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 …

“Papa?” His daughter was talking to him in his dreams. “Papa's here, darling Noemi. Papa will be here as long as you need.” “Papa.” It was repeated, sharper. “I'm hungry.” Someone was jostling him awake. It was his daughter. His Noemi. Alive and vibrant as she had been …

The next day, Carlo felt like he was a new man as he walked to the guild hall. They'd spent the rest of the day after Noemi's miracle going around the city while he indulged her every whim. They had explored the bustling market. In which, he had …

“Son,” his grandmother said. That was her way. Regardless of the details of their relationship, all male descendants of hers were sons and all female were daughters. Assuming she deigned to notice them. Assuming they hadn't invoked her ire and gained another name. She extended a graceful …

The woman, Isabella, was holding a meeting in the square. It was so distasteful, pandering to everyone. Politics was a game for the elite. For those who understood what was going on and what the stakes were. These, he eyed the throngs in their roughly cut homespun tunics, weren't …

Carlo trudged back to his small apartment. Despite all his work, he didn't warrant an apartment in the guild hall, but had had to buy one from his meager earnings. They weren't the only ones with problems. Even if things were so hard, if they just did their …

A woman stood outside his door. She was short, with honey-blonde hair and green eyes that were unusual in this city, and a little younger than he was. Her features had a slight exotic cant. His wife had been a classical beauty, nothing like this woman. She wore clean broadcloth …

Carlo had never been to this sector of the city. The tanners and butchers had established their shops near her centuries ago and the air was suffused with the stench of offal, alongside the ever present miasma of human sweat and waste. The buildings were short and squat, like they …

She'd deposited him back at the tavern. He sat again in his well-worn seat, a cup of well-watered wine in his hands. After an initial swish to get the dust and taste of the city out of his mouth, he hadn't touched it. He just pushed it …