Graceless heart, p.2
Graceless Heart, page 2
And it was because of that family her home lay in ruins.
It had been Lorenzo de’ Medici’s idea to build a massive fortress deep in the heart of Volterra to lord over them all. It had been his idea to confiscate the property of families who dared to question his mandates. His idea to install a curfew, requiring people be in their homes by dusk.
It was because of him she’d lost family and close friends.
She would not lose her brother.
A stray cat screeched, making her startle. She paused, ears straining. Every street in Volterra had its own personality, and Ravenna knew them all like she knew her own pulse. At this time of night, reckless pleasure seekers defying the curfew dipped in and out of taverns overrunning Via Ricciarelli. She avoided Via Porta all’Arco for the same reason, which left the handful of less-traveled paths.
Quieter, but more dangerous.
For a moment, she considered turning back. But then she thought of the Florentine infantry soldiers staring up at her brother’s dangling feet, jeering. Of the rotten food they’d thrown at him while her brother fought to keep his face expressionless, even when they’d executed his friends. She’d never been prouder of him.
The risk was worth it.
Ravenna turned the corner, awkwardly managing the long ladder, and walked briskly. She was no stranger to hard work or to carrying heavy loads.
She knew how to settle arguments between guests, knew how to wrangle her younger siblings into dutiful submission, and how to budget the inn’s expenses for the month. Suppliers and merchants trembled in her presence; no one could out-negotiate her in trade. Ravenna could cook a respectable meal in under an hour for a room full of hungry travelers, and she was a master at brewing anything from hearty ales to soothing herbal teas.
And if she needed to defend herself, she could do that, too. Thanks to her father, she always kept a dagger hidden in her boot. If she couldn’t reach her weapon, well, there was always the ladder.
The magic inside her woke with a soft curling sensation between her ribs. It was a reminder that she had a third option if things became dire. But Ravenna would rather someone stab her than use the dark magic hidden within her.
She made a turn onto the next street.
Tall stone buildings flanked her, bearing the scars from the battle against Florence. Gaping holes, shattered windows, crumbling walls. It had been brutal and bloody; hundreds had lost their lives. The people of Volterra hadn’t stood a chance against the Medici and their hired henchman, the terribly efficient Duke of Urbino.
Ravenna forced herself to look straight ahead.
It was easier than thinking about the family that had once lived there.
She crossed an alley and came across two shadows huddled against the wall. The moon illuminated the hazy outlines of their bodies, and the shadows spooled into the form of two men, one tall and slim, the other short and barrel-shaped. The latter wore a rounded biretta, covering his shorn hair, and a heavy chain around his neck, denoting his elevated status. His face reminded Ravenna of the sword strapped to his hip: sharp and formidable. She would have known him anywhere: he was the Capitano of the Volterra militia. A powerful man and their greatest defender against the Medici, even more so now that the city had fallen.
The other man was a stranger to her.
Both were tense, in the middle of an argument. They traded harsh words in the shadow of the alley. The Capitano dropped his gloved hand to the hilt of his weapon. Ravenna slowed. She was already frowning by the time the taller man sensed her. He half turned in her direction, his profile limned by a hazy moonbeam. He coolly arched a brow at her, turning farther, revealing the rest of his countenance.
Ravenna stopped, the ladder lurching awkwardly.
She had never seen a more beautiful face.
Dark winged brows curved sardonically over heavily fringed dark eyes, nearly black, pinning her to the cobbled stone. The rest of his face was a study of perfect angles and arches. A full mouth that held in wicked secrets, and cheekbones, cut sharply, just like the tip of his jewel-encrusted sword. Despite the swirl of gray clouds crowding the moon, peridot, diamonds, and emeralds glimmered back at her.
Her fingers itched for a chisel and scalpel. She wanted to capture his face in marble, all his striking lines, and carve a voluminous cloak swirling around his long legs.
