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a_t_rainSome Friday silliness. Previous installments are here
Act Four: Nobody Expects the Florentine Inquisition
“What is your name?”
“Severus Snape.” Severus thought it best to cooperate, at least for the moment. His arms and legs were still bound, and he did not recognize the building where they had taken him. It appeared to be a courtroom of some sort; the stony-faced man interrogating him wore robes not unlike those of the Wizengamot. “May I ask who you are?”
“I am Giovanni Lotta, High Inquisitor for the International Confederation of Wizards. You must be a stranger in Florence, Master Snape, if you do not know that already. Of what country are you?”
“I’m English, but I live in Denmark.” It occurred to Severus that pleading rank might prove useful. “I am court wizard to King Hamlet.”
One of the men flanking him loosened the bonds on his arms at this information, but Lotta remained stern. “Severus Snape, you are charged with the practice of maleficium; also with the use of deadly force against a Muggle; also with impairing wizard-Muggle relations and endangering wizarding society throughout Europe; also with attempted murder; also with assault upon an officer of the International Confederation of Wizards. How do you plead?”
“Self-defense,” said Severus, trying to remain calm while the charges against him seemed to be multiplying by the minute. “They attacked me. What was I supposed to do, sit there and let them curse me?”
Lotta frowned. “I think it highly unlikely that any of the men present were capable of cursing you. They were Muggles.”
“Well, how was I to know that? They were saying something that sounded like a curse.”
“That is, as I said, impossible. Could they merely have been scholars conversing in Latin?”
“It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t any language that I recognized. I took them for foreign wizards. And one of them grabbed me and held my arms before I did anything to them.”
“Was that the one who nearly bled to death?”
“It might have been. I can’t tell you. It was dark, and I don’t even know how many of them there were.”
“You would do well to pray that he lives. Your own life will be forfeit if he dies.”
“Give him some dittany at once,” said Severus. “It’s more effective than prayer, and there might not be any scarring if he takes it right away.”
Lotta nodded and turned to one of the servants who were guarding the door. “Do as he says. Now!” He turned back to Severus. “Master Snape, what is your parentage?”
“Half-blood,” Severus said, scowling. “My father is a Muggle named Tobias Snape. My mother’s maiden name was Eileen Prince.”
“The Princes are a prominent wizarding family,” said Lotta, evidently impressed. “I was slightly acquainted with the head of the family when I was last in England. I will write to him and ask if he can vouch for you.”
“No!” said Severus quickly. “I mean – the whole family cut my mother off when she married a Muggle. They don’t even know that I exist. Most of them won’t admit that she exists, either.” Even in his own ears, this sounded very lame, but it was more plausible than admitting that neither of his parents would be born for several centuries yet.
“Have you any friends here in Florence who can bear witness to your character and reputation?”
“Not really. Well, nobody I’d call a friend, but I came here with a witch named Helena de Narbonne. She’s a Healer. You might get her to have a look at the man who was wounded. She’s staying at the St. Francis Inn.”
“Go thou,” said Lotta to another servant, “and seek her out.” He turned back to Severus. “What is your opinion of Hengist of Woodcroft?”
“Who?”
“Your countryman. The founder of the village the Scottish call Hogga-smey-ah-dey.”
“Where? Oh, Hogsmeade. Decent enough place if you leave out the damp and the old fellow who smells of goats. I suppose the founder was all right.”
“You endorse his views, then, about Muggle-wizard separatism?”
“No, of course not!” said Severus quickly, guessing from the look on Lotta’s face that he had just stepped onto dangerous ground.
“What is your opinion of the fate of the late Queen Anne?”
“I think it’s, er, appalling,” said Severus, grateful that Helena had explained about Queen Anne.
“So appalling, would you say, that any wizard is justified in taking revenge on Muggles?”
“I never said that! You’re putting words in my mouth, and I already told you it was self-defense. I’d like to see you sit still and take it while someone tries to curse you into oblivion!”
“You would like to see me cursed into oblivion?” asked Lotta. The court scribes were writing furiously.
“I didn’t say that either!”
“Is it your view that Margery Jourdain was a traitor, or a martyr?”
