The rats.

Of course! he cried. Those blessed creatures.

Do they still appear as robust as on my last visit?

We see more of them than ever. Not one of them is stricken. They truly have been the harbingers of our salvation.

I did not want to offend him with my skepticism. And in truth, I had no energy to argue. With your blessing, Don Marco, I would like to bring some of these rats home with me.

You mean to bask in their restorative powers?

I mean to examine them.

Examine them, Doctor Pasqua? How will you accomplish this?

Through dissection, of course.

Don Marco recoiled as though I had blasphemed. You mean to kill these holy creatures?

I would have to, yes.

But, Doctor, they have been chosen by God. To sacrifice these anointed animals as though they were some pagan offering is not right.

No, not sacrifice! Somehow their humors protect them from this pestilence. If I can unravel the magic of that feat, not only will I be able to cure myself, but I might be able to help many others.

But to kill those which God has spared?

I do not require all of them. Only a handful. These are rats. No animal alive replicates as rapidly. No one will notice their absence. Not even God Himself.

Don Marco weighed the request for several moments. Finally, he smiled and said, I would never relinquish them to anyone else. But we brothers could not be more indebted to you, good doctor. And I would do anything in my power to see you well.

Thank you, I said. Could I impose upon you for one further favor?

Anything, my son.

I do not believe I have strength left to capture the creatures. Will some of the brothers help trap them for me?

That will not be necessary.

How so?

We are housing them in special cages. We have even selected a brother to tend to them.

You found a brother willing to play the role of rat keeper? I asked in disbelief.

Agreeable to be the keeper of God’s rats? It was all I could do to choose between the many brothers who vied for the honor.

Chapter

Twenty

After a few fitful hours of sleep, the buzz of her phone against the nightstand wakes Alana. The top of the screen reads 5:23 a.m., and the text from Byron below contains only three words: “Sixteen more cases.” It’s enough to launch Alana out of bed, as if doused by ice water. The spread is far worse than feared. No epidemiological simulation or model would have ever predicted the number of plague cases to have more than doubled in a single day. Not naturally, anyway.

She brushes her teeth, ducks in and out of the shower barely long enough to lather and rinse, and then throws on the same outfit she wore two days earlier. She had come to Genoa with only clothes enough for three days. She hadn’t expected to stay. Then again, she never expected any of this.