Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. ‘Moi, je vais vous tuer!’ ‘I don’t think so,’ Gerald said through his teeth. It will take a month to clean up.
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