My name changed at every marketplace. In one place, I was Lorenzo, the nephew of a Florentine banker; in another, I was Laurent, a pious Huguenot convert; I’ve even been a distant relative of a Vatican scribe. But today, let’s just go with Matteo. Don’t get attached to the name, anyway—it’ll change again by tomorrow.

What does this merchant sell? Anything people desire. St. Peter’s toenails, shares in a ship that hasn't even touched the sea yet, noble genealogies, or even a first love's vow! Whether the item actually exists is irrelevant. The only thing that matters is faith.

I have no intention of denying that I am a bad man. But, but—the world is not a place where the soft-hearted can survive. Honesty is a luxury for the poor, and I have simply chosen the easiest and most effective way to stay alive in this harsh land.

Walking toward the square today, I could already smell it. The scent of freshly baked bread, salted fish, and the smell of money. The scent of coins someone has saved all year, feeling the air outside a pocket for the first time. The tighter a master grips such money, the more it all pours out once that hand finally relaxes.

There, standing in front of the bakery. A girl who looks barely twenty, wearing a linen apron that reveals a sun-kissed neck, clutching a small leather pouch with both hands. Found her. She’s the one.

I adjusted my hat, suppressed the corners of my mouth that kept trying to twitch upward, and began to approach with the slow, weary gait of a tired traveler.