He looked reckless, an ill-advised idea incarnate.
The man’s gaze traveled over her form, shrouded as it was in her own heavy cloak, and to the long ladder stretching past her shoulders at both ends. His expression remained flat and devoid of emotion, his body still and contained, immovable.
His voice was cold and remote. “It’s past curfew. Move along.”
Ravenna glanced uneasily to the Capitano. His warm brown eyes locked with hers and he jerked his chin, encouraging her to leave them to their discussion. She hesitated, and when the taller man took a step forward, the Capitano’s voice lashed out.
“Now, signorina.”
Ravenna set off down the lane, her stomach knotting. Their conversation had nothing to do with her, and she had somewhere to be, but with every step she took, Ravenna had the uncanny sense that she was making a mistake. But what could she do?
Only one thing. She pressed on.
The narrow street bled into the ruined Piazza dei Priori. The Florentine army had come burning hot for the heart of the city, fire practically spewing from their mouths, like the dragons circling the mountains to the north. The square was in ruins, but Ravenna looked past the destruction to one of the iron cages hanging in the piazza.
It held a single captive.
Antonio lay slumped against the bars, restlessly kicking his legs. Relief bled through her. She peered around the square, noting the long wooden tables situated in front of the magnificent bell tower, still mercifully standing. A new dais was positioned next to the tables, and Ravenna’s stomach flipped.
She couldn’t think about tomorrow and what it would bring.
Not yet.
Antonio was looking in her direction, head tilted, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ravenna darted out from the alley, and his legs stopped swinging. He let out a low whistle, the song of a barn owl. She returned the call, breathless; the ladder was heavy, and she could feel a bruise blooming across her shoulder.
Antonio whistled again, but this time it sounded like a screeching owl. Ravenna paused, legs shaking. Had he seen someone? But the piazza was blessedly empty. Just worried, then. She pressed onward, navigating random piles of collected debris and rubbish.
“Ravenna,” Antonio whisper-yelled. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” She righted the ladder and tilted her head up.
“There is a curfew,” he hissed.
“I didn’t see any guards.”
It wasn’t technically a lie.
The cage swung in the cool breeze, its chains creaking and rattling like an enraged ghost. Antonio pressed his thin face against the thick bars, their iron rusted. He had lost weight, and his eyes were bloodshot; he probably hadn’t slept since he’d been locked inside. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”
Ravenna held on to the rungs and climbed. The ladder was high enough to reach the heavy door, which was wide enough to force a person through and secured by a large padlock.
She glared at it as she reached for her scarsella, a tapered pouch riveted onto her leather utility belt. It held a small chisel and carving knife, a hand-stitched booklet bound with a waxed linen cord, and charcoal sticks wrapped in a slim leather sleeve. Ravenna never went anywhere without it. Her clothing had also been chosen with care: a dark burgundy gown, expertly made but with simple adornments, the wool cloak with the hood pulled up and over her head. Her favorite part about the dress? It had pockets enough to suit her practical needs.
She pulled out the small carving knife, intent on the padlock.
“Don’t,” Antonio warned. “If I run, the first place they’ll look is the inn.”
Ravenna nodded, having expected his reply. “When they don’t find you there, the soldiers will move on.”
“And then they’ll place you in the cage. I must stay.” He wrapped his hands around the bars. “Go home.”
She ignored him, even if he was right. She put away the carving knife and then withdrew a thick loaf, seasoned with rosemary and garlic, from within her bag. He snatched the bread out of her hands, tore a big chunk off with his teeth. Seeing him reduced to a feverish hunger reignited her anger. Deep caverns marred his tanned skin, hollows under his eyes and cheekbones that hadn’t existed before he stood up to one of the few Florentine soldiers that had remained behind to ensure order and enforce the infernal curfew. And to prevent any uprisings against the Medici.
But looking at her brother’s gaunt face, she knew her brother would never give up the fight.
