The only thing thicker than the smoke that night was the heat. It felt as if Savonarola’s bonfire had rolled all the way down to Rome and was devouring the entire city, no longer content with a few pictures and bone dice. I pulled my jacket over my nose and mouth, but my eyes stung, my throat burned, and my ears rattled from the cacophony of shouting, braying, and barking. People stampeded through the streets, carrying armloads of clothes, pots, torn bags with grain trickling out. A chicken flapped by in a furious panic. A horse reared with nostrils flaring, teeth bared, muscles tensing. A boy riding a donkey plucked the hat off my head. One man climbed out of a broken window carrying a pile of shoes, looting the neighborhood cobbler. He didn’t get far. The cobbler leapt off a balcony—his cape billowing in the air—and chased after that thief, tackled him, and beat him with a board adorned with long rusty nails. I slipped and fell and rolled under a crashed wagon to avoid more trampling feet. I grabbed a plank of splintered wood, although I didn’t know how to wield it.

Thoughts of Margherita trying to fend off rioters with nothing more than a silver plate or candlestick compelled me out of my hiding place. As men scuffled, I moved with defiant confidence. My mother always taught me that to succeed in this world, walk like you know where you’re going and why—especially if you’re afraid. Others will follow for fear you know something they don’t. I doubt my mother intended that I use her advice to navigate a riot, but I suppose mothers can never know how their children will apply well-meant lessons.

Imperia’s villa was dark. The door hung open. “’Gita? ’Gita,” I called as I hurried inside. The carpets were torn, upholstered chairs were in shreds, curtains scorched. “Margherita!” I took the stairs two at a time, but she wasn’t in her little room, either. Drawers were open and emptied. A table was toppled over. A yellow dress was ripped in two. For once, I didn’t think of picking up a sketchbook and redrawing the world perfect. “Margherita!” I slipped, and my backside landed in a puddle. My palm came away wet and sticky. It was too dark to see, but one sniff confirmed my suspicions: blood.

Holy Mother, where is she?

That’s when a hand dropped on my shoulder. I whirled around, flailing with that old hunk of splintered wood. “It’s me.” Chigi— eye swollen, lip bulging—stood over me. “We must be quiet,” he whispered, as he helped me to my feet and hurried me into a small, dark closet stacked high with costumes, masks, ribbons, and women.