I thoroughly enjoyed my little recent ‘artistic’ spell, but now I think it’s time to go back to proper narrative illustrations, if you’ll forgive me :-) From near the end of the story, I’m going to drag you right back to near the beginning. Francesco has been in Antalia a matter of months: thanks to a commission from Don Alfonso, he might finally be finding his feet again, and so he begins to restock his armoury, usually pretending to be Fabrizio’s servant (for which he has adopted the name Domenico Cardegna). But he also needs to build up a supply of herbs and powders – most of a rather dubious nature. He knows that a man of his station buying such things would be looked on as highly suspicious. Keen to avoid drawing attention to himself, Francesco comes up with a plan: Francesco was glad there were no passers-by to witness the spectacle of Don Fabrizio della Vedra arguing with his servant in the street. “Come on,” he coaxed. “It’ll be easy. Just act stupid.” “He’ll never believe it,” Fabrizio said stiffly. “Of course he will! Look – he won’t have the slightest scruple about making money from some dimwit aristo who hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing. Just breeze in there, tell him you’ve heard this great new theory about alchemy, and ask for the ingredients. And if he wavers, pretend to be offended… ask him if he knows who you are… After that he won’t give a fig; he’ll sell you anything just to make you shut up and go away.” “Are you saying I look stupid?” “Not as such. But it wouldn’t be hard for you to pretend to be so.” “I’ll get you for that later,” Fabrizio said in a low voice as they entered the shop. The apothecary, Bernabò Cortese, had more scruples than expected. Faced with the list Fabrizio handed him, he went pale behind his spectacles. “My lord, such ingredients are not part of the alchemical canon. I think perhaps, my lord, you may have been misinformed…” Fabrizio turned a withering gaze upon him. “And who are you, to know the most recent deliberations of men of genius? I’ll have you know, sir,” uttered with aristocratic distaste, “that I have been tutored in alchemy by none other than the great Lelio Favetti…” He paused expectantly. Poor Bernabò Cortese was left floundering, and before he could say anything, Fabrizio began deliberately to draw on his gloves. “Lelio Favetti is a man of brilliance and is consulted by all the very best people. It is inconceivable that anyone connected with the genteel world has not heard of him. I think, sir, you are right: I have been misinformed – in my choice of apothecary. Good day.” “My lord!” Bernarbò Cortese burst out, seeing the coveted crowns about to stroll out through his door. “Please grant me a moment!” He sidled around the edge of the counter. “I fear you have misunderstood me – my silence was not ignorance, but simply reverence for a master of my art… I… I am delighted to meet so evidently apt a pupil of such a great man… I… Please, wait, my lord: you will have everything you have requested. One moment…” And he scurried with the list into a back room. “You are incredible,” Francesco murmured. Fabrizio glanced sideways at him. “I am glad you think so, Domenico. After all, from whom can one expect loyalty if not one’s staff? Ah, here is the apothecary back again. Thank you, Signor… Cortese, was it? Ah yes. You see” – to Cortese – “these natural poisons draw out the impurities of the metal, thereby resulting in the pure element itself.” He watched with casual boredom as Francesco counted out the coins into Cortese’s eager hand. “Please, my lord,” the apothecary said, “do visit my shop again if you should need anything else for your experiments.” “We shall see,” Fabrizio said off-handedly, looking outside. “Come, Domenico; time grows short."