Saturnino.
He stood paces away from the rest of them, his expression inscrutable. While Ravenna appeared travel-worn, a used and wrinkled dishrag, Saturnino looked ready to be presented to the Holy Roman emperor. He was dressed elegantly, draped in silks and fur and well-tailored garments that showed off the strength of his arms and legs. His shoulder-length black hair was the only disheveled thing about him, slightly wavy and untamed and still damp from the rain.
With as much dignity as Ravenna could muster, she lifted her chin, conscious of the heavy weight of her drenched skirt. His dispassionate dark gaze flickered from the top of her wet hair, hanging long down her back, to her mud-splattered clogs. Her blue dress bore the worst of her travel, terribly creased and dripping water onto the polished floor.
“This way,” Signor Luni said, pulling her forward toward hisfamily; they parted to reveal an arched doorway, the wooden planks banded in iron. Signor Luni released her and pulled out an iron key that hung on a thick chain underneath his doublet, then inserted it into the lock. Marco stepped toward it, impatient, and pushed the door, its hinges groaning like a creature in pain as it swung open.
“Through here,” Signor Luni said.
Trepidation stole over Ravenna. Within the dark space she could make out a stairwell, hewn from ancient stone. It looked like a secret entrance down into the bowels of hell itself. Ravenna’s magic stirred at her rising panic.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, fighting to stay calm. She didn’t want to fall to pieces in front of them, especially not Saturnino, whose cold presence bit into her skin like standing out in the snow without a coat.
“No questions,” Marco said, yanking one of the torches out from an iron sconce flanking the door. Then he stomped through, the light from the fire illuminating the narrow curve of the wall. Signor Luni, his wife, and their daughter followed.
Saturnino stared at her, his expression devoid of any emotion, save for a hint of impatience glimmering in his dark eyes. It seemed to say,What the hell are you waiting for?
“What is this?” Ravenna asked. “What’s down there?”
“The reason why you’re here.” He inclined his head in the direction of the door. “If you want answers, you’ll have to walk through.”
“What if I don’t?”
He smiled slightly. “But you do, Ravenna.”
The knight was correct: she did want to know why they had kidnapped her, why they were flaunting her presence in Florence as if she were a heroine in a folktale. Ravenna knew if she tried to run, he’d intercept her. She also knew he would drag her down there, kicking and screaming.
Above all, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of provoking such a reaction from her. Summoning every ounce of courageshe possessed, Ravenna walked through the doorway and began her descent.
The Luni famiglia were waiting on the steps, and when she was close enough they continued their trek. The guttering light of Marco’s torch cast long, wavering shadows against the cold stone walls. Their footsteps reverberated on the stone, echoes layering over one another, the heavy sounds pulsing around her, making it hard for her to think. A faint dripping noise came from somewhere deep, irregular and maddening, like a clock that told the wrong time.
She was crowded ahead and behind, the knight following close at her heels, his breath brushing up against the back of her head. When she stumbled on one of the steps, he clasped her arm, steadied her. She glanced at him from over her shoulder, instinctively, a breath away from thanking him, only to meet his stern, shadowed face. Her words died on her tongue. Ravenna looked away from him, unnerved. She concentrated on taking the next step without tripping and then the next. The walls felt too close, too narrow, and the ceiling dropped as they went lower, forcing Ravenna to hunch slightly as they went down, down, down.
Finally, they reached the bottom.
A long corridor stretched into the distance, lined with alcoves where statues rested under layers of dust. Their empty eyes seemed to watch her progress. Ravenna shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. The tile beneath her booted feet was black and white, severely cracked, revealing the rough stone beneath. Ravenna glanced up, feeling the weight of the rock pressing down onto her shoulders.
The path broke off in two directions, and Marco led them to the one on the left. Ravenna paused in front of the fork. The palazzo must have many tunnels running beneath it. Where did they lead? And more importantly, could any of the tunnels provide Ravenna a way out?
“Keep moving,” Saturnino said quietly.
Ravenna quickened her steps until, at last, Marco stopped in front of another iron-bound door, this one massive. Signor Luni took out another key and unlocked it. The door swung open, and the airchanged—suddenly hot and dry, carrying the unmistakable feeling of magic. Ravenna often felt it when she worked in her studio; it was a subtle beckoning that came from the marble box where she’d hidden the Nightflame.
It was easy to ignore, but what she felt right then was not.
Marco, Fortuna, and their parents filed inside. Once again, she was alone with Saturnino.
The look on his face was unfathomable. “In you go, Ravenna.”
She went, tugged forward by the pull of magic, a growing sense of dread and curiosity unfurling in her chest. The walls were carved directly from the rock, curving to create a circular room. Ravenna blinked into the dim space, shrouded in oblique shadows Marco’s torch failed to illuminate—except for what was in the middle of the dungeon.
She cast her eyes over the immense blocks of virgin stone, their surfaces untouched and rough, hewn from a fae mountain. For a second, she lost the ability to breathe. Magic radiated off the blocks in widening ripples, invisible but to her. She flinched at the onslaught of raw power that curled around her in a suffocating embrace. She couldn’t believe her own eyes; she blinked and blinked again. These stones acted as a protective shell, guarding a magical gemstone at their center. She’d never seen one in person before. They were too rare, too precious, ingredients for a witch’s spell.
And the Luni famiglia hadfiveof them.
“Give her more light, Marco,” Signor Luni said.
His youngest son drew nearer to the stones, the firelight washing over their tall, squarish shapes, almost at the level of his hips. Each was a pale silver-gray with translucent patches that glimmered faintly with an eerie blue glow, like trapped moonlight. Wide veins of deep cobalt blue and faint streaks of fiery red and orange stretched across the uneven surfaces.
