• What are you doing?
    The voice was demanding.
    Trying to save your son. The other voice oddly calm and collected.
    I tried to open my mouth, but only a faint noise escaped.
    Stop! You're distressing him!
    I'm helping him. Come, Parysse.
    I could see a shadow come over me through my eyelids. That invsible pressure one gets when another is close by seemed to crush me against my sheets and blanket. But still, I couldn't move.
    What are you doing? The voice was growing more persistant and angry.
    If anyone is unsettling him it's you Horatio.
    Heavy footsteps. Pacing. I wished they would move the blanket, I was growing so hot.
    Please sit, Horatio. A feminine voice.
    Listen to her. This...is for the good.
    A horrible sensation in my arm, like a hot needle made of ice. It seemed to go straight through me and before I realized it, I shouted out.
    A crash. The female voice shreiked. Horatio!
    The most ear splitting scream I ever heard in my life.
    Then silence.





    Chapter One

    I was still feverish when I woke up on the side of the road.
    The cool morning dew was somewhat refreshing and the breeze that swept the countryside blew across my face. A whisper of nature, urging me to awaken.
    Pushing myself up on my elbows, I opened drowsy eyes and inspected my setting. My grassy bed was sheltered by the branches of a willow tree, bending about me like a canopy. The sky was a steel gray, and the dirt road to my left was barren.
    Up the road, a familiar estate sat nestled between two ancient oaks and a wrapped tightly in lacy ivy. The pond that graced its lawn was covered in algeae. Were its inhabitants away? Or neglectful?
    I knew one of its residents was lying on the side of the road, shaken and feverish. Standing, I began walking, or rather staggering back towards my home. The harshness of the rocky road taking its toll on my feet.

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    I stood before the great oak doors of Grosvenors Estate, shivering despite the warmth of the day.
    I had come to realize two terrible things on my way to my home. One was, I was wearing Death Attire, a simple cotton white clothing set consisting of a shirt and pants. It was worn on the day the deceased was lay to rest. The Death Attire is formally completed with a jewel encrested collar and some items belonging to the deceased.
    The fact that I had neither caused me to wonder.
    The second thing I realized occured when I was standing before the doors of the estate.
    A Death Crest.
    They were only brought out when someone in a house died, that way guests or merchants would be aware that the family was mourning. I had only seen it once, when my grandfather had died, but now, I felt an involuntarily jerk of my nerves, starting from my head, down to my toes.
    Did they think I was...dead?
    I suddenly let my hand, that had been inches from the wood, fall against the door. Then again. Again. Again. Harder. Even Harder.
    I could've stood there pounding all day hadn't it been for Marianna, a maid, who opened the door just a sliver at first, and seeing who it was, gasped.
    "Marianna, please let me see mother and father"
    "This is cruel!" she retorted, "Don't you see the crest? They are mourning their loss!"
    "Loss of whom?"
    "Of their son, Fiorello Grosvenor"
    "But I'm Fiorello!"
    "A cruel joke," Marianna continued, "Be on your way, they are not expecting any guests"
    During the course of our conversation, Marianna had opened the door a little wider, so I suppose it was by luck that I saw the shadow like figure slip silently down the great staircase and make for the kitchen.
    "Father!"
    The figure stopped and Marianna turned quickly.
    "Master Grosvenor, it is only one of the city boys playing a cruel joke"
    "No! It's me, Fiorello!" I said, feeling hot tears pushing against my eyes. I forced my mind to conjure up the most personal memories my father and I shared.
    "Remember when I broke my wrist and you kept me company the entire time?" I asked, "Or when I got sick and....and...."
    I got sick and what? Died?
    While I was trying to rack my mind, father had been edging closer and closer until he completely blocked Marianna off with his immensity.
    "Really," he said, his face creased with lines, "Who are you?"
    "I-I'm your son"
    Perhaps it was the sincereity in my voice or perhaps he saw a resemblance in my face to his or mothers, but turning to Marianna, he spat in a tone of impatience, "Get him a room,"
    "In the house?" Marianna inquired, growing pale.
    "No...above the stables"
    Marianna nodded, "You," she said to me, "Wait here"
    I felt a hot rush of heat pulse through my face, and leaning against the warm stone steps of the estate, I wished desperatley I could just wake up from this nightmare.





    Chapter Two

    Mother had gotten wind of my coming.
    I could hear her from the stables, shouting to father to let her come and see me, but father would retaliate in the voice he reserved for the servants who dared disobey.
    "Stay here, Ophelia! I don't know if he is a spirit, or something else, but you will stay here and leave whoever or whatever that is be!"
    I had been standing in the open doorway of the stables listening, and when I heard enough, I turned, climbing the ladder and nestled into the crunchy hay; pulling the quilt Marianna gave my around my legs.
    Now, I hadn't been asleep for half an hour when I heard the music.
    It jarred me awake, and thinking it was coming from my house, I climbed back down the ladder and peeked into the still night. All the lights were off and the world was quiet and still.
    Then, the lilting tune of a violin.
    "I heard this before!" I said to myself. But where?
    In the tomb? Yes! It was essentially what woke me up. I had thought it was a requiem, a funeral hymn. It frightened me for a moment, for I thought I was truly dead, then I woke up along the road. Surely, that was all a dream...
    I leaned out into the empty darkness, feeling the icy wind sting my face and whip through my meager Death Attire. At that moment, a powerful feeling came over me. I couldn't take it. I couldn't just live out above the stables while my family slept comfortably indoors. I would have to prove somehow that I wasn't dead. But how?
    Then it hit me.
    Dr. Rousseau.
    The greatest enemy of fathers, but probably the only one who could help me now.
    Wrapping the quilt around my shoulders, I darted outside and down the road towards the city.

