Papà cleared his throat. “Can we pay a guard to release Antonio?”
That was a terrible idea. For one thing, none of the guards could be trusted. For another, the Florentine army could justify arresting them for such an act. Ravenna inhaled sharply, forcing herself to look up and meet their gazes.
Cool, practical resolve settled over her.
Ravenna’s voice was clear, with nary a wrinkle. “Like it or not, mine is the best plan. If I don’t win, you will have to cast me out. Let it be known that I am no longer your daughter, and loudly denounce all magic to anyone who will listen.”
“Ravenna,” Papà whispered. “How can you ask this of us?”
Mamma leaned forward. “What will become of you if you don’t win?”
“What will become of Antonio if I don’t enter?” Ravenna countered. She forced herself to say the worst thing she could, the thing they all felt but were too afraid to say out loud. “If Antonio dies, will you be able to live with the regret? Because I won’t.”
Her parents fell silent.
Ravenna stood up, restless, and brought down two cups from the wooden shelf, and a pitcher of diluted spiced wine. “I was up early and finished chopping the dates for the fish pies.”
Her mother reached for the cup and took a long sip.
“You’ll need to sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg before cooking them, Mamma,” Ravenna said, as her mother drank. “I sent the twins out to collect eggs so you don’t have to, and Tereza is picking wildflowers todecorate the dining tables. What else?” Ravenna tapped her bottom lip. “All the linens from the upstairs rooms have been washed, but they are still hanging out to dry. The horses have been fed.”
Her mother sputtered. “Ravenna—”
“Papà, I left an inventory of our supplies in your office. We’re low on fruit, butpleasedon’t let Niccolò charge you too much for his apples. Despite what he thinks, they aren’t made of gold.”
“Ravenna—” her papà began.
“Don’t forget the guests in room three aren’t eating at the inn tonight. They’d rather the new tavern near the Piazza. Their mistake,” she added with a wink. “I made panforte for dessert.”
“When did you have time to bake a cake?” Mamma exclaimed. “Have youslept?”
“Have youeaten?” Papà added.
She brushed their questions off. Ever since the incident at the quarry, she had worked hard to be someone her parents might be proud of—despite the magic she carried. Taking care of the inn, her parents and siblings, managing the household, it had all become second nature. If she worked hard enough, if she always put her family first, then maybe they could forgive what she’d done.
Maybe she could forgive herself.
Ravenna swooped down to their cheeks but froze when her mother flinched.
“I didn’t mean it,” Mamma said quickly. Her eyes turned pleading. “I didn’t.”
She had, though. It had been instinctive. A hot blush stole over Ravenna’s cheeks. Her eyes burned. She would not cry in front of them; they felt bad enough already and she would give them this small mercy. The cathedral bell tolled, loud and thundering like a winter storm. Ravenna glanced at the door. “I’m late.”
“I’ll be there, Ravenna,” Mamma whispered.
Papà reached for her mother’s hand. “Me too.”
Terror formed a hard lump at the back of Ravenna’s throat. Sheforced a smile and nodded. “Tonight we’ll all be eating together at the table. Everything will be fine.”
Everything wasnotfine.
Swollen gray clouds hung above the crowded Piazza dei Priori, threatening a dramatic downpour. Ravenna tilted her head upward, lips twisting. She had taken pains with her hair, twisting the braided mass high at the crown of her head, and curling some of the strands where they could artfully graze her cheekbones just so.
The people of Volterra paid attention to the quality of the cloth that you wore, and so Ravenna had dug out her finest gown from within her trunk, a dress she only wore for Easter service. It covered her from the neck to her wrists, and down to her ankles. The fabric had come from Florence, a luxurious velvet dyed in a soft blue that reminded her of quiet early mornings and a mug filled with lavender-infused water. Gold thread adorned the neckline in ornate swirls and loops and flowers she had sewn herself.
Ravenna wrapped her woolen cloak closer to her body, fighting a shiver as she pulled the wagon carrying her bozzetto toward the long wooden tables situated in the middle of the piazza, already crammed with other figurines. Her creation would survive the rain, but the cold wind was snapping at her edges, aiming for flesh.
Antonio hung above the rows of tables, his cage swaying. He wrapped his hands around the bars and peered down at her, his mouth set in a mulish line. She gave him a smile, but he didn’t return it. Even from where she stood, she could read his expression.
