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pulling away from his hand.
    No!
    I do not know how long my lips cupped over the velvet soft muzzle, damp and salty. Time disappeared—I felt only the rush of air out of my body and into the colt’s.
    Padrino took my free hand gently. He placed it on the horse’s tiny ribs, my fingers draped over the quiet heart. I felt the foal’s chest expand and lift with the air that gushed from my lungs.
    I tasted the saltiness of newborn life on my lips, the moisture of the mare’s womb. The foal was so close to life, still struggling for the world as he dipped under the waves of death. The umbilical cord still united mare and foal. I felt myself a part of them both.
    The three of us, hovering between life and death.
    My eyes were closed tight. I imagined the flicker of life in the darkness, if I could just reach down far enough.
    We shared the same breath, the same life, all three of us. My lungs ached—ached as they did running for help on the night a wolf carried away a lamb when I was alone with the flock.
    I coughed, sputtering. But I did not stop breathing, breathing for all of us. Until at last I felt the air, my own breath, whispering back to me—mixed with the scent of horse and new life.
    “You can stop,” whispered my padrino, his hand gentle on my shoulder. “Rest, Virginia.”
    “Dio mio! He breathes!” I heard the duchessa cry.
    Only then did I pull my mouth away from the colt. My cheeks aching, my lips still slick with the colt’s snot.
    The foal lifted his head. His brown eyes flickered, unfocused, soft with wonderment.
    From the corner of my eye, I saw the duchessa rise with the help of her attendants, escorting her out of the lambing shed. I heard their footsteps crunch on the frozen mud outside.
    “Just a few minutes, ciccia,” said my padrino quietly. “Then we must leave the mare to break the umbilical cord.”
    I nodded, looking at the colt. His white blaze reminded me of a constellation, one of my favorites in the winter sky. My finger reached out to trace the jagged outline on his wet face.
    “Orione,” I whispered. “The hunter.”
    The lanterns threw buttery light across the straw, casting our silhouettes large and black against the timbers of the lambing shed.
    The wind ceased. All that could be heard were the gurgles of the mare’s insides, and the soft puffs of her breath scattering the straw.
    The colt tossed his head, regarding me. His soft brown eyes slowly focused, never moving from my face.
    “You shall run the Palio some day, little one,” I said.
    I whistled the ancient song of Siena.
    Nella la Piazza del Campo, ci nasce la verbena
    Viva la nostra Siena . . .
    La più bella delle città!
    The colt watched me, his head wobbling slightly as he listened to my soft hymn, hummed to him only.
    Padrino Brunelli said I blew my heart into the foal that day.

C HAPTER 8
    Siena
    J ANUARY 1573
    Dawn filtered slowly through the narrow streets of Siena. Giorgio hurried on foot, winding his way from Pispini Gate through Contrada del Nicchio, Contrada del Leocorno, and Contrada della Civetta to Contrada della Selva and the heart of the city. He had slept little, arriving home long after midnight. Yet before sunrise, he had ridden his horse to a stable just beyond the city walls, and now he strode along Banchi di Sotto to Via di Città, where the richest merchants and nobili lived. The cobblestones were swept clean each day, with the rubbish carted away by the municipality, the wandering dogs, and private trashmongers.
    A washerwoman was stooped over with a yellow-stained cloth, soaking up the street puddles from the night chamber pots in front of Palazzo Lombardi. She twisted her cloth mercilessly, wringing out the urine into a bucket. Her sons threw the rest of the slops into a rickety donkey-drawn cart with splintered wood.
    Despite the cold, flies buzzed lazily around the cargo.
    “ Buongiorno, Giorgio,” she said.
    “Buongiorno.”
    “I hear your father saved Duchessa d’Elci’s mare