Prologo
CAVA DELLA LUCE | QUARRY OF LIGHT
• SEPTEMBER 1468 •
Ravenna Maffei disliked magic because her parents did, but on the day her aunt took her to visit the quarry for the first time, she learned what it was to trulyloatheit.
It was her thirteenth birthday. The sky was a perfect bright blue, with lazy clouds meandering far overhead. She tipped her head back, letting the sunlight wash over her face as she made animals out of the wispy shapes. Her aunt maneuvered the old wooden cart on the narrow dirt path, making room for another hauling alabaster blocks to pass them by to their left. Ravenna clung to her arm, breathless and impatient for the first sight of Cava della Luce—she’d been waiting weeks andweeksfor this trip.
People who had seen the quarry said the stone sparkled and shimmered in the sunlight, and her imagination had taken flight. To Ravenna, all stones held secrets. But with a chisel and a mallet, she could unearth each one, discover what the stone was meant to be. A brave hero, a clever maiden, a wise owl, a lovely swan. She leaned against her aunt’s arm, wrapping her fingers around the linen sleeve of her tunic.
Her aunt tipped her head down. “What are you dreaming about, Ravenna?”
Ravenna stared at the lush scenery sweeping by them. Cypress trees and vibrant wildflowers dotted the rolling hills. The air was scented by fertile tilled soil and distant olive groves. Ravenna inhaled deeply, not wanting to forget any part of the day she’d waited so long for.
“Sculpting.” A sudden thought had Ravenna straightening next to her. “How much alabaster can we bring back, Zia?”
“You’ll have plenty to practice with,” she said. She flicked the reins, the mules pulling them back to the middle of the well-trodden path. “But remember what your mother said, Ravenna. Sculpting must not get in the way of your chores at the locanda.”
She thought of linens that needed washing, and floors that needed sweeping. There were chamber pots to scrub, and firewood to collect. Her lips twisted, excitement dimming for a moment. As the eldest child of innkeepers, she, unfortunately, had many chores.
But ever since she could remember, all she’d ever wanted to do was make pretty statues the same way her aunt did. Her aunt’s were of heroic men and women with capes that swirled, and hands that gripped bows and arrows. It amazed her how her aunt could capture a pivotal moment in time, how she was able to capture whatbraverylooked like. Perseus with the sword that beheaded Medusa, Theseus about to slay the Minotaur. Ravenna wanted to carve goddesses. The swift-footed Atalanta, Circe holding her potions, Athena in her armor.
It felt like magic to her, a kind of magic that didn’t feel forbidden or scary.
Her aunt tweaked her nose. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. Thirteen years old. I can’t believe it.” She pointed ahead, her hand wrinkled and weathered. Wind teased her long, curly hair, gone completely white. “We’re almost there.”
They crested a hill and at last the quarry came into view, a sprawling open pit carved into the hillside, opening to various tunnels. The sun’s golden rays sparkled over the creamy white stone, glimmering like a polished mirror. The silver veining caught the sunlight, like alightning bolt in a thunderstorm. Ravenna craned her neck, shifting forward in her seat for a better look. Wooden scaffolds, pulleys, and cranes lined the edge of the quarry. Quarrymen moved like industrious ants on the ledges and paths carved into the stone walls.
Her aunt pulled back on the reins, the mules coming to a gradual stop. Ravenna leaped off the wooden seat, her skirt flying around her stocking-clad legs.
“Ravenna, stay close and don’t wander,” her aunt warned, but she said it with a smile as she carefully climbed down. She massaged her lower back, wincing. “Now, help me find—”
But Ravenna was already running toward the edge of the pit, heels thudding against the uneven path. The wind tore at her hair as she streaked ahead; she thought she heard her aunt laughing. When she was as close to the edge as she dared go, she chanced a look down. Terraced ledges spiraled downward, making her think of the seashells her aunt brought her from the coast.
“Still impatient, I see,” her aunt said dryly, taking hold of her hand. “Let’s go down together.” They followed the path, giving a wide berth to the quarrymen who were transporting tools and shouting instructions. Ravenna swung her aunt’s arm forward and backward, unable to contain her excitement. The sound of picks striking stones filled the air, interspersed with the groaning of the cranes lifting the heavy blocks. With her free hand, Ravenna brushed the pads of her fingers against the wall, marred by deep grooves left behind by chisels and picks.
“I think this is what the moon must look like,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
Her aunt smiled. “The moon is yours to make of it what you will.”
They finally reached the bottom, and her aunt waved to a middle-aged man in conversation with several workers. He glanced over his shoulder at them, his graying brows rising to meet his hairline at the sight of Ravenna. He finished instructing his workers, and then approached them with long, purposeful strides.
“An odd place to bring a child,” he said by way of greeting. Hewas a short man, worn down by the sun and the toil of hauling rocks. The coarse linen of his tunic was dusty and streaked with dirt. He tugged at his wide-brimmed hat, also dusty.
Ravenna’s aunt tugged her close to her side, and she was engulfed by her billowing tunic and strong arm around her narrow shoulders. “Buongiorno, Gioberto. My niece has been wanting to learn how to sculpt, and we’re here to pick the perfect stone for her birthday.”
His weathered face tightened. “She’ll be another oddity in the family.”
Ravenna flinched, pressing closer to her aunt.
“Thank God for it,” her aunt said brightly, unperturbed by his manner. Her aunt was a renowned sculptress, but she’d never married and had no children of her own. Ravenna heard the gossip about her whenever she went to the market, but it never bothered her. She supposed because it didn’t seem to bother her aunt.
Her aunt jingled the leather bag strapped to her belt and arched a brow. “We’ll take a look at the stone, if you’re still interested in selling it to us?”
The man’s eyes brightened at the promise of a sale. He gestured to a makeshift shelter where a group of men were sharpening their tools. “This way. I have much to show you.”
Ravenna followed the pair, keen gaze flickering from the tall stacks of alabaster, ready for loading onto carts, to the tools—chisels, picks, mallets, and wedges—scattered about. She veered off, finding an abandoned chisel and picked it up. She glanced at her aunt, deep in conversation about sizing and pricing and she didn’t know what else. Ravenna drew close to the wall, jagged and sharp, and struck it with the chisel. She kept going, moving along, her attention on the shimmering veins of the stone, following its progression into a tunnel. It sparkled even in the dark.