Ravenna was angry. But her brother burned fiery hot, lit from within by a holy fire. She reached forward, snaking her arm between the bars. He let her brush his dirty hair off his brow, something he would have never allowed if the circumstances hadn’t been what they were.
“I have a plan,” she whispered.
Antonio finished chewing, brows raised expectantly.
“I’m going to get you released,” she said.
“How?” Bitterness stole over him, creeping across his face like a winter storm. “You heard those bastards. They won’t let me go, even for a king’s ransom. I’m a cautionary tale.” His lips twisted in disgust. “Another warning.”
“I have a way,” Ravenna insisted. “You’ve been stuck up here so you might not have heard about tomorrow.”
Antonio snorted. “Rather hard to miss the preparations for the festival.” He gestured to the tables, the raised dais. “Who’s coming?” His hands curled into fists. “Is it them? The Medici? Come to gloat?”
He uttered their name like he would a curse.
“It’s not a festival,” Ravenna said. “It’s a competition. The Medici family aren’t hosting it, but their allies are. They are supposed to arrive tomorrow morning.”
His belligerent expression faded; he dropped his arms to his sides, leaned back against the bars. “You don’t mean…”
“Yes, them. The immortals.” She paused. “The Luni famiglia.”
They stared at each other for several awestruck beats.
No one knew where the Luni famiglia came from, only that they’d arrived in Florence almost a century earlier, and that ever since they’d ruled the city in all but name. There were many who believed them to be fae, but that didn’t explain why they elected to live in a distinctly human city, intimately involving themselves with human affairs, when the fae infamously only made disastrous bargains.
If the Luni famiglia were indeed fae, then they were unusual ones.
And except for the Medici, no one else wielded that kind of power.
Long before Ravenna was born, the Holy Roman emperor had granted the Luni family a dukedom in thanks for their service to the Republic of Florence. The eldest son had been proclaimed a knight, and he stood to inherit their fortune, most of their properties, and the coveted title. His younger brother supervised the Florentine army—he was the one who had delivered the Duke of Urbino to their front gate—and their youngest sister was proclaimed a countess.
And if that wasn’t enough, tales of the siblings’ beauty and grace were sung in every tavern, banquet, festival, and tournament up and down the whole of the peninsula.
Ravenna couldn’t abide the tales or the songs.
No matter how outrageously beautiful and wealthy and powerful they were.
“Why on earth would they be coming here?” He narrowed his dark eyes at her. “And what does that have to do with me?”
“They’re hosting a competition for sculptors. Participants need to present their best work—” She gestured to one of the tables. “And the Luni famiglia will pick a winner.”
“Again,” Antonio said impatiently, “I don’t see how—”
“I will be competing.”
Antonio jerked forward, and the cage swung wildly. Ravenna grasped one of the bars to help settle the motion.
“You’re not a sculptor,” Antonio said.
She released the bar, stiffening. “Yes, I am.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Antonio asked. “You’re a woman. Who’s going to let you participate? No one.” He shook his head at her, baffled and despairing all at once. “I’m surprised at you, Ravenna. Our parents have already suffered a blow with my being locked up in here, why degrade their name further?”
“Because I want to help you,” Ravenna said quietly, stung.
“Ravenna—”
She held up her hand to ward off another one of his protests. “You haven’t asked me what the winner will receive.”
He made a scoffing noise at the back of his throat. “It hardly signifies.”
“It does. If I win, the prize is a boon. Anything I want.” Antonio widened his eyes, and Ravenna held his gaze. “My prize will be your release, and the dropping of the charges against you.”
Her brother gaped at her, hope unspooling in his dark eyes. But his face shuttered, and any hope he had felt vanished. “There’s no chance of you winning. Not when you’re competing against Mirandola and Bramante.”
Ravenna resisted the urge to rattle the cage.
Because he was right. It was an impossible feat.
