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 ofchopped 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—
