Graceless heart, p.36
Graceless Heart, page 36
Ravenna nodded as he continued to dry her tears. A fruitless task; she couldn’t seem to stop crying. “I came down here to work on the stones.” She pointed to the fallen Nightflame. “That one is for you.”
At this, Saturnino sucked in a breath.
“I made my choice,” Ravenna whispered.
“What choice?”
“You,” she said. “I chose you.”
Saturnino shut his eyes, as if the sight of her was too much for him. His body shuddered. He opened his eyes; they were clear but blue-rimmed. “And then?” he asked hoarsely.
“That’s when Pietro—” Her eyes flickered uneasily to his body.
“Don’t look at him,” he said again.
Ravenna wrenched her gaze back to Saturnino. “That’s when they attacked me. I was able to knock Pietro unconscious, but then Imelda…” She shuddered. “You know what happened after that.”
Saturnino’s gaze spanned the length of the room, flickering from the Nightflame to Pietro, the total mess left behind from their fight with Ravenna. He nodded to himself, and Ravenna realized he was checking her words with what proof lay before him.
He finished his assessment of the situation and nodded again, coming to some sort of a decision.
“You can’t stay here,” Saturnino said quietly.
She blinked. That was the last thing she expected him to say. Her thoughts scrambled. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s becoming harder and harder to keep you safe.” He gestured toward Pietro. “This will make it impossible. The others—”
“I won’t leave you,” she said.
“Ravenna,” he said gently. “You’re not listening to me. The longer you stay here, the more likely one of them will kill you.”
“Then come with me,” Ravenna said. “Leave them.”
“I can’t,” Saturnino said. “The best way to protect you is to remain at the palazzo.”
“There has to be some way—”
“Ravenna,” he said again, this time more firmly. “We’re wasting time. Take the path past the grotto, it will lead up to a side street.” He gave her a small, tender smile. “But you probably already know that.”
She did.
“Don’t ask this of me,” she whispered. “I can’t do it.”
“You will. You are.” He took her hand and together they crossed the room. He opened the door and tugged her after him. Ravenna glanced over her shoulder, her gaze landing on the Nightflame. She pulled herself free, went and picked up the gemstone, then carefully wrapped it in a cloth she found neatly folded on the workbench. She tied the ends, making sure it was tight enough.
Saturnino didn’t have anyone who could cast the spell. All he had was the Nightflame, essentially useless without a witch to perform the necessary enchantment.
“No,” she murmured. “No. I’m not leaving you. Maybe I can—”
Saturnino held out his hand for the Nightflame. “This is not your problem, it’s mine, and what matters to me is your safety.”
Ravenna reluctantly gave him the bundle, when what she really wanted to do was wrench it back, hold on, scream, fight.
“I have been looking for a way to break this spell for decades, Ravenna,” Saturnino said, his voice low and raw. “You know what the cost has been. People have lost their lives. I won’t let it cost you yours.” He exhaled sharply, like forcing air through battered lungs. “Let me do this one pure thing. Just once. For someone who I—” He broke off, throat working furiously.
Ravenna’s heart pounded.
Say it, she thought. Please. Please, say it.
But instead, he dipped into his pockets, pulling out a slim bag, coins clinking within; he tried to hand it to her. “Take this. I can hold them off until you’re far from Florence.”
“I can’t,” Ravenna managed. This was happening too fast, their conversation derailing and spinning out of control. Her control. It seemed incredible to her that there wasn’t a solution. A way forward.
Together.
When she still refused to take the money, Saturnino reached for the hidden pocket in her gown and widened the opening with two fingers. Ravenna stared, dumbstruck, as he dropped the bag inside.
“Promise me,” he repeated, more urgent. “Promise me you’ll go straight home.”
She lifted her head, staring at him in obvious disbelief. “It can’t end this way.”
He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and cradled the side of her face with his hand, blissfully warm. “We were always going to end this way.”