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    I hadn't really been in the city before. Once or twice long ago when I was a small child. From what I vaguely remembered though, the city changed greatly. The once compact lively world I knew became emptier. Quieter. The shops and narrow houses looked like skeletons. Rats, bold and ugly raced about the streets, scurrying into crumbling foundation and around my feet. Disgusted, I kicked to shoo them away, but wound up kicking on a cloud of ash.
    I vaugely remembered where Dr. Rousseau was. If I remember correctly, it was on one of the biggest hills in Florence. I presently found myself standing before it, nervously as my mind flipped back and forth. What would he do when he saw his enemies child standing at his door? Not send him away, I hoped.
    I knocked lightly, and waited. Soon, Dr. Rousseau appeared unchanged from when I last saw him. When he saw me however, his eyes grew as wide as the wheels on carts.
    "It cannot be..." he murmured.
    "Dr. Rousseau, you must help me. My parents think I am dead and won't take me in, but I'm not dead...if I'm standing here before you know..."
    "How can I?"
    "They'll listen to you because you're a doctor. You could write them, saying I'm very much alive,"
    His grayish eyes darted from me, to something beyond, then back again. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the door.
    "Come in"
    When I stepped through the threshold, I was instantly hit with the strong smells of alcohol and herbs. Vials and bottles were stacked on shelves up to the ceiling, but it wasn't here that Rousseau would assist me. He led me to a small room behind the pharmacy and opening the door ushered me in.
    Sitting on an operating table, was Parysse, holding something to his stomach. When he saw me, a shout ripped through his throat.
    "Parysse! Valenz avec moi..."
    Parysse stood slowly, following his uncle out the room with his eyes glued firmly to me all the while. When they left, shutting the door behind them, I flopped up on the table, and pushed aside the thing Parysse was using.
    The room was small with one window facing a back alley and one door that led to the pharmacy. There was a table to my left that held sheets and some vials and bottles and to my right, another table with a large bowl of water. I glanced quickly around the room, and then focused on Rousseau's and Parysse's voices as they spoke in flowing French. About me, no doubt...
    When Dr. Rousseau came to Florence from France, he brought his nephew, Parysse, to work as an apprentice underneath him and eventually become a doctor as well. Parysse and I, against the will of our guardians, had become rather close, and as Parysse was always busy learning the trade of his uncle, the only time I would see him was when someone in my house became sick, and Rousseau would come to tend them, with Parysse. While Rousseau did his working, Parysse and I would go elsewhere; mainly to the stables to harass the horses or play in the woods. It gave me a headache to think of the past, especially the good aspects of it. Sighing, I lifted my feet onto the table and proceeded to lay my head down when it came in sudden contact with the thing Parysse had against his stomach.
    A wet cloth?
    Sitting up, I looked at it and swallowed the shreik that was bubbling up inside of me. Crimson blotches against snow white cloth. No. It couldnt' be..
    And then it all started to come back.
    I was sick. The plague had been raging through Florence for awhile and I caught it.
    Father...or mother? One of them sent for Dr. Rousseau in a state of panic. He was the closest one to the estate. I could still hear a voice repeating my name. They wanted me to come back...
    Blackness. I was unconcious.
    Mother screaming. Father had taken one of Rousseau's sharpest tools and lunged towards him but he missed. I clutched the cloth tight, as I tried to remember.
    He missed...and the tool met with...
    "Fiorello"
    Parysse had come in silently with a glass of water. Shutting the door behind him, he came quietly over, and stood next to the bed.
    "Parysse...my father--"
    "It was an accident,"
    "But...he could've killed you"
    "I'm getting better, really" Parysse said, emptying the glass into the bowl, "Now, we have to get you out of here"
    "W-What?"
    "Uncle isn't going to help you, he has...other plans"
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Think hard Fiorello, don't you remember?"
    "No," I croaked.
    "It'll come back, don't worry. It'll be better anyway if you remembered it when you were as far away from here as possible"
    "Why?"
    "Trust me, Fiorello, we just need to get you out of here"
    My body numbed as Parysse pried open the doors and looked up and down the alley.
    "Come here,"
    I hopped down, and with Parysse's help, I lowered myself out the window.
    "Please, what's going on? I'm so confused"
    "That glass of water had something in it to make you sleep," Parysse explained, folding my quilt and handing it to me.
    "Make me sleep?"
    "Think about it, but not now. Run, and don't stop. Get as far away as you can. You'll have to find another doctor,"
    I nodded slowly, and before I could leave, Parysse grabbed my arm.
    "Here," he said pressing some money in my palm, "For the road,"
    "Thank you,"
    "You're my friend," Parysse said, "Anyone would've done it"
    Parysse shut the window just as Rousseau burst into the room I just escaped.
    "Where is he?" he demanded in French.
    "He must've escaped, uncle"
    Rousseau swore under his breath.
    "I'll look for him in the morning,"
    "He could be anywhere in the morning," Rousseau said. I could hear shuffling around, "I'm looking for him tonight"
    My throat clenched. I had to go. Now.
    Then came the music again. Drifing up like smoke in a forest.
    I heard a door close by slam shut and hurried footsteps echoed down the alley.
    As for me, I ran in the direction of the music.