“I’ve never heard of Margery Jourdain in my life,” said Severus, “and I’m not saying another word until I can talk to – to –” He doubted that he would be allowed counsel, and he wasn’t sure he wanted a lawyer of Lotta’s choosing anyway. And he knew only one person who might be able to elucidate Lotta’s questions and save him from digging himself into an even deeper hole. “To Helena,” he said at last, reluctantly.
“I would speak with her myself. The hour is very late. Take him to prison until she comes, and keep him under close guard.” Lotta nodded at Severus’s custodians, and strode out of the room.
* * *
Helena paused for a moment and studied her face in Diana’s looking-glass. She would have to do without Paracelsus’s potion; but one could do much to alter one’s appearance with a few simple charms, and she and Diana were not so very unlike each other. Not very different in birth, either, or if they were, the advantage was all on Helena’s side. Who knew why Bertram loved one of them and hated the other? Unless it was because Diana had refused him and Helena had loved him too much.
She blew out the candle. His hour had almost come, and there must be no light in Diana’s chamber.
She wished she could forget what Severus had said. I have been in your place, if you must know, and I did not force myself on the girl against her will.
It was not, she told herself, a matter of force. She was Bertram’s wife – in form, if not in fact – and he had consented to the marriage. Within the hour she would truly be his wife, and there would be no undoing the knot that bound them.
She wondered why she felt so troubled about the heart when she had waited for this so long.
The clock in the church tower struck midnight, and there was a soft knock at the chamber window. Helena stood for a moment with her hand on the catch, willing herself to forget the doubts and fears that had suddenly crowded her mind, and then flung the window open.
And then Bertram was in her arms, as she had often dreamt of him: kissing her, stroking her hair, murmuring words of love that were for her and not for her. Part of her wanted it to go on and on until she smothered under his embraces, and part of her wanted to say Stop! and confess everything.
His hands moved downward, over her breasts, and she could not suppress a low moan, though she knew there was need for silence.
Then they heard a violent knock at the chamber door.
Bertram froze in the act of undoing her laces. Helena whispered, “Under the bed!” and he vanished in a single fluid motion.
“Who’s there?” she asked, not daring to speak above a whisper lest her voice give her away.
“Francisco, servant to Giovanni Lotta.”
Helena opened the door. One did not disobey Lotta’s men. “What do you want?”
“We are looking for a Frenchwoman named Helena de Narbonne, and have had information that she is staying in this house.”
There was a squeak from under the bed. Helena threw her shoe in Bertram’s general direction, and muttered something about mice.
“Are you Helena de Narbonne?” demanded Francisco.
“Certainly not, sir. My name is Diana, and my mother is the innkeeper here.”
“Is anyone of that name staying in this house?”
“I know not, sir. There are many pilgrims lodging here tonight; I cannot remember all their names.”
“How many pilgrims, exactly? When did they arrive?”
“I tell you, I do not remember! But if you must search the house, I suppose you may.” This seemed to be the only way to get rid of Francisco, and with Bertram concealed under the bed, she would certainly have to get rid of him at once.
Francisco shut the door and strode down the corridor, making no effort to avoid waking the guests. She heard him knock loudly on the door of the next chamber.
“Go!” Helena hissed at Bertram. “Go at once! And try to keep silent, for God’s sake!”
Bertram crept out from under the bed, looking dazed. “Helena de Narbonne was my wife. She is dead.”
“Well?” said Helena. “Then go and tell him so, you fool!” She was too agitated to think whether this was wise or not – but it was surely better than letting Lotta wake the entire house, including Diana and her mother. She could not think of a plausible way to explain why the innkeeper had two daughters called Diana, and acknowledged only one of them.
Bertram went. Helena sat down on the bed, hands shaking. She had never thought she could be so thankful to see Bertram depart from her company – and she could not quite believe that she had called him a fool and meant it.
* * *
The prison cell in Lotta’s palace was not a place of nightmares, not like Azkaban. The bars on the door and windows were mainly for show; since it was built to hold wizards, the real security came from anti-Disapparation jinxes and other spellwork that rendered the walls impregnable. There was an iron bedstead with a reasonably comfortable mattress, a washstand with a bowl of fresh water, and even a few books, although these consisted of sermons and a very long, very dull poem in praise of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Still, it was undeniably a prison, and Severus would have given much to be out of it. He hoped that Helena would feel inclined to corroborate his story. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms.
