Ravenna looked at him askance, her eyes narrowing. He wouldn’t even give her that much. Even now, he seemed guarded against her, against the whole world. His cloak hovered close to his lean, rangy body, his hood drawn up over his head. He was a walking fortress.
He was also the loneliest man she had ever met.
Deliberately lonely.
But he had someone he loved. Someone he protected at all costs, even to himself.
Ravenna wouldn’t press him for any more information. He was already doing more for her than she’d thought he would. So she kept her mouth shut the rest of the way, choosing instead to eye the people making their way up and down the narrow street. They were a mix of types—washerwomen, laborers, artisans dressed in muted tones, plain and serviceable.
The courier stopped in front of a narrow three-story building, its plaster peeling. The front door hung ajar, what little light came from the interior spilling onto the street.
“Here?”
The courier nodded. “Second floor, first door to the right.”
“Grazie.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said in a hard voice. “I did you no favors.”
His face was barely visible under the cover of his cloak. She expected him to turn away, to disappear into the night, but he stood next to her. Quietly, eerily still.
“What is it?” Ravenna whispered.
The courier hesitated. “Your brother is a dangerous man.”
“He won’t hurt me,” Ravenna said.
“Watch your back anyway,” he said, and then he walked away, melting into the cool shadows.
She tipped her head back, looked up at the second-story windows, shuttered against the wind and cold. Her brother was inside, she could feel it. Trepidation stole over her; twice now, different people had told her how dangerous her brother was.
It’s not that she didn’t believe them. It’s just that she believed he wouldn’t become dangerous to her. Antonio had come to Florence looking for her. He had come to save her.
This was what she held on to as she walked through the door. It was a frail hope anchored by happy memories. Of all her siblings, she and Antonio were the closest in age. They were best friends. He had changed, but there were parts of him that she understood. What happened in Volterra angered her, too. Fury and revenge had driven many of her own choices. But she had let it all go, and somehow, she would have to convince Antonio to leave Florence with her.
Because Ravenna now knew, as she walked up the dusty wooden steps, trailing her hand on the banister, that she would not return home without her brother.
No matter her promise to Saturnino.
Antonio answered the door after her first knock. He gaped at her, silhouetted against the dim lighting spilling from within his small apartment. Then he reached for her, yanking her inside and slamming the door behind them. She had a moment to look over where he lived, a far cry from her luxurious room in the palazzo. The floor was the same simple stone as the outside corridor, the walls bare except for a large wooden cross hanging by the only window. The room itself was narrow and sparse, with hardly any furniture. One rough wooden table, three chairs, a wooden chest, and a small hearth. Unlit.
“Who else lives here?” Ravenna asked, continuing her perusal. There were two narrow cots pushed into a corner of the room. Both had straw-stuffed mattresses, and some of the straw had spilled onto the floor. A worn, faded blanket lay on each. A second little table held a clay jug and bowl, and one rosary.
Antonio gaped at her. “Who else lives…Ravenna!How did you find me?”
Ravenna shook her head; she had promised the courier. “What matters is that I did.”
“You can’t be here. You’re needed at the palazzo, it’s imperative that you not risk your position there.”
“It’s already at risk,” Ravenna said quietly. “I’ve left for good. I had to—”
“What? No, you have to go back,” Antonio said. “We need you to be at the palazzo—”
“We?” Ravenna interrupted. “Who is we?”
Antonio snapped his mouth shut. “I told you, we don’t share names.”
She knew that. Even the courier followed that rule. But they all seemed to know her and who she was and where she came from.
