Then he stamped it with his own seal, a triple crown.
The pope pushed the envelope toward the orb, and it slowly disappeared inside, the magic hungry. He stared into the glowing blue orb, anger roiling inside him. His control on the situation was tenuous, but he understood that sculptress, much like he understood many magical creatures who darkened the door of a church.
They all wanted one thing, the poor mites.
“Make sure she reads the letter in front of you,” he murmured.
“Understood.”
“Has your informant found out what’s inside the crates?”
“No, the room is too heavily guarded.”
“Mi hai rotto i coglioni,” the pope hissed. “Someone better get inside that room soon.”
Now the courier sounded bored. “Understood.”
A niggling feeling in the pope’s gut gave him pause. He didn’t like loose ends, nor did he like to leave anything to chance. Ravenna might bend to his will with her soul on the line, but she would move mountains for him if her family was in danger. After a moment’s consideration, he added, “I’ll need you to move in on her family and bring them to me.”
“Done. Anything else?”
Yes, as a matter of fact. He did have one more question, but it galled him to keep asking. It was a question he had asked routinely, across multiple decades. Over and over, damn his feebleness. He wrestled with the desire, fighting his body, his flesh; fury at his weakness coursed through his veins. He was better than this, stronger than the devil himself—God had made him so, hadn’t he?
But his flesh won the battle. The question ripped out of him.
“Have you found her?” He forced himself to say the name. “Have you found Simonetta?”
The pope waited for the answer, his pulse roaring in his ears, his body taut with pent-up desire. He waited to hear where his love had gone, waited to know what life was worth more than what he offered her. Waited to understand why their child, a bastard he’d refused to claim, a mere shadow of himself, was worth more than the love andwealth he had given her. He wanted the answers like he wanted eternal life. Like he wanted back the statues she’d stolen from him.
He held his breath and fought to keep his flesh in control.
“She is still lost.”
The orb winked out.
Capitolo Dieci
Saturnino had murdered Capitano Lombardi.
Ravenna’s mind grappled with the new information. In the short time since she’d first met the knight, he’d killed not one, but two people. One right in front of her. She was haunted by how she had done nothing to help. She hadn’t even made a sound.
But what could she have done?
Saturnino had killed the man inseconds.
Her situation was worse than she realized.
Exhaustion pulled her toward the lavish expanse of the bed, and she stretched across it on her back. Her gaze latched on to the view above her. For all her life, Ravenna had stared up at the same ceiling, the notched wooden beams as familiar to her as the lines that ran across her palm. She’d drift to sleep with the sounds of soft snoring coming from Tereza, her little body curled around her for warmth. Ravenna would run her fingers through her sister’s hair, lazily untangling knots.
The ceiling above was a stranger to her.
It was far finer than the one from home, ornate and heavily adorned by golden filigree, with lavish swirls painted in various shades of red and orange and green. Every few years, Ravenna visited the tailor to purchase new fabric to outfit their family. New tunics for the twins, Giovanni and Stefano, a new overdress for Tereza. They were all growing quickly. Her favorite part of the errand was reading the names of the fabric shipped from Florence.
Fanciful names like cherry, lung, and flicker.
Rosso ciliegia, il pulmone, la fiametta.
Festivity, laurel, shadow of the umbrella, and her personal favorite, mud of Paris.