Ravenna’s hands shook. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”
“No,” he said. “Because if I do, it would mean that I have failed you. That would destroy me in a way I hope never to find out. Your promise, Ravenna.”
“I promise,” she said in a broken whisper. She wrapped her arms around his neck and brought him down to her. She pressed her lips to his and poured all her heartache into the kiss. Every complicated, devastating, human feeling. All that Ravenna had to give. Saturnino lifted her against him, holding her tight, one arm banded around her. His body trembled against hers as he tasted everything she offered. Sweetness, despair, hope. He slid his mouth to her cheek, pressed a soft, reverent kiss to it.
He shuddered, his grip tightening around her like he’d never let her go.
But Ravenna knew that he would.
Slowly, he brought her back down, her toes touching the floor, their bodies separating like a tapestry coming undone.
“You’re worth everything. All that I am and more than I deserve,” Saturnino whispered into her ear. He let out a shaky breath. “I am named for the god of time, and yet I have no control over the time I have left. The greatest irony of my life. If I could wish for one thing, it’d be to spend an eternity by your side.” She tried to kiss him again, but he stepped away, putting distance between them. The look on his face almost killed her.
A bittersweet smile, hollowed eyes, a brave nod.
“Go, Ravenna,” he whispered. “Do it now while I can still let you leave.”
She took a step toward him, and he immediately backed up, his eyes flaring. A hint of his usual impatient exasperation crossed his face. “Go,” he repeated, this time more coldly.
Ravenna turned away, fighting a sob.
Somehow she managed not to look back.
Imelda de Pazzi
The frescoes on the palazzo walls were a blur as she ran to her bedroom on the upper floor. The rush of her own breath roared in her ears, the soles of her shoes slapping against the stone. She rounded a corner too quickly, nearly colliding with another servant. Imelda didn’t slow down, not even to apologize. Her life with the Luni famiglia was finally over, damn whatever else happened. With every step she took she felt a tug at her heart.
Pietro.
She’d left him behind.
But she couldn’t turn back now. When he woke, he’d come looking for her. She’d leave him a note letting him know where she’d gone. Because for the first time in a year, she was going home, finally. Her father would have to take her back after this.
Imelda knew Cavaliere Saturnino’s fatal weakness. A nobody sculptress who had managed to bring a knight of the realm to his knees.
Imelda’s room was tucked close to the kitchen, and the sounds of dishes clattering and servants chattering sent a jolt through her. Ordinary noises that clashed with the frantic beat of her heart as she opened the door, finding it exactly how she had left it. A small room with whitewashed plaster walls, stone floors softened by a single rug placed next to the narrow bed that held a straw mattress covered in a thick woolen blanket. A tiny window, high on the wall, allowed a sliver of sunlight to pass through. Her few belongings were scattered: her bristled brush on the end table, a small chest at the foot of her bed, dresses spilling out and onto the floor.
It would be awkward hauling the chest back home, but she would be damned if she’d return to her father the way she had left: emptyhanded.
Emotions swirled through her. An overwhelming fear of being stopped, or that Saturnino might change his mind, a keen sense of urgency, propelling her to throw everything she had into the chest, her fingers fumbling as she scraped the latch shut. But there was hope, too, fragile like the first blooms of spring. Maybe this time her father might listen to her. Maybe everything she had done for him would finally be enough. Maybe he might finally welcome her home.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
And if that happened, then the dream of her heart might finally come true. Imelda went to her pillow, and pulled out a letter, creased and worn from countless hours spent reading its words. Her brother had given her a precious gift soon after she’d arrived at the palazzo.
A note from her beloved.
Imelda unfolded it, laid it flat on the unmade bed.
My dearest love,
Where are you? Your family won’t see me, they won’t tell me where they sent you. Your brother says you still love me, but won’t tell me where you are. Why won’t you allow it? I would walk through the fires of hell to see you again. Please let me come to you. I am begging you, amore mio.
Tell me where you are.