    Chapter Four

    My mind raced as I skirted corner after corner, looking over my shoulder and ducking into shadows at every noise. What Parysse said was heavy on my mind. Trying to shake it off did nothing. Meanwhile, the music was getting louder, like a frenzy of instruments.
    "I must reach you," I whispered to myself, and began a more relaxed pace towards the music.
    I had no idea of the hour, but I guessed it had to be around three or two in the morning. I was tired, and cold and confused. What did Rousseau want with me? What was Parysse talking about?
    With my head in the clouds and my eyes drifting upward to the full moon, in thought, I didn't notice the large building I was approaching, nor hear the commotion being carried on, on the other side. It was practically when I bumped into the first step that I really inspected my surroundings, and to my surprise, my setting actually helped me: somewhat.
    I had stumbled upon the costume caravan of an acting troupe. My clothes and quilt weren't warm enough, and the door to the caravan left slightly ajar seemed to tease me.
    I crept up the first step. Retreated. Hopped to the third. Shied away a bit. Leapt up till I was practically in the threshold and the strong smell of clothes and books stung at my noise.
    With my hand against the door, I could hear that same lilting tune I heard hours prior and peering around the caravan, I espied the troupe themselves, a famous troupe being led by a local actor, Galen, performing to a small crowd of late night walkers. I had never seen a play performed in a setting other than in the Grand Theatre of Florence. My curiosity seemed to urge me toward this one, so snatching up a red jacket that lay strewn closest to the door, I pulled it on and slipped into the crowd.
    So alas, my mystery was solved. It wasn't a requiem I heard but the music of a play. For the moment, I was lost in the smooth graceful movements of the actors and the music that reverberated through me. Rousseau was the last thing on my mind as the lead actor, came before his minute audience and bowed.
    It was then he saw me.
    It was a look of recognition then shock, then anger. At first, I hadn't the least idea why he should be looking at me in such a way, but feeling the scratchy material of the jacket, I soon realized.
    The first thing I did was out of sudden fear. I turned quickly, I ran back to the caravan undoing the buttons as I went. I wasn't sure if the actor was behind me, but I wasn't going to waste time to turn and look.
    When I reached the caravan, the jacket was completely off, and I pushed open the door and threw it across a chair but to my horror, a pair of hands grabbed my wrists and wouldn't let me free.
    "Stop!" I shouted, swinging my extra hand which was soon grasped as well and brought to my side.
    "Why did you have on my jacket?" demanded the actor.
    "I was cold! I-I was going to return it!"
    "Ha...You think I don't know do you?"
    "Know what?"
    "I had to deal with your type before"
    "And what is that?" I asked, still trying to wrench loose.
    "The kind that sees something of Galen's Troupe," the actor rolled his eyes, "They simply must have it, and they figure everyone would want it, so they sell it. Only that means for us, less costumes"
    "I don't even know what you're talking about!" I shouted, and sighing added as an afterthought, "I honestly don't want your jacket. Please let me explain"
    And so I sat there explaining my journey from when I woke up on the side of the road, to Parysse and his uncle. I found myself when I concluded the story, a little upset. I quickly brought the back of my hand to wipe at my eye, and to my shock, realized that my hands were free.
    "You forgive me?"
    The actor shrugged, "I don't know...I mean, I believe you. I don't think anybody would walk around in Death Attire for the fun of it"
    I nodded.
    "But you shouldn't be the one trying to explain...I don't have...a lot...you know"
    "What do you mean?"
    The actor looked down into his hands, "Well...you know um...You never told me your name"
    "Fiorello"
    "I'm Alberto"
    I quietly studied Alberto. I had the feeling there was something else to the actor. It was something beyond that famous troupe in which he was a member. Something much deeper. He must've sensed my thoughtful stare, for he soon opened the door and nodded towards it.
    "Well you better be off"
    "What!" my mouth dropped, "Didn't you hear my story? They don't want me! At least...not yet"
    "Then what are you going to do?"
    "I don't know..." I flopped into the chair and covered my face with my hands, "I'm confused...and tired,"
    Alberto shut the door again and leaned against it, watching me thoughtfully.
    "So you're a Grosvenor?"
    I nodded, sleepily.
    "Do they have any history of acting?"
    I shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose?"
    "You've been acting for some time..."
    "How do you figure?"
    Alberto peered out the small window as the rest of the actors retreated to their own caravans.
    "You've been playing dead for awhile," he said, a slight smile on his face.
    "I wasn't playing dead! It was just that nobody believed me! And now I don't know where to go," I could feel the my spirits deflate when those last few words escaped my mouth.
    Alberto seemed to see it.
    "Look, Fiorello," he said in a half whisper, "How do you know of Galen's Troupe?"
    "I heard about them from some of the servants, I heard that they were good, only I never actually got to see them until tonight..."
    "And you knew instantly when you saw, who it must be?"
    "Well, yes. I don't know of any other troupe then this one,"
    Alberto nodded, "Galen would like to hear that,"
    "Hear what?"
    "Our humble troupe has been talked of in the houses of the wealthy,"
    "Well, aren't you wealthy? As a member of a famous troupe?"
    Alberto made a small noise and frowned. Turning awkwardly, he opened the door and proceeded down to the first step.
    "Fiorello, I know of a doctor, up in Mantua," he said, and nodded as he saw my face twist, "I know it is far, but I want to help you.
    I'll tell Galen now that we have a new member to our troupe. I'll tell him that you want to join, and he would be extra pleased to have someone of your status come along,"
    I nodded. My mouth couldn't move to respond verbally, but a sudden fear came over me.
    Alberto was kind to help me, but something about the troupe seemed odd.
    When the door to the caravan shut, I leapt out of my seat and to the window where I watched Alberto enter another, lit caravan. As soon as I was sure he wasn't nearby, I flew out the door and back into the night...

