TWENTY-EIGHT
The taste of the fish soup upon his tongue was heavenly as if he ate the grandest meal served for a king. Fra Sarpi’s hand shook as he raised the crude utensil to his mouth, but that he could feed himself at all was an accomplishment, and he cared little that most of the potage dripped from the spoon and back into his bowl. The two nuns clucked about his sick bed in the small chamber, trying to wrench the eating tools from him, to drip the broth into his mouth as they had been doing for days, but he would have none of it.
It had been three weeks since the attack, three weeks since receiving the stab wounds, two in the neck, and one in the side of his head. A small piece of the stiletto remained embedded in his cheekbone and, more than likely, it would be there for the rest o