Forever yours,
A
Her eyes blurred with tears. Everything she had done, she had done for the hope of a life with him. Every awful, terrifying, soulless thing she forced herself to do was to protect the life she wanted to have with Alessandro. Her name restored, her reputation elevated back to where it had been, so that she might bring her love with her into a new life where he didn’t have to toil, not if he didn’t want to.
And now she finally had a way back to him.
I’m coming, Alessandro, I’m coming, Imelda thought.
The creak of the door was her only warning. It opened slowly, and the hairs at the nape of her neck stood on end. Cavaliere Saturnino had changed his mind, he had—
“Going somewhere?”
The voice was low, sultry, amused.
Feminine.
Imelda turned, her stomach dropping. Fortuna dei Luni stood at the threshold, the elegant sweep of her gown brushing against the doorframe. She was carrying, of all things, a silver tray with a single cup filled with a clear liquid, steaming. Small bowls filled with trimmed leaves and herbs were crowded next to the cup. Imelda’s breath hitched, her gaze snapping back to the countess. The pale gold of her hair shone from the soft flames flickering in the oil lamp. A cold smile stretched her mouth, triumphant, calculating.
“No, signorina,” Imelda said, her voice shaky.
Fortuna stepped inside her room, shutting the door behind her. “I’ve been distracted.”
“Sorry?”
“Distracted by Saturnino, the sculptress,” Fortuna continued. “Otherwise I would have found you earlier. I ought to have put it together sooner, what with Marco continuously coming up here. It never occurred to me he was fucking the same woman, over and over. It wasn’t until the garden, it wasn’t until I heard what you told him, that I finally realized who you were. What you are.”
“Contessa—”
“Very clever of you to exploit his human side,” Fortuna said. “Brava.”
Imelda clutched Alessandro’s note to her chest. His face filled her mind, desperate dark eyes pleading with her not to give up, to make it back to him. Lips saying her name, over and over.
“It’s been you, all along,” Fortuna continued, drawing closer. She set the silver tray on the bed. With meticulous care, she dropped a small palmful of the leaves into the cup, then sprinkled a handful of chopped herbs, mixing everything together with a swirl of her silver spoon. “You’ve stolen herbs from my private gardens. Herbs to keep you from conceiving.”
Imelda’s eyes flicked to the door. She could make it, if she ran. She could shove her out of the way—
“I’ve given instructions for the palazzo guards to shoot you on sight,” Fortuna murmured. “The manner of your death is up to you.”
Despair nipped at Imelda’s skin, pinpricks she felt all over, as if she were slowly being eaten alive. The sense of fate turning her back on her filled her with rage. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the contessa how Cavaliere Saturnino had spared her life. It would be all too easy to strike a deal with the contessa, her life in exchange for the knight’s greatest weakness.
Ravenna.
Could it work? Was it worth a try?
Imelda opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.
It had been the sculptress who had stayed the knight’s hand, Ravenna who had begged for her life to be spared. She closed her mouth, marveling at the sudden and peculiar sensation that gripped her.
It felt like mercy.
Again, Alessandro’s face swam through her mind, a face she now understood with sudden clarity that she would never see again. He raged at her to make a different choice. Begged her to come find him. But her mind held someone else now, too.
A nobody sculptress whispering in a voice crackling with holy fire: She is me.
Fortuna held out the teacup. “Poison, or arrow?”
Alessandro, Imelda thought, as she accepted the cup.
Capitolo Trentaquattro
By some miracle, Ravenna made it out of the palazzo grounds, stumbling along the side street, exhaustion clinging to her as if she’d traveled miles. It felt like she had. She found her way to the main thoroughfare, unseeing, navigating by rote the scores of people making their way up and down the street. The longer she walked, the more aware she became of Florence in all its bustling activity. Shops lining the street offered a dazzling array of goods: apothecaries displaying ginger, harissa, and cloves, tailors presenting newly dyed fabric in deep reds, greens, and blues.