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    I woke up on the steps of Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore.
    Drowsy eyes and stiff limbs refused to work in my favor, so it was with some effort that I could finally sit up and inspect where I was.
    The tall cathedral with its ornate architecture, symbolism and magnificent windows loomed above me, arching against a blue gray sky as a sprinkle of rain fell; tapping my upturned face as it fell to earth.
    The door was firmly shut. The only light from inside was unidentifiable through the hazy glass of the windows. I stood, leaning against a column and inhaled the scent of rain, mixed with that rich smell churches and cathedrals always seemed to give off: like a mix of dust and cleanliness.
    The cathedral, in summary, was beautiful.
    "I thought you would stay,"
    I whirled around, backing up defensively as Alberto stood, watching me from the bottom of the steps.
    "What are you doing?" he asked, suppressing a laugh.
    "What are you doing?"
    "Well, waiting for you to come to your senses and come with me. Galen says he'll take you"
    "What if I don't want to go?" I challenged, but it failed miserably.
    "What are you so wary of?" Alberto asked patiently, "Going to Mantua is nothing to living on your own when your parents think you're a ghost"
    I sighed. "I don't know...I'm just so suspicious...of everyone. Suspicious and afraid. I'm confused, and Mantua just seems so far...and here comes along a mysterious actor, who offers help, but how can I accept help, if I don't trust it?"
    Alberto nodded slowly, "I had a cousin like you once. He was in my troupe too. His mother, my aunt, had died. His father had took the money they had left, and moved to Rome. He came to live with me for awhile and eventually we joined the troupe together. He was just so suspicious of everyone, even me, his own cousin. But he finally learned to trust again. By then it was too late..."
    "What happened?" I asked, timidly.
    "He caught the plague..." Alberto murmured and shuddering, looked past me to the doors of the cathedral, "I guess...I guess I just don't want something like that to happen to anyone else. To live in darkness forever and right when its too late, see the light. I really want to help you Fiorello, but you have to trust Galen and I"
    I hesitated, rocking back and forth on the balls of my foot, "An actor," I finally said, shaking my head, "You should be a poet. 'To live in darkness and until recently see the light'..."
    Alberto smirked, "So you'll come?"
    I nodded slowly. "Why not?"




