“No!” he cries.

Alana freezes, expecting the blade to plunge into her back, but the sharp pressure holds steady. “Think about it, Stefano. What kind of merciful God would spread a disease like this?”

“The world is disease now. And He has done so before. Noah and his ark. The ten plagues of Egypt!”

“I’ve seen children dying of this plague, Stefano.”

“Bambini?”

“Yes. A little three-year-old.” She inches over again, testing him. “She was so beautiful—with little blue and pink ribbons in her hair. She would break your heart. She died in her mother’s arms. God is not so cruel. He would never do such a thing.”

“You saw this?” His voice cracks

“Yes, I did. But it wasn’t your fault, Stefano. Don Arturo is responsible!”

“Don Arturo?” he echoes in confusion.

“Yes.” She edges farther away. “We know he was encouraging you. Making you stop your medication. Convincing you to scatter the infected rats. He was only taking advantage of your illness.”

“Don Arturo is a good man,” he says, but she can tell doubt has crept into his tone.

“No, Stefano. He is a bad man. A bitter, angry man. He was filled with fury that they took his monastery away. This has nothing to do with God. Don Arturo only wants revenge. For others to share in his misery.”

Stefano is silent for a moment, but the blade doesn’t budge.

“No, no, no!” he groans. “Lasciami solo!”

For a moment Alana wonders if someone else has entered the room. Then she realizes that he must be arguing with his own hallucinations. “Listen to me, Stefano!” she commands, as she tenses her wrist, preparing to strike. “The voices are not real. Dr. Lonzo has been right all along!”

“And Don Arturo knows this?”

“Yes! He was just using you to settle a score with the Church.”

There’s another combustible silence, then the pressure of the knife’s tip lightens. “What did I do . . .” Stefano murmurs.

“It’s going to be okay, Stefano.”

“The children . . .”

The blade leaves her back. When she’s certain it’s gone, she whirls around to face him, raising the spoon as she does so.

Stefano stands a few feet away from her. Tears stream down his cheeks as he holds the blade leveled against his own throat. “O Lord, take my life instead,” he says.

“No, Stefano!”

She lunges forward, but it’s too late. He has jerked the blade across his neck, splattering her mask in a shower of crimson.

Chapter

Sixty-Four

Today is the fourth day of June. However, I, Gabriella, daughter of Jacob ben Moses, inscribe this journal entry in the place of Doctor Rafael Pasqua.

For weeks I have fought the urge to add my words to those of my beloved Rafael. Today, I could resist no longer. My Rafael was so dedicated to documenting his experience with the pestilence that, in my heart, I know he would have wanted his story completed for the sake of posterity. And I consider it my duty, and my debt, to him to do so.