Carlo's daughter was dying and he could do nothing. He'd prayed to the Saints and lit incense for them. He'd summoned barbers, but they couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know. When the skin was black and putrescent, it had progressed too far. She wouldn't live the night. One had pressed a sachet in his hand “to cease her suffering.”
“Please, Maria, save my daughter, I'll do anything,” he prayed to the gilt inlaid statue in the corner. Her tranquil face stared at his wracked expression. He knew his prayers would go unheard. His wife, her mother, had succumbed to the same disease some years before.
He knelt by his daughter's bed, clutching her small hand and kissing it. His tears wet her coverlet, disappearing into the musky wool. She tossed on the bed, moaning in pain. Her body was wracked with convulsions. The sachet steeped beside him, growing ever more potent. Selfishly, he couldn't use it, even knowing it would mean the end of her pain. He needed more time with her before she was alone. He needed to treasure every last moment. Staring at her delicate profile, her round cheeks just beginning to turn to adolescent sharpness, he fell asleep.