“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 largeantique 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. Lowwooden 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.
