He mixed it with his dandelion tea and a drop of royal cornflower. This latter possessed traces of aconite, an herb poisonous in some forms and some doses. Orsini knew this and measured it carefully. The mixture seemed to have the desired effect: it put him in a delightful mood, and shortly after he fell asleep. The next morning he was drowsy and complained of stuffiness in his ear—and then he slept for the rest of the day.

That evening he developed a low-grade fever accompanied by chills and bouts of nausea. It was part of the process, triggered by the herbs, through which the body was encouraged to expel the underlying illness. Toward this end, the agitating compounds were to be added in greater proportions until the end of the third day. At that point the fever would break—at least in theory—since the underlying imbalance would have been addressed. Then the regimen would change, commencing with a restorative tea.

A sullenness fell over the household.

“I can’t stand being cooped up,” Dazio said.

“It won’t be much longer.”

“I thought it would be better after my uncle arrived. But your brother . . .”

“Don’t be jealous.”

“How much longer will he be here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are we going back to Italy?”

“Maybe.”

“Zanche says you’ll abandon us.”

“Zanche said that?”

“She says you’ll do what suits you and leave us to fend for ourselves.”

“I wouldn’t abandon you.”

“You’ll send me back to my stepfather.”

“No, that isn’t true,” I said. “You and I, we are birds of a feather.”

His stepfather had turned against Paolo and my brother. Not only that, he was a brutish man, and Dazio’s mother pretended not to see. I knew something of how that felt, and I could see Dazio had no desire to return to them.

“We can go for a walk.”

“All right,” he said.

“I’ll get my sweater.”

Inside, Paolo had just taken some concoction, a mix of herbs stirred like some kind of curry into a cup of rice.  He leaned at the counter, head between his hands, sweating. He sweated like a pig. He jittered. I took him into the bedroom and brewed his tea. He spoke of his enemies in Rome and of the trumped-up nature of the charges against him, then drifted into a stupor.

“It looks like it’s going to be a long night,” Johnny said.

“Yes.”

“Come to my room.”

Dazio watched from the deck. Paolo moaned.

“He’ll be all night,” my brother said.

My husband let out an ugly noise that carried through the wall. I found him on his knees, retching into a trash can, in full fever, mumbling inchoately. He thumped about as I tried to help him back into bed. The noise brought Dazio and Zanche.

“This regimen . . . ?” she wondered.