He stretched out on the bed and tried to plan out some other line of defense, or a means of escape. He felt very naked without his wand; as a rule, he even slept with it.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the cell was filled with the grey light of dawn, and a guard had arrived with a small loaf of bread, a sliver of cheese, and a mug of water. Severus tore into the food ravenously.
“Signor Lotta says that he would have some talk with you before your trial. He gave orders for you to wait here.”
Severus stared at him. “Instead of doing what, running off to Vancouver to play Quodpot?”
The guard blinked. “To where, sir?”
“Never mind. Did he manage to track down Helena?”
“Signora de Narbonne is dead,” said the guard flatly.
“Dead?” Severus put down his bread and cheese, suddenly no longer hungry. He was too accustomed to sudden death to be greatly startled by the news, but he did wonder how it had happened. Perhaps she had ignored his advice about the Polyjuice potion and poisoned herself, or perhaps the Count Roussillon had murdered her.
Or perhaps she had taken his advice too much to heart, and had committed suicide. Severus found that he did not like this thought, and tried to put it aside. He didn’t like any of the possibilities, come to think of it. Bloody hell, he didn’t want Helena to be dead, and he was sure she would still be alive if he had been there.
Damn it all. He’d moved to the sixteenth century to get away from this sort of thing.
“How did she die? She was fine yesterday!”
“I know not,” said the guard. “But there is a reliable witness who swears to it, a young lord traveling with the French army.”
“The Count Roussillon?”
“I do not know his name. Have you eaten as much as you will, sir?”
“Yes, yes, take it away.”
“Signor Lotta says you are to make yourself ready to receive a visitor as soon as you have eaten. There is one who would speak with you.” The guard picked up the tray and vanished.
Severus splashed some water on his face and tried to make sense of what he had heard.
The door at the end of the corridor creaked open. Severus looked up; his visitor was a young man about his own age, dressed in white robes and holding a candle so that it lit up his face. He was very pale, and he moved almost noiselessly – gliding across the floor, rather than walking. Severus found this slightly eerie until he noted that the young man was wearing slippers.
The man paused in front of his cell, but did not speak.
“Who are you?”
“Nay, know you not me?” said the stranger in a low, unearthly voice.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Will you know me on the day of judgment?” intoned the young man.
Some sort of evangelist, Severus decided. Of all the things he didn’t need right now. “Look here, I don’t want a tract, and I’ve got no intention of repenting for something I never did in the first place, so you can go straight back to the Salvation Army, or wherever you came from, and tell them –”
“The French army,” said the young man in a more normal sort of voice. “Where, pray, is Salvatia?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Severus, feeling that this conversation was making less and less sense by the minute. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name,” said the stranger, with an attempt at the slow and portentious delivery he’s been using before, “is the Second Lord Dumaine.”
Severus snorted. “What kind of name is that?”
“I have a brother, born but half an hour before me,” said the Second Lord Dumaine in his ordinary voice, “and a mother with an unfortunate lack of imagination.”
Somebody else stifled a groan. Severus turned, and saw Lotta standing in the back of the corridor. He must have been spying on them the whole time.
“I am sorry, my lord,” said the Second Lord Dumaine to Lotta, “but I answered his questions as best I could. Some of them were out of my part.”
“Never you mind,” said Lotta, “I’ve seen enough. In sooth, he does not know you, I’ll be sworn.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“This is the man you wounded last night and left for dead,” said Lotta.
“I didn’t leave him for dead. I was arrested. As you well know.”
Lotta ignored this. “I thought to send him here in the guise of his own ghost. I have heard that murderers have often started at such a sight, and confessed their crimes.”
“Oh, for the love of – Look. Are you satisfied yet that I haven’t committed any crimes, or at least not attempted murder?”
“I believe more of your story than I did last night,” Lotta admitted. “When he came to his senses, Lord Dumaine owned that he and his companions did attack you, though they did it in error, and that they had agreed among themselves to gabble as if they were speaking a strange tongue.”
“There you are! He said it himself! May I go now?”
“Not yet,” said Lotta. “You say you are court wizard to King Hamlet of Denmark, but the only person in Florence who can confirm this is dead. I must say that I find this death strange, and peculiarly convenient.”
