The conversation on the way to the Medici archives remained light, and mostly focused on Nico and his extensive knowledge of art supplies. Jo wasn’t usually one for museums, but she found the experience to be much more palatable when there was no ticketing process, security screening, waiting in line, pushing around people, or ropes to keep her from getting close to the art.
They strolled to the Da Vinci wing, out of time and completely unhindered. Nico spent several minutes studying the recently discovered sketch, critiquing it in more ways than she would’ve thought imaginable for what looked to Jo like a scribble on a piece of ancient notebook paper—a very very talented scribble, but scribble none the less.
Seemingly satisfied, Nico led their departure, heading away from the Duomo and further north. The longer they walked, the quieter Nico became, until he hardly said anything at all. Usually, Jo would assume it was a result of him talking almost all day, mostly at her. But this felt different. There was a solemn weight to his silence, like someone in a deep meditation. Jo’s lips remained still as well, not wanting to jar his thoughts.
They stopped before a small iron gate wedged into a tall wall, barely wide enough for a person to slip through. It wasn’t locked, but it looked as though it hadn’t been opened in some time. Through the bars, Jo saw the wall of a church—characterized by stained-glass windows lining the stone.
But the stone she focused on was on the ground.
Nico plucked his watch from his pocket, holding it out and clicking a nob.
“I thought you said we weren’t using time.”
“Just a minute. . . only for the gate.” He ushered her through, closed the gate. But surprisingly, did not click out of time. Jo followed close behind him, curious.
The courtyard felt like it was another world altogether. Jo had walked through realities, but this was a different sort of magic. This was a power she couldn’t comprehend or wield, even if she tried.
Vines clung to the side of the church, markings on the stone indicating where someone had attempted to cut back the foliage. Awnings and rooftops cast the ground in near-perpetual shadow, the grasses under their feet struggling to grow. Stones seemed to be in no particular order. The newest looked as if it had seen a thousand rainstorms since it was placed.
There were no footprints save Nico’s. There were no epitaphs on the tombstones or mementos left. Just little weather-worn nubs insisting on remembrance to an earth that threatened to claim them once and for all.
In the shadow of the church, in the back corner, Nico made his way to a gravestone that had been sheltered enough from the elements, preserving some of its engravings. The name written confirmed Jo’s suspicions, but even if the letters had been expunged by time, the carving of a woman’s face would’ve been recognizable to Jo anywhere.
“Julia,” she whispered.
“My muse.” Nico knelt down before the grave. He ran his finger through the dirt and quickly scribbled a star on the corner of the tombstone. Then, and only then, did he return to his watch, clocking out of time. “My compass star, always guiding me home, ever lighting my life.”
“She was truly stunning.”
“My wish was to save her, you know.”
Jo didn’t know. She had made the broad-stroke assumption that his wish related to Julia based on the way he spoke of his lost love and a few other comments Jo had interpreted. Still, the details were obscure.
“Save her how?”
“I was not the only one to notice the ethereal nature of my Julia.” Nico ran a hand over the top of the tombstone, as if caressing it. “There were others, of course. But she only had eyes for me, and I for her. At least, until someone too powerful turned his gaze to her.”
“Who?” Jo’s voice had dropped to a whisper. Her research came back to her—the mention of a mistress.
“Pope Alexander VI.”
“A pope?” Jo hadn’t wanted to be correct in her assumptions of possible connections. “I read. . . I mean, weren’t they all pious and whatnot?” She didn’t actually know; the Catholic Church had been absorbed by the state of Italy during World War III in a play for its global reach and resources. While it still technically remained its own entity, it had long since fallen from public consciousness in the countries of North America as anything more than a puppet of a foreign power.
“Supposedly—ideally. But ideals are like the subjects of paintings. Lovely to look at, but categorically untouchable.” Nico trailed off and sighed. “The Vatican had commissioned me for a Madonna. Foolishly, I used Julia for reference.”
He hung his head. Such a sad weight settled onto the shoulders of the man that Jo nearly tried to hoist him back upward. But she found herself pinned in place by the gravity of Nico’s sacrifice.
“The pope was known for his mistresses, you see. It was one of the worst-kept secrets in Italy. I should’ve known.” He turned to her, eyes shining with grief even after all the years that had passed.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Jo whispered in response to that probing stare.
Nico huffed softly, shook his head, and looked back down at his empty hands. “They sent for her, so that she could impart further ‘inspiration.’ They took her from me, making it as if we had never promised ourselves to each other. My Julia, my light, was to be extinguished as nothing more than a new toy for that wretched man.”
“So you made a wish.”
Nico nodded gravely. “I had heard about it, whispers here and there. But I finally located a woman who could grant me the details I sought, someone who designed herself as a high sorcerer. After that. . . it was simply a matter of casting the circle.”
Jo wondered what he used to cast, but he didn’t say and she didn’t ask. She could guess well enough, given the severity of his wish.