    Chapter Five

    The next day, I woke up blind.
    I could hear a great commotion being carried on around me, and I moved my hands, grabbing at a blanket, and making the most hideous of noises at the same time.
    The commotion stopped.
    "Fiorello?" a voice whispered. Alberto's.
    "Alberto...where am I?"
    "In bed...are you alright?"
    I tried to open my eyes but couldn't.
    "I can't open my eyes," I said in a frightened, voice, "What's happening to me?"
    Alberto laughed lightly and I could hear his footsteps fade as he walked away. Then my heartbeat picked up. I knew it! I absolutely knew it! I knew something was mysterious about this troupe. What if they put something in my dinner last night? What if they slipped something in my mouth while I was asleep? What was their next plan?
    "Oh why did you come back with him?" I asked myself, groping around in the darkness, "Why, Why, Why, Why..."
    "Fiorello!"
    I stopped moving.
    "Fiorello, reach to your right,"
    I was hesitant, but obeyed and felt a wet cloth drop in my hands.
    "What's this?"
    "Put it over your eyes,"
    I obeyed, rubbing them a bit. The water was ice cold, and shivering, I let it drop to my blankets and to my amazement, my eyes popped open.
    "Grazie," I said, sitting up a bit, "What was that? Why couldn't I open my eyes?"
    Alberto shrugged. "I don't' know. But I've seen it before," he paused, frowning, "It usual comes before a sickness,"
    I shuddered.
    Alberto turned, slamming shut a trunk and stowing it away safely underneath a bed opposite to mine. Standing, I sat down on a small stool, watching as the early sun rays broke through the window, dancing on the floor and Alberto's hair as he worked. The dust even showed itself on the elegant curves of a chair and in the grooves of our beds and it fell softly, like a misty rain, in the beams of light.
    Alberto turned and opened the door to the caravan letting in a cold breeze. Feeling it, he shut it again and turned to me.
    "Are you hungry?"
    "A little,"
    "It's really cold out," he replied, turning and taking down the jacket I had that first brought us to meet in the first place. He smiled slightly, and tossed it to me and returning the smile, I slipped into it, feeling warm already.
    "Where do I find something to eat?"
    "You have to look," Alberto said, "I think Galen mentioned something about lacking bread. If you go get us some, about three loaves, I'll give you some money for something to eat,"
    I nodded, as Alberto reached in his pocket and took out about ten coins, which he dropped in my palms.
    "Remember," he added, "Go buy the food, and come straight back. No dawdling along the way for we must be off by noon,"
    I nodded and stepped out of the caravan as a gust of wind tugged at my jacket and at my hands. I stuffed them in my pockets, feeling the money tingle around like tiny bells and walked down the avenue, unsure of where I was headed, but positive that I would come across a food vendor.
    Even in the daylight, the streets were empty, quiet and dead. The stench still hung heavy in the air, the rats, still as bold as when we first crossed paths, ran around as if the sun was causing them the greatest discomfort. They hid in the cracks and walls of buildings and I frowned a bit.
    People lived in those buildings, right? And if the rats go in the same building?...
    I noticed, as I walked, that the rats 'prefered' buildings and shops with large red X's painted across the door. It was grotesque and eery, and looking into the open, empty windows was like looking into the past. It was like the oil paintings in Grosvenor Estate, where everything is still and quiet, Except now, it's in real time, and if it hadn't been for a rat scurrying around then I would've swore I was in one of those paintings.
    By now, I had wandered around about five blocks and I already had enough. This town was dead. There probably is no food vendor. While I was thinking of turning back and explaining to Alberto that there was nobody around, I saw a shadow duck into the alleyway and disappear from wherever it came from.
    I felt my joints lock.
    What if it's Rousseau?
    "Maybe," I thought, "If you run very fast past the alleyway, then whoever it is won't see you...Yes, that sounds feasible..."
    I backed up a few paces and then took off in a straight sprint past the alleyway.
    But apparently I was not quick enough.
    "Hello there?"
    I slid to a halt and tilted my head. No French accent?
    "Yes?"
    The figure came out of the shadows and peered around the bricklay of a building.
    "I thought I saw someone run past, but I wasn't too sure," said a man, about in his forties, "Are you...are you in quite a hurry?"
    "Well it depends, what time is it?"
    "Last time I checked, it was going on nine,"
    "Oh..."
    "So you're not in a hurry?"
    "No, I suppose not,"
    "Then would you be so kind as to lend me some help?"
    I nodded slowly and edged closer. The man bent behind him and handed my a wiry brush while he took up a pail of something and nodding down the alley, said, "This way,"
    I followed him down the alley, unsure of what I was doing or who this person was, but at least I didn't have to fill in the silent lulls for he started great conversation.
    "Well, where exactly were you headed if you do not mind my inquiring?"
    "To find food," I replied, "For my troupe and I,"
    "Troupe? Galen's Troupe?"
    I nodded.
    "Well that's a fine troupe, I've seen some of your works and what talent! You're very lucky to be a member,"
    We stopped outside a dilapidated building with the windows broken and the woodwork blackened as if by flame. If houses could speak, what a story this one would tell. I could tell it was very old and almost could see the people who owned it, walking about inside.
    "What happened here?"
    "I'm not sure who he was," said the man kneeling to mix the liquid in the pail with a stick, "A shopkeeper maybe? I don't remember, but he caught...you know..."
    "The plague?" I mumbled, and shut my eyes, "I had it...it's gone now,"
    "Oh, but it's never gone,"
    "What do you mean?"
    "It takes awhile, I mean...I don't mean to frighten you..."
    He stood back and I walked forward, looking down into the pail.
    Red paint.
    "You don't mean...not like the others..."
    The man nodded.
    "But won't he be upset that we're painting up his door?"
    "Don't you know what the 'X' means?" asked the man in a surprised, half-whisper, as if someone might hear us talking.
    I shook my head.
    "It means that whoever lived here, died,"
    "Died?"
    "Yes...because of the plague"

