set the false bottom over her. A few pounds of his fist and it snapped in.

It was late afternoon when they set off, the sun lost in the lowering skies. Fabrizio led the donkey by a short, frayed rope. The plodding, long-eared beast made no protest, no sound, and very little speed. The two-wheeled cart trundled along with considerable clatter. The coffin, though tied down, bounced. Ahead of them, a soldier, carrying a sword, marched.

The air had grown cold, with occasional winds slapping down in short wet bursts. It made the stone-paved road they were following slippery, leading as it did steeply uphill. The road was twisty, too, now and again doubling back, winding its narrow way between closely clustered houses. Fortunately, the donkey proved sure-footed.

The few people out on the streets paused respectfully when they saw the coffin roll by. Fabrizio had no trouble looking solemn. He felt it. He grew even more so when black birds, high in the darkening sky, wheeled and called
raucously, making him wonder if they were giving him a warning.

He glanced back at the donkey cart, hoping that Maria was comfortable. For his own part, he brooded over the things that might go wrong. So many! Would they be able to free Master? What had happened to Mistress? Would Maria suffer? Would he?

Now and again he stole looks at the summit, where the vast Castello was perched. With every step they took it seemed to grow larger and more menacing. He was already chilled. To see the fortifications loom so made him feel colder, tenser. The Castello seemed to be so full of power and he so powerless.
I think that’s why I love magic,
he told himself.
It gives secret powers.

By the time they reached the Castello’s outer walls, twilight had come. The great gray stones and darkening skies seemed to meld. The wind had picked up. Rain showers spit down out of the churning mists with increasing frequency and force. Everything seemed soaked in damp, gray rot.

They skirted the fortification walls and reached the place they had come the night before. With shoulders scrunched, cold rain trickling down his neck, puddles gathering around his feet, Fabrizio peered around. He could see now: The crypt was adjacent to, though not quite part of, the Castello.

The lead soldier guided them to the door Fabrizio had used the night before. A few shivering soldiers stood on guard. The door was unlocked. Fabrizio was ordered to enter.

“With permission, Signore,” said Fabrizio, “I’ll need help with the coffin.”

“Who is it for?”

“My master is on trial, and alas, it may be for him.”

“Ah! Mangus the Magician!”

“Yes, Signore.”

“You’re right,” said the soldier. “He’ll need it.”

“Wait!” said another. “We’ve been ordered to check everything that goes in.” He approached the coffin and lifted the lid.

Fabrizio, heart pounding, watched.

The soldier looked in. “Nothing,” he announced and dropped the lid.

Three of the soldiers gripped the coffin handles. Fabrizio grasped another. Like pallbearers, they marched through the entryway.

The door slammed behind them.