“Convenient for whom? As it happens, I find it very inconvenient to be locked up in prison, and if you’re insinuating that I killed her, I bloody well didn’t. She was perfectly well the last time I saw her. Apart from being mad as a hatter, I mean, but that seems to be put her in very good company around here. Give me a pen and some paper. I need to write to a friend.”
* * *
Dear Ophelia,
I’m in prison. Help.
Helena is dead.
I’m sorry to say that Helena is dead, I did my best but I wasn’t able to do anything to prevent it(why is everybody around here always getting murdered or trying to top themselves, anyway?) owing to the fact that I was in prison. I’ve been charged with attacking some Muggles, but it’s all a mistake. One of them even said so, but the Inquisitor refuses to let me go. Could you make ask King Hamlet to send a letter to Giovanni Lotta in Florence confirming that I am his court wizard and testifying to my good character, and if he implied that bad things would happen if Lotta doesn’t let me go it would probably help, only without seeming to threaten him, of course...
At this point Severus crumpled up the letter and started again.
Dear Ophelia,
I am in Florence. A lot of things have happened, I suppose I’d better tell you about them in order...
Severus tried to remember what had happened first, and found that he was drawing a complete blank. Had he really arrived only yesterday?
He spent some minutes clutching frantically at his forehead. Then his jailer entered, keys at his side and an inscrutable expression on his face. “Follow me to the courtroom, where you will attend Signor Lotta’s pleasure. You had better take all of your possessions with you.”
Severus pointed out that he didn’t have any possessions, except for his wand, which had been confiscated when he was arrested. The jailer shrugged and unlocked the door. Severus followed, trying to suppress his increasing sense of panic.
Lotta looked much as he had on their two previous encounters: stony-faced, nearly impossible to read. It was a shock when he handed Severus his wand. “Severus Snape, you are free to leave. All charges against you are dismissed. The Danish ambassador speaks well on your behalf, and as he reminds us, with these late wars it is imperative that Florence maintain her alliance with Denmark.”
“The Danish ambassador?” Severus was puzzled until he caught sight of the man Lotta had indicated. “Horatio! Thank God!”
“See that you do your part to keep the peace,” Lotta added sternly, “and do not presume from this that the law in Florence will bend to your will. Rather, I charge you to follow Our Lord’s example and turn the other cheek, even if a hundred men offer you violence, for it will go badly for you if I hear from you again.”
As things turned out, Severus heeded this advice for a grand total of half an hour. As far as he was concerned, nobody in his right mind would turn the other cheek to an Inferius.
Act Four: Nobody Expects the Florentine Inquisition
“What is your name?”
“Severus Snape.” Severus thought it best to cooperate, at least for the moment. His arms and legs were still bound, and he did not recognize the building where they had taken him. It appeared to be a courtroom of some sort; the stony-faced man interrogating him wore robes not unlike those of the Wizengamot. “May I ask who you are?”
“I am Giovanni Lotta, High Inquisitor for the International Confederation of Wizards. You must be a stranger in Florence, Master Snape, if you do not know that already. Of what country are you?”
“I’m English, but I live in Denmark.” It occurred to Severus that pleading rank might prove useful. “I am court wizard to King Hamlet.”
One of the men flanking him loosened the bonds on his arms at this information, but Lotta remained stern. “Severus Snape, you are charged with the practice of maleficium; also with the use of deadly force against a Muggle; also with impairing wizard-Muggle relations and endangering wizarding society throughout Europe; also with attempted murder; also with assault upon an officer of the International Confederation of Wizards. How do you plead?”
“Self-defense,” said Severus, trying to remain calm while the charges against him seemed to be multiplying by the minute. “They attacked me. What was I supposed to do, sit there and let them curse me?”
Lotta frowned. “I think it highly unlikely that any of the men present were capable of cursing you. They were Muggles.”
“Well, how was I to know that? They were saying something that sounded like a curse.”
“That is, as I said, impossible. Could they merely have been scholars conversing in Latin?”
“It wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t any language that I recognized. I took them for foreign wizards. And one of them grabbed me and held my arms before I did anything to them.”
“Was that the one who nearly bled to death?”
“It might have been. I can’t tell you. It was dark, and I don’t even know how many of them there were.”
“You would do well to pray that he lives. Your own life will be forfeit if he dies.”
“Give him some dittany at once,” said Severus. “It’s more effective than prayer, and there might not be any scarring if he takes it right away.”