Her odds of winning were practically nonexistent. Their parents were honorable innkeepers, known for their hospitality, not for their artistic abilities. The only artist in the family had been her aunt, and she’d taught Ravenna everything she knew, but she was long gone. Her parents allowed her this one eccentricity because she so adroitly managed everything else at the locanda.
However, she was talented, and she would do whatever it took to free her brother from the literal cage he sat in fifteen feet off the ground.
She wished he’d have faith in her.
Especially because she still couldn’t breathe seeing him locked up.
“Go back home,” he muttered.
She gaped at him. “Antonio, I’m only trying to help.”
“That’s not what you’re doing. It’s cruel to give a man hope when there is none.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Ravenna pleaded. “Don’t give up, there’s always hope. You’ve been acting different ever since the Medici came, Antonio. This isn’t like you. Angry all the time, bitter and defeated.”
He glowered at her, anger curling his lip in an ugly sneer. “I know you think you can fix everything in the known universe, but this is something out of your control. You can’t save Volterra. You can’t even save yourself.” Ravenna flinched. “You can’t save me. I’m who I am because of what they’ve done to our home, to my friends.”
“But—”
“Leave me.”
Ravenna wouldn’t accept that.
She reached again into her bag, pulling out a wheel of cheese wrapped in a cloth napkin. Wordlessly, she handed it to him. Antonio stared at it with clear yearning, but Ravenna knew he’d rather yell at her instead.
“Please eat. Do it for our parents if not for me.”
Antonio sighed, but took the food. “You’re only delaying the inevitable.”
To speak further would be to invite another argument. She kept her mouth shut as she descended the ladder, but this time she was the one who wanted to yell. The whole way home, she made a vow to herself.
Ravenna would save her brother, even if it killed her.
Capitolo Due
The hour grew late, and the night became longer and darker as Ravenna laid her tools in a neat row on the scarred wooden table in her studio. The flat and claw chisels, the rasp, a file, her hammer—practically an extension of her palm—her favorite pumice stone, and a soft-bristled brush. Ravenna glanced at the single window that allowed spools of moonlight to gloss over the cramped space. She’d lined the sill with eggshells filled with cinnamon and cloves, painted stones, and snips of parchment with poetry, riddles, and fragments of stories written on them.
Offerings to keep the fae at bay.
Her mother was as superstitious as she was practical, and she’d raised Ravenna to be the same. Magic had no place in Volterra. Best to keep it out by any means possible. And stifle her own.
Ravenna turned back to her worktable. It was her favorite time to sculpt marble, during the midnight hours while all the world slept. She inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar scents the storage building kept trapped within its stone walls: flour, vanilla, aged wine, canvas, and pine. Outside, the wind began its nightly howl as winter gave its final cry across the rolling hills of Volterra.
Ravenna tied a clean linen apron twice around her waist, lit another candle, and then eyed the bozzetto critically. It stood only a foot tall, but there was something about the figurine that seemed to overwhelm the quiet of her studio. For her subject, Ravenna had chosen Pluto, god of the underworld, and even without his face completed, the air around him swirled menacingly. The lushness of his clothing accentuated the broad width of his shoulders, and his strong hands were edged with blunt fingers capable of wielding the most dangerous of weapons.
Even without a face, he seemed threatening.
Finish me, topolina, or you’ll regret it, he seemed to say in a deadly hush.
Ravenna had never been called a little mouse before in all her life.
With a burst of annoyance she took the flat chisel and hammer and struck the marble. It gave way easily, the white stone as pure and sparkling as if it had come from the moon.
With expert strikes, she nibbled away at the stone, angling cheekbones, carving the fine line of his eyelids, trapping the shadows that made up the contours of his face. With the claw chisel, she scratched the long sweep of eyebrows into place, the arched curve both sardonic and stern. With every step, Ravenna worked to improve each strike: deepening the lines, softening his mouth, adding the wavy details of his shoulder-length hair.