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    I ran as fast as I could back to the caravan, afraid that some wispy fingers from the empty buildings would reach out and grab me. Dragging me back into the abandoned rooms where people once lived, once were.
    I had a handful of loaves. I didn't really count how many I actually bought. After I left the deathly area of Florence, I finally found people. Not many, but people nonetheless, and I found a vendor too, and I was so shaken I tossed him the money, demanded my bread and now running back through the edge of the city I was terror-stricken.
    When I came to Alberto and my caravan, I hopped up the steps and pounded on the door.
    "Fiorello, calm yourself," Alberto said calmly but I jumped past him, depositing all the bread in a basket and sat on my bed rocking back and forth as if I was insane.
    "What's wrong?"
    "I was on...was on..." I could barely speak I was so breathless and sick to my stomach. Alberto went to the basket, cut a bread in half and handed me some which I ate and proceeded to tell my story in a much more collected voice.
    "I was on this street," I began, "And by and by I noticed that a lot of the buildings had red X's on them but I didn't know why. Then I saw something go in an alleyway and I thought it was Rousseau so I run past but it wasn't it was only a man. He asked me was I in a hurry and I said no and he asked for help so I said yes and it just so happened that he was the X Painter and he needed some help and he told me what they meant,"
    I stopped there, putting another piece of bread in my mouth and waited for Alberto to respond, but he only stood there in an almost daze.
    "Did you hear the procession?" he eventually said.
    I shook my head, "No, I didn't stop to listen"
    Alberto looked down and began folding his sleeve in unneccesary creases.
    "Galen and I had been talking," he said quietly after awhile, "And we heard it, so we go out to see what it was, and it was a funeral"
    I waited with the last piece of bread hovering in front of my mouth.
    "We thought it was strange though, because it was only a group of mourners and musicians, that was it, nothing else..."
    "Huh...I wonder where the deceased was" I said.
    "Roaming around, painting X's on doors and buying large quantities of bread," Alberto said eventually, "You missed your own procession"




    Chapter Six

    The next day, Alberto and I risen early, dressed quickly and ate faster than we possible could. Alberto had said something about Galen wishing to meet me, last night, but I was too tired to pay attention, much less care, and I was slightly in shock over the news Alberto told me.
    When we finished our minute breakfast, we strolled out into the empty square of a small town we arrived in yesterday just as the other actors and musicians began to awake and prepare to unpack. I hadn't really noticed them until now. It was always me, Alberto, and Galen who was such a mysterious character. His caravan was the largest and thick curtains hung over the window. Alberto hopped up the steps, rapping on the door which swung open presently as a gentleman bade him good morning, and seeing me, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, smiled warmly.
    "Good morning, my boy!" he said in a booming voice that seemed to shake the whole city, "You must be Fiorello"
    "Yes sir," I said bowing, "And you must be Galen"
    "I am, and I am quite happy to have another actor come with. Alberto is a fine actor himself, and he'll teach you what he knows,"
    Alberto turned a light pink at this compliment, "Well, I am not the best. But I will teach you the basics,"
    "He is modest," Galen said in a whisper to me, "But believe me, he is my best"
    Alberto heard and by now, his face was matching the deep crimson jacket that Galen wore. I resisted a laugh, and instead let Galen guide me throughout the troupes camp, where trunsk were being hoisted out of the caravans and doors swung open to let in the morning breeze.
    "Now Fiorello, tell me," Galen said thoughtfully, "Alberto has told me that you come from noble blood. What brings you to our humble troupe?"
    "Oh...its quite a long story," I said biting the inside of my cheek, "And its...not...well...good"
    "I understand. So I am guessing that this story will end good in Mantua?"
    "I'm hoping..."
    Galen nodded knowingly, "It will,"
    Alberto appeared then with a stack of papers in one hand and a stick in the other. Looking at the instruments for what I supposed would be an acting lesson, brought back memories for me. Not the ones I wanted to remember, but at least some were coming back. In the oddest of times too.
    When I was younger, father didn't want to send me to the new academy in Florence. I had heard the servants talking about it one day. It was an academy studying an improved subject. Science. I remember tossing the word over in my head dozens of times but when I brought the topic up to my father he shook his head so vigioursly, I feared it would roll off.
    "No son of mine will attend the academy," he said without letting me finish my explanation.
    "But I want to learn the science,"
    "Then I will have a tutor come teach you"
    The years that followed were filled with slow lessons, brusied knuckles from the stick he would hit me with if I had dozed, and the part that pained me the worst was I couldn't follow along...
    I hesitated as Alberto placed the stick on the ground before me, but Galen nodded, smiling again so that his mustache curved up in an almost perfect 'U'.
    "The lessons will be easy, especially with Alberto as your teacher"
    I nodded and watched as he went to assist some musician who was having some difficulty fitting a large case through the doorway of a caravan. When I turned back, Alberto had backed up some paces and was studying the papers in his hand.
    "Alright," he said eventually, "That stick is the edge of the stage. Don't go past it or you'll fall off,"
    "Right," I said backing up a bit.
    "Now the first lesson is movement. You'll be doing a lot of it. You must remember to always be doing some motion, even if it is ever so slight and never have your back to the audience. Shall we try some?"
    I nodded as Alberto hopped on to the "stage" with me and placed the papers underneath a stone.
    "Alright, we are having a conversation but we are walking as well,"
    I turned my body slightly, to face the invisible crowd and proceeded to begin walking but found myself walking right over the stick and imaginably, "off the stage".
    Alberto laughed, "Its alright. Come back and watch closely,"
    I picked myself up and stepped over the stick, watching as Alberto turned himself and moved about the "stage" nimbly skirting away from the stick and around the rock where the papers lay.
    "It's usually evening when we put on a play," he explained, "So it's important to know where the stage ends, so you don't take a fall,"
    I nodded, following his steps until I finally could do it and it was then, we moved on to our next lesson.
    "Your voice," Alberto said, "Is your most important thing next to your movements. The words you speak will have to be heard and if you can't say them loud enough, you won't exist. Step "off stage" and listen,"
    I stepped over the stick and backed far enough away until Alberto raised his hand, motioning for me to stop. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Galen ran up and grabbed him by his arms.
    "Alberto," he said, breathless from running, "We are going to start one, twelve o' clock when everyone is out"
    "But what about Fiorello? We haven't finished our lessons"
    I blinked. Surely they weren't talking about what I thought they were...
    "He'll have a small role," Galen replied, "You did teach him movements at least?"
    "Yes,"
    "Good, that's all he will have to really know"
    My distorted face must have brought their attention to me, because soon, Galen was at my side and Alberto was removing the papers on the stick.
    "What's going on?" I asked, though I had a feeling I knew.
    "We will have a performance in about an hour. Do not worry you'll have a small role,"
    "But--but..what about the script?" I asked, "I wont have time to memorize"
    "Fiorello, there is another thing you must know, and that is we have no scripts. Our performances came straight from our imagination and are improvised one they are imagined"