Lotta nodded and turned to one of the servants who were guarding the door. “Do as he says. Now!” He turned back to Severus. “Master Snape, what is your parentage?”
“Half-blood,” Severus said, scowling. “My father is a Muggle named Tobias Snape. My mother’s maiden name was Eileen Prince.”
“The Princes are a prominent wizarding family,” said Lotta, evidently impressed. “I was slightly acquainted with the head of the family when I was last in England. I will write to him and ask if he can vouch for you.”
“No!” said Severus quickly. “I mean – the whole family cut my mother off when she married a Muggle. They don’t even know that I exist. Most of them won’t admit that she exists, either.” Even in his own ears, this sounded very lame, but it was more plausible than admitting that neither of his parents would be born for several centuries yet.
“Have you any friends here in Florence who can bear witness to your character and reputation?”
“Not really. Well, nobody I’d call a friend, but I came here with a witch named Helena de Narbonne. She’s a Healer. You might get her to have a look at the man who was wounded. She’s staying at the St. Francis Inn.”
“Go thou,” said Lotta to another servant, “and seek her out.” He turned back to Severus. “What is your opinion of Hengist of Woodcroft?”
“Who?”
“Your countryman. The founder of the village the Scottish call Hogga-smey-ah-dey.”
“Where? Oh, Hogsmeade. Decent enough place if you leave out the damp and the old fellow who smells of goats. I suppose the founder was all right.”
“You endorse his views, then, about Muggle-wizard separatism?”
“No, of course not!” said Severus quickly, guessing from the look on Lotta’s face that he had just stepped onto dangerous ground.
“What is your opinion of the fate of the late Queen Anne?”
“I think it’s, er, appalling,” said Severus, grateful that Helena had explained about Queen Anne.
“So appalling, would you say, that any wizard is justified in taking revenge on Muggles?”
“I never said that! You’re putting words in my mouth, and I already told you it was self-defense. I’d like to see you sit still and take it while someone tries to curse you into oblivion!”
“You would like to see me cursed into oblivion?” asked Lotta. The court scribes were writing furiously.
“I didn’t say that either!”
“Is it your view that Margery Jourdain was a traitor, or a martyr?”
“I’ve never heard of Margery Jourdain in my life,” said Severus, “and I’m not saying another word until I can talk to – to –” He doubted that he would be allowed counsel, and he wasn’t sure he wanted a lawyer of Lotta’s choosing anyway. And he knew only one person who might be able to elucidate Lotta’s questions and save him from digging himself into an even deeper hole. “To Helena,” he said at last, reluctantly.
“I would speak with her myself. The hour is very late. Take him to prison until she comes, and keep him under close guard.” Lotta nodded at Severus’s custodians, and strode out of the room.
* * *
Helena paused for a moment and studied her face in Diana’s looking-glass. She would have to do without Paracelsus’s potion; but one could do much to alter one’s appearance with a few simple charms, and she and Diana were not so very unlike each other. Not very different in birth, either, or if they were, the advantage was all on Helena’s side. Who knew why Bertram loved one of them and hated the other? Unless it was because Diana had refused him and Helena had loved him too much.
She blew out the candle. His hour had almost come, and there must be no light in Diana’s chamber.
She wished she could forget what Severus had said. I have been in your place, if you must know, and I did not force myself on the girl against her will.
It was not, she told herself, a matter of force. She was Bertram’s wife – in form, if not in fact – and he had consented to the marriage. Within the hour she would truly be his wife, and there would be no undoing the knot that bound them.
She wondered why she felt so troubled about the heart when she had waited for this so long.
The clock in the church tower struck midnight, and there was a soft knock at the chamber window. Helena stood for a moment with her hand on the catch, willing herself to forget the doubts and fears that had suddenly crowded her mind, and then flung the window open.
And then Bertram was in her arms, as she had often dreamt of him: kissing her, stroking her hair, murmuring words of love that were for her and not for her. Part of her wanted it to go on and on until she smothered under his embraces, and part of her wanted to say Stop! and confess everything.
His hands moved downward, over her breasts, and she could not suppress a low moan, though she knew there was need for silence.
Then they heard a violent knock at the chamber door.
Bertram froze in the act of undoing her laces. Helena whispered, “Under the bed!” and he vanished in a single fluid motion.
