Muscular arms lifted and shoved Anso forward. After a short forced march they went stumbling up a set of steps. Feet thudded dully on what sounded like rotting timbers.

Anso counted four sets of feet beside his own; three heavy brutish strides immediately around him, the girl’s light gait a few yards behind them.

“Where are you taking me?” Anso plodded on, goaded by a poke between the shoulder blades.

“Come now, Fra Anso. Don’t be such a bore.” It was difficult to judge the girls age. Her voice was highly pitched as if a teenager, not much younger than himself. But she ordered these thugs around with an air of authority well beyond her apparent years.

They stopped climbing. Anso heard gulls crying and the creaking of a ships rigging. The thugs lifted him bodily and set him down on deck.

“Alright, go ahead and cut him loose. He’s not going anywhere now.” His bonds and blindfold fell from him, and he reeled.

The airship departed from its mooring at the Campanile, high above the streets of Florence.