He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. Those who lived outside the law might squabble among themselves, even unto death, Leonardo told her. He saw her young and graceful back as she descended from the carriage, severely ignoring him, and recalled a glimpse he had of her face, bright and serene, as his train ran out of Wimbledon. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. “I had no idea that it was so abominably late. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door.
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