“Who’s there?” she asked, not daring to speak above a whisper lest her voice give her away.
“Francisco, servant to Giovanni Lotta.”
Helena opened the door. One did not disobey Lotta’s men. “What do you want?”
“We are looking for a Frenchwoman named Helena de Narbonne, and have had information that she is staying in this house.”
There was a squeak from under the bed. Helena threw her shoe in Bertram’s general direction, and muttered something about mice.
“Are you Helena de Narbonne?” demanded Francisco.
“Certainly not, sir. My name is Diana, and my mother is the innkeeper here.”
“Is anyone of that name staying in this house?”
“I know not, sir. There are many pilgrims lodging here tonight; I cannot remember all their names.”
“How many pilgrims, exactly? When did they arrive?”
“I tell you, I do not remember! But if you must search the house, I suppose you may.” This seemed to be the only way to get rid of Francisco, and with Bertram concealed under the bed, she would certainly have to get rid of him at once.
Francisco shut the door and strode down the corridor, making no effort to avoid waking the guests. She heard him knock loudly on the door of the next chamber.
“Go!” Helena hissed at Bertram. “Go at once! And try to keep silent, for God’s sake!”
Bertram crept out from under the bed, looking dazed. “Helena de Narbonne was my wife. She is dead.”
“Well?” said Helena. “Then go and tell him so, you fool!” She was too agitated to think whether this was wise or not – but it was surely better than letting Lotta wake the entire house, including Diana and her mother. She could not think of a plausible way to explain why the innkeeper had two daughters called Diana, and acknowledged only one of them.
Bertram went. Helena sat down on the bed, hands shaking. She had never thought she could be so thankful to see Bertram depart from her company – and she could not quite believe that she had called him a fool and meant it.
* * *
The prison cell in Lotta’s palace was not a place of nightmares, not like Azkaban. The bars on the door and windows were mainly for show; since it was built to hold wizards, the real security came from anti-Disapparation jinxes and other spellwork that rendered the walls impregnable. There was an iron bedstead with a reasonably comfortable mattress, a washstand with a bowl of fresh water, and even a few books, although these consisted of sermons and a very long, very dull poem in praise of the International Confederation of Wizards.
Still, it was undeniably a prison, and Severus would have given much to be out of it. He hoped that Helena would feel inclined to corroborate his story. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms.
He stretched out on the bed and tried to plan out some other line of defense, or a means of escape. He felt very naked without his wand; as a rule, he even slept with it.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, the cell was filled with the grey light of dawn, and a guard had arrived with a small loaf of bread, a sliver of cheese, and a mug of water. Severus tore into the food ravenously.
“Signor Lotta says that he would have some talk with you before your trial. He gave orders for you to wait here.”
Severus stared at him. “Instead of doing what, running off to Vancouver to play Quodpot?”
The guard blinked. “To where, sir?”
“Never mind. Did he manage to track down Helena?”
“Signora de Narbonne is dead,” said the guard flatly.
“Dead?” Severus put down his bread and cheese, suddenly no longer hungry. He was too accustomed to sudden death to be greatly startled by the news, but he did wonder how it had happened. Perhaps she had ignored his advice about the Polyjuice potion and poisoned herself, or perhaps the Count Roussillon had murdered her.
Or perhaps she had taken his advice too much to heart, and had committed suicide. Severus found that he did not like this thought, and tried to put it aside. He didn’t like any of the possibilities, come to think of it. Bloody hell, he didn’t want Helena to be dead, and he was sure she would still be alive if he had been there.
Damn it all. He’d moved to the sixteenth century to get away from this sort of thing.
“How did she die? She was fine yesterday!”
“I know not,” said the guard. “But there is a reliable witness who swears to it, a young lord traveling with the French army.”
“The Count Roussillon?”
“I do not know his name. Have you eaten as much as you will, sir?”
“Yes, yes, take it away.”
“Signor Lotta says you are to make yourself ready to receive a visitor as soon as you have eaten. There is one who would speak with you.” The guard picked up the tray and vanished.
Severus splashed some water on his face and tried to make sense of what he had heard.
The door at the end of the corridor creaked open. Severus looked up; his visitor was a young man about his own age, dressed in white robes and holding a candle so that it lit up his face. He was very pale, and he moved almost noiselessly – gliding across the floor, rather than walking. Severus found this slightly eerie until he noted that the young man was wearing slippers.