Surrounding her were conversations held in multiple languages: Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. Street performers played their lutes, the melodies blending in with the routine clattering of horses traversing the uneven cobblestones, worn down by centuries of travelers. Ravenna’s fingers absently brushed the limestone walls as she went, the rough touch of stone at once familiar and soothing.
At some point she became aware of reaching the Piazza del Duomo. In front of the great domed cathedral were scores of bright decorations—garlands of flowers and banners draped everywhere in crimson and gold. The cobbled streets were scrubbed clean, and from balcony windows, families had hung embroidered tapestries with the sign of the cross.
Ravenna blinked at the general splendor.
With a start, she realized the day.
It was Holy Saturday. The day before Easter.
She turned back toward Santa Maria del Fiore, finding a large antique cart loaded with fireworks. Ribbons were folded over the sides, along with lush greenery and scores of violets, Florentine lilies, roses, and tulips. She stared at it, absently recalling the well-known Florentine tradition.
Tomorrow the Holy Fire would be lit at Eastertide.
People crowded the piazza, and Ravenna made her way out and through, noting how the city was near bursting at the seams in preparation for the holy day. She had wanted to explore every inch of the city, but now she wandered aimlessly searching for quiet, at odds with herself about what to do. Grief made it impossible to focus, her heartache was a terrible and brutal companion that dogged every one of her steps. Tears burned at the back of her eyes until she finally gave in to them, uncaring who saw her or what they thought.
How was she supposed to live her life after this?
The constant threat of danger had stolen nights of sleep, at times, her appetite, her sense of self. And now she’d lost someone she loved. How was she supposed to make a life after this, when she had nothing at all left?
She had a peculiar feeling of having gone to war and come out on the losing side. Her home wasn’t her home anymore—she’d left it far behind her, and if she returned to it now she would no longer fit in. But of course she had to go back to Volterra, if only to explain to her family that they were about to be excommunicated. What would they say to her? If she tried to explain, would they even listen? Ravenna shook her head. They would never forgive her.
It was another loss.
Ravenna didn’t know how she could bear it, but she had to at least try to warn them.
* * *
She ended up at a tavern owned by a Levantine family, where she sat at a wooden table with a bench covered in plush cushions. Low wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling while candlelight illuminated the cozy and warm interior. They served her savory pastries filled with spiced meat accompanied by a small bowl filled with a tangy dipping sauce and a hearty soup made of lentils and spinach, flavored with lemon and coriander. She ate everything set before her, and the delicious fare worked its magic. The food revived her, helped her to master the emotion roiling under her skin, and the memory of Saturnino’s face when he told her to leave him.
It was in this mindset that she made a decision.
She couldn’t save Saturnino, but she would save her brother. It was only a matter of finding him. In a big city. Where she knew no one. Ravenna tapped her fingers against the table, thinking. Her brother was a priest now; could he be tucked away in a church? Unlikely, but it was the only thing she could think of.
The server returned, and Ravenna reached into her pocket to pay for the fare. She retrieved the slim bag, but an envelope tumbled out alongside it. She stared down at it blankly.
And then she remembered.
Imelda’s message from the pope. Ravenna quickly paid the server and left the tavern, yanking out the letter as she crossed the street, mindful of the carts and carriages ambling past. She ducked into an alley and hastily read the note.
Your management of Ravenna has left much to be desired, Imelda. Meet my courier on the 24th of April, at eight in the evening. Osteria dell’Inferno. He will have new instructions for you.
Do not keep him waiting.
It was signed by the pope. Her body buzzed with nervous energy. This was it, her chance to find Antonio. It was a slim chance, but desperation fueled her; she had to try something. Anything. Ravenna glanced up at the sky, subconsciously noting the hour. The meeting would happen later that evening; she had several hours yet. Imelda had only just received the message; it explained why her maid had lain in wait for her, testing to see what she would do. The pope was clearly displeased, and Ravenna could only imagine what pressure he had placed Imelda under.
