She crossed an alley and came across two shadows huddled against the wall. The moon illuminated the hazy outlines of their bodies, and the shadows spooled into the form of two men, one tall and slim, the other short and barrel-shaped. The latter wore a rounded biretta, covering his shorn hair, and a heavy chain around his neck, denoting his elevated status. His face reminded Ravenna of the sword strapped to his hip: sharp and formidable. She would have known him anywhere: he was the Capitano of the Volterra militia. Apowerful man and their greatest defender against the Medici, even more so now that the city had fallen.
The other man was a stranger to her.
Both were tense, in the middle of an argument. They traded harsh words in the shadow of the alley. The Capitano dropped his gloved hand to the hilt of his weapon. Ravenna slowed. She was already frowning by the time the taller man sensed her. He half turned in her direction, his profile limned by a hazy moonbeam. He coolly arched a brow at her, turning farther, revealing the rest of his countenance.
Ravenna stopped, the ladder lurching awkwardly.
She had never seen a more beautiful face.
Dark winged brows curved sardonically over heavily fringed dark eyes, nearly black, pinning her to the cobbled stone. The rest of his face was a study of perfect angles and arches. A full mouth that held in wicked secrets, and cheekbones, cut sharply, just like the tip of his jewel-encrusted sword. Despite the swirl of gray clouds crowding the moon, peridot, diamonds, and emeralds glimmered back at her.
Her fingers itched for a chisel and scalpel. She wanted to capture his face in marble, all his striking lines, and carve a voluminous cloak swirling around his long legs.
He looked reckless, an ill-advised idea incarnate.
The man’s gaze traveled over her form, shrouded as it was in her own heavy cloak, and to the long ladder stretching past her shoulders at both ends. His expression remained flat and devoid of emotion, his body still and contained, immovable.
His voice was cold and remote. “It’s past curfew. Move along.”
Ravenna glanced uneasily to the Capitano. His warm brown eyes locked with hers and he jerked his chin, encouraging her to leave them to their discussion. She hesitated, and when the taller man took a step forward, the Capitano’s voice lashed out.
“Now, signorina.”
Ravenna set off down the lane, her stomach knotting. Theirconversation had nothing to do with her, and she had somewhere to be, but with every step she took, Ravenna had the uncanny sense that she was making a mistake. But what could she do?
Only one thing. She pressed on.
The narrow street bled into the ruined Piazza dei Priori. The Florentine army had come burning hot for the heart of the city, fire practically spewing from their mouths, like the dragons circling the mountains to the north. The square was in ruins, but Ravenna looked past the destruction to one of the iron cages hanging in the piazza.
It held a single captive.
Antonio lay slumped against the bars, restlessly kicking his legs. Relief bled through her. She peered around the square, noting the long wooden tables situated in front of the magnificent bell tower, still mercifully standing. A new dais was positioned next to the tables, and Ravenna’s stomach flipped.
She couldn’t think about tomorrow and what it would bring.
Not yet.
Antonio was looking in her direction, head tilted, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Ravenna darted out from the alley, and his legs stopped swinging. He let out a low whistle, the song of a barn owl. She returned the call, breathless; the ladder was heavy, and she could feel a bruise blooming across her shoulder.
Antonio whistled again, but this time it sounded like a screeching owl. Ravenna paused, legs shaking. Had he seen someone? But the piazza was blessedly empty. Just worried, then. She pressed onward, navigating random piles of collected debris and rubbish.
“Ravenna,” Antonio whisper-yelled. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” She righted the ladder and tilted her head up.
“There is a curfew,” he hissed.
“I didn’t see any guards.”
It wasn’ttechnicallya lie.
The cage swung in the cool breeze, its chains creaking and rattling like an enraged ghost. Antonio pressed his thin face against the thickbars, their iron rusted. He had lost weight, and his eyes were bloodshot; he probably hadn’t slept since he’d been locked inside. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”
Ravenna held on to the rungs and climbed. The ladder was high enough to reach the heavy door, which was wide enough to force a person through and secured by a large padlock.
She glared at it as she reached for her scarsella, a tapered pouch riveted onto her leather utility belt. It held a small chisel and carving knife, a hand-stitched booklet bound with a waxed linen cord, and charcoal sticks wrapped in a slim leather sleeve. Ravenna never went anywhere without it. Her clothing had also been chosen with care: a dark burgundy gown, expertly made but with simple adornments, the wool cloak with the hood pulled up and over her head. Her favorite part about the dress? It had pockets enough to suit her practical needs.
She pulled out the small carving knife, intent on the padlock.
