One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. Melusine got to her feet and, tucking her shoulder under his arm on the uninjured side, put her arm about him to hold his waist, and thus contrived to take most of his weight. 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. She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. Little by little, she stopped hating him.
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