The man paused in front of his cell, but did not speak.
“Who are you?”
“Nay, know you not me?” said the stranger in a low, unearthly voice.
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“Will you know me on the day of judgment?” intoned the young man.
Some sort of evangelist, Severus decided. Of all the things he didn’t need right now. “Look here, I don’t want a tract, and I’ve got no intention of repenting for something I never did in the first place, so you can go straight back to the Salvation Army, or wherever you came from, and tell them –”
“The French army,” said the young man in a more normal sort of voice. “Where, pray, is Salvatia?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” said Severus, feeling that this conversation was making less and less sense by the minute. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name,” said the stranger, with an attempt at the slow and portentious delivery he’s been using before, “is the Second Lord Dumaine.”
Severus snorted. “What kind of name is that?”
“I have a brother, born but half an hour before me,” said the Second Lord Dumaine in his ordinary voice, “and a mother with an unfortunate lack of imagination.”
Somebody else stifled a groan. Severus turned, and saw Lotta standing in the back of the corridor. He must have been spying on them the whole time.
“I am sorry, my lord,” said the Second Lord Dumaine to Lotta, “but I answered his questions as best I could. Some of them were out of my part.”
“Never you mind,” said Lotta, “I’ve seen enough. In sooth, he does not know you, I’ll be sworn.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“This is the man you wounded last night and left for dead,” said Lotta.
“I didn’t leave him for dead. I was arrested. As you well know.”
Lotta ignored this. “I thought to send him here in the guise of his own ghost. I have heard that murderers have often started at such a sight, and confessed their crimes.”
“Oh, for the love of – Look. Are you satisfied yet that I haven’t committed any crimes, or at least not attempted murder?”
“I believe more of your story than I did last night,” Lotta admitted. “When he came to his senses, Lord Dumaine owned that he and his companions did attack you, though they did it in error, and that they had agreed among themselves to gabble as if they were speaking a strange tongue.”
“There you are! He said it himself! May I go now?”
“Not yet,” said Lotta. “You say you are court wizard to King Hamlet of Denmark, but the only person in Florence who can confirm this is dead. I must say that I find this death strange, and peculiarly convenient.”
“Convenient for whom? As it happens, I find it very inconvenient to be locked up in prison, and if you’re insinuating that I killed her, I bloody well didn’t. She was perfectly well the last time I saw her. Apart from being mad as a hatter, I mean, but that seems to be put her in very good company around here. Give me a pen and some paper. I need to write to a friend.”
* * *
Dear Ophelia,
Helena is dead.
I’m sorry to say that Helena is dead, I did my best but I wasn’t able to do anything to prevent it
At this point Severus crumpled up the letter and started again.
Dear Ophelia,
I am in Florence. A lot of things have happened, I suppose I’d better tell you about them in order...
Severus tried to remember what had happened first, and found that he was drawing a complete blank. Had he really arrived only yesterday?
He spent some minutes clutching frantically at his forehead. Then his jailer entered, keys at his side and an inscrutable expression on his face. “Follow me to the courtroom, where you will attend Signor Lotta’s pleasure. You had better take all of your possessions with you.”
Severus pointed out that he didn’t have any possessions, except for his wand, which had been confiscated when he was arrested. The jailer shrugged and unlocked the door. Severus followed, trying to suppress his increasing sense of panic.
Lotta looked much as he had on their two previous encounters: stony-faced, nearly impossible to read. It was a shock when he handed Severus his wand. “Severus Snape, you are free to leave. All charges against you are dismissed. The Danish ambassador speaks well on your behalf, and as he reminds us, with these late wars it is imperative that Florence maintain her alliance with Denmark.”
“The Danish ambassador?” Severus was puzzled until he caught sight of the man Lotta had indicated. “Horatio! Thank God!”
“See that you do your part to keep the peace,” Lotta added sternly, “and do not presume from this that the law in Florence will bend to your will. Rather, I charge you to follow Our Lord’s example and turn the other cheek, even if a hundred men offer you violence, for it will go badly for you if I hear from you again.”
As things turned out, Severus heeded this advice for a grand total of half an hour. As far as he was concerned, nobody in his right mind would turn the other cheek to an Inferius.
