The Secret Dead: A Novella

‘By my reckoning,’ Gennaro said, turning over the hourglass, now brusque and businesslike, ‘we have about two and a half hours until Matins. There is no time to waste.’

So saying, he took a broad-bladed knife and slit the girl’s shift lengthways in one swift movement, from hem to neck, leaving the fabric to fall away either side. I tried to avert my eyes from the dark thatch of hair on her pubic mound, but it was difficult; I had not seen a woman’s body in three years. If Gennaro noticed my confusion and the colour rising to my cheeks, he was discreet enough not to mention it.

‘Who is she?’ I whispered, fixing my gaze on her feet. The soles were bare and dirty.

‘Beggar. Homeless. Come, hold that lantern closer.’ His reply came just a fraction too quick.

‘But – how does she come to be here?’ I blurted, forgetting my earlier promise.

‘She was found in the street by one of the night patrols and brought to me. They thought they might be in time to save her. Alas, they arrived too late.’

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