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    Alberto and I had ran around town like the world was about to end in an hour, rather than a performance about to begin. Since we had no other means of advertisement, we planted ourselves in crowds and began a conversation that consisted of:
    'Are you going to Galen's performance?'
    "Whose?"'
    'Only the best troupe in all Italy, and they've come here! I'm going at twelve'
    'I shall too!'
    After that, we left the crowd with a new conversation. Who was this troupe? Were they as good that they were boasted on? There was only one way to find out.
    At the time, Alberto and I had only an hour left. The church bells chimed out eleven times and freezing in our tracks, we tilted our heads towards the sound, to listen.
    "We will have to be back soon," Alberto said, "To get in costume and prepare"
    I nodded and we ran once again, finding ourselves in another side of town. One that resembled, too much of Florence.
    At first, I couldn't see what was the matter. Stage fright had already consumed my mind and I kept thinking about how awful I'd do when suddenly I bumped into Alberto; standing very still in the middle of the street.
    "What's wro--"
    "Listen!"
    I did. I listened to the last echo of a church bell. The scrape of leaves against the cobblestone and I heard the slight banging of a shutter as the wind tore through it. I even shut my eyes and heard the same things. A buzzing in my ear snapped my eyes back open and when they did, I caught Alberto's twisted expression.
    "Where is everyone?" he whispered, "It's too quiet,"
    That's it. It was all empty. The voices from the other part of town had seemed so normal and now. Silence.
    "We should go back," I whispered, "There's no one here. Maybe they got our message,"
    "Or maybe..." Alberto said, looking past me, "Maybe they...died"
    "Died?" I shouted. How could he figure they died? Died from what?
    "Yes, died. Florence wasn't the only one who got the plague,"
    I was about to respond when suddenly out the corner of my eye a black shadowy figure walked, almost floated its way silently past us. Alberto saw, and I sure enough saw for it was by me when the figure decided to turn around and face us. Its head was downcast, so its face was concealed. Its body was covered in dark clothing like the Reaper I've seen in a book once. A chill went up my spine. Maybe this was all a dream. Maybe I really was dead and now it was time to face death...
    "I heard about a troupe," the figure said, in a surprisingly smooth and calm voice.
    "Yes, that would be our troupe. Galen's"
    "What time are they performing?"
    "Twelve," I replied, trying to steady my shaking voice.
    The head moved up and down. "Good".
    After the figure floated down another street and was out of earshot, I swung to face Alberto.
    "Did you hear him? His accent?"
    "What accent?"
    "His accent was French"



    Chapter Seven

    "Galen said that after we leave Mantua, we'll be going to Venice"
    I turned from the window. "Venice?"
    Alberto nodded, folding the blanket at the foot of his bed, "And he wanted to know if...if maybe you would like to come with us"
    I leaned against my forearms and watched as rolling green hills trudged past. The clattering of the caravans wheels grated on my nerves and focusing on the countryside that lay before me was the only escape. I took in a deep breath and let it out presently, contemplating what Alberto just asked me. My mind wasn't exactly focused. I was a little shaken after Rousseau's and my second encounter and I the previous night, I could barely sleep. Everytime I shut my eyes, subjected myself to darkness, I saw him. Not his face but his words. I imagined them spilling out of his mouth like water and falling before me, burning like fire...
    "Fiorello, did you hear me?"
    I turned around again, "Uh...Uh-huh"
    "Well?"
    "Well, I think I should prove to my parents that I am truly alive," I replied, "If I went to Venice...well, that just seems too long"
    Alberto nodded.
    I went back to my daydreaming as Alberto went back to his cleaning and before long, the gentle swishes of a broom against the floorboards forced my eyes shut and my head to drop. I dozed there in the window, and instead of dreaming about Rousseau, I dreamed about gold. Of all things. Gold. Shiny coins, blocks and jewelry. Stacked far against a wall somewhere: Somewhere I should know. Suddenly, a rat, much bigger than the ones back in Florence, ran from out of no where and jumped upon the gold. I took after it with a stick, and seeing I couldn't beat it off, called to Father. He appeared suddenly with a lit torch and while he attempted to beat away the rat, a dove landed on my stick and chanted, "I told you, I told you, I told you..."
    I jerked awake, knocking over a book that hit the floor with a thud. Alberto turned, eyebrows raised. "Another nightmare?"
    "Another?"
    "You had a bad dream last night too," he explained, "You were mumbling in your sleep and tossing about"
    "What was I mumbling?"
    "I'm not sure. But you were mumbling all right, I wasn't sure if I should wake you"
    He turned back to sweeping and I sat there, watching for a minute, unsure how to respond.
    "Alberto, I think I may be...remembering some things"
    "Like what?"
    "Like...like why...like why Rousseau wants me dead"
    The sweeping stopped.
    "Wants you dead?"
    I nodded.
    "Then why?"
    I shrugged frowning, "It's all mixed up and it comes like a jumbled story. I remember what happened the day I 'died' and little things before that"
    "Does it connect to why Rousseau wants you dead?"
    The caravan slowed to a halt and Alberto and I leaned out the window staring up into the square of a city beneath a silver sky.
    "Genova," Alberto said, "We've been here before, it's one of my favorites"
    I could feel my skin crawl as I took in the city, its tall buildings, silent square, cathedral steeple beyond...
    "I heard of this city," I muttered, "It's my father's home city,"

    ♦ ♦ ♦

    "Grosvenor is an uncommon name," I stated, as Alberto and I walked down the busy streets of Genova, "At least...I suppose it is"
    It didn't take much persuasion to Galen to allow us to explore Genova, especially when we promised that we'd advertise another performance that was due to begin at noon again. Unlike the small town we left previously, Genova would prove more difficult. There were no spurts of people here and there where we could simply plant ourselves in. People were everywhere, in and out of shops, leaning out balconies calling to ones below, standing about the streets sitting about the avenues: To gain attention, Alberto and I would have had to shout but that wasn't what we were about to do at the given time. I had other ideas.
    "Do you really suppose that your uncle will still be here?" Alberto said, "Uncommon name or not, it'll be hard trying to find anyone, much less a Grosvenor in this city. Perhaps he's in the wealthy side of town"
    I shook my head, "No, I wouldn't think that..."
    "But the Grosvenor's are a wealthy family, right?"
    I bit my lip, turning a corner and went inside a somewhat empty shop, "My family is so much more complicated than you think"
    It just so happened that we went inside a printing shop, and the smell of dust and that pungent inky smell I only smelled once by an inkwell hit my nose, stinging the inside and bringing water to the corners of my eyes.
    It was dark inside except for the natural light from the windows, So at first, Alberto and I couldn't see the figure bending over a ream of cloth, but it was when he moved that our eyes landed on him.
    "Hello..." he said, looking up beyond piles of thin paper and canvas rolls, "How may I help you?"
    "I was wondering, sir, if you possibly know a man by the name Duarte Aaron Grosvenor..."
    "Grosvenor?" the mans eyes grew wide, "Yes I know a Grosvenor, but you won't find him here,"
    "Where can we find him?" inquired Alberto and the man raised a lever, displaying a beautiful picture printed on the canvas of deep reds, navy blues and elegant script.
    "Last I heard of him, he was living in the apartments by the opera house. But then rumors are he moved just across the way of here, in another apartment. But you know how rumors are..."
    "Thank you," I said quickly and ran out the shop, stopping in my tracks and turning again.
    "One more thing, sir, how much is a print on about a medium size canvas?"
    "It depends on the design,"
    "How much could you fit with this much?" I reached in my pocket, pulling out the money Parysse gave me.
    "A few words, maybe a small picture"
    "Good then. I want it to say, 'Galen's Troupe : Performing Today' "
    The printer nodded, turning back and sliding out his previous work, "Come and pick it up at around 11:30"




    Chapter Eight

    A door opened. A candle illuminated the small attic room. A woman entered cradling a small bundle, neatly wrapped in fine, white cloth and sat down across from the figure in a bed.
    "Is he alright?" demanded a shaky male voice.
    "Yes, he's alright,"
    A sigh of relief.
    "May I see him?" asked the figure in the bed, and the woman stood slowly, crossing the room and placing the bundle in two pairs of outstretched arms.
    "Horatio..." said the figure in awe, "He looks exaclty like you"
    This delighted the other, and he excitedly asked what the name would be.
    Another figure, who had been quietly leaning against the wall silently left the room saying over his shoulder, "I'll be in the parlor"
    All three looked after him and after a lengthy silence, the figure in the bed responded to the question.
    "I think I'll call him..."


    "Fiorello..." Alberto said slowly, "Maybe this isn't the right thing"
    I didn't answer.
    We stood beneath a set of apartments, staring up into the great many balconies as if they would give us some answer. The printer had directed us to this exact place.
    This place where another Grosvenor lived. A nervous and excited feeling overtook me.
    "Lets just see," I replied, "Maybe he can help. I'm at such a loss Alberto, all I need is a good explanation"