Scrape, scrape, scraaaaape.
“Tomasso would have helped you,” Marco said, when she was finally comfortable.
“That would have been nice,” Ravenna said sweetly.
Saturnino lifted his goblet and studied her over the rim. The warmth in his gaze felt like a caress. It was so wholly unexpected that she fumbled with the utensil next to her plate as an unwanted flash of heat flooded her cheeks. She took a breath, and vowed to ignore the confusing, exasperating, and thoroughly irritating immortal seated across from her. She glanced into her glass to find it was filled with wine; the deep, rich color told her that it had not been diluted.
“Trebbiano,” Saturnino explained. “Our favorite.”
Four servants carried various-sized platters into the dining room and placed them around the table, and Ravenna’s stomach rumbled. Fish, caught that morning in the Arno River, made into a frittata, garnished with a generous sprinkle of fresh herbs: dill, parsley, basil. Ricotta served with a drizzle of olive oil and fennel; baskets of yeasty bread, warm from the oven. Four plates of olives imported from Spain, and bowls of sugared fruit covered in gilded leaves.
Ravenna had not touched the tray of food brought to her last night after she’d settled in her bedroom, and her stomach gave another loud grumble.
“You see,” Marco said, pointing at Ravenna with a gleaming fork. “I’m not the only one hungry.”
They all laughed at her as Tomasso brought silver plates over fromthe credenza, serving the head of the family first, then his wife, followed by Marco and Fortuna. Ravenna pointed to what she wanted and Tomasso indicated to another maid to fill her plate.
The steward served Saturnino last.
Ravenna’s own family didn’t stand on ceremony but even she knew the heir ought to be served first. She glanced at Saturnino, and he seemed to intuit her question.
“My efforts aren’t always appreciated by the others,” he said wryly. “I am served last so that I can always remember my place.” He held up his goblet in a salute. “The least favorite.”
“If you didn’t consistently try to undermine all of us then we wouldn’t have any issues,” Fortuna said in an icy tone.
Ravenna glanced at Saturnino. “What has he done?”
“He’s refused to marry,” Signora Luni said.
“Disappears without word for weeks at a time, without so much as a farewell,” Signor Luni added dryly. “Offers patronage to whomever he likes, without thought on how it reflects on the family.”
“Has forced us into alliances, blackmailed us into funding a variety of pet projects,” Marco growled.
Ravenna raised her brows at Saturnino, expecting one of his stony expressions, and ready with an icy putdown.
But Saturnino merely raked a slice of bread through the ricotta and olive oil. His tone was no less mercurial, but there was a subtle mischievous quality that surprised her. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Fun?
Ravenna didn’t believe him capable of such a thing.
“My darlings,” Signora Luni chided, glancing meaningfully at Ravenna. “We have company. Please try to be the mannerly and courteous adults that I expect you to be.”
“Of course,Mother,” Saturnino said.
Ravenna would never dream of addressing her mother so irreverently, but evidently that was a matter of course with Saturnino and no one blinked an eye. They all turned their attention to the food, and the sounds of silverware clinking filled the room. Ravenna glancedfrom left to right, waiting for someone to lead them in saying grace. Perhaps they’d forgotten? When it became clear no such prayer was forthcoming, Ravenna dipped her chin and said a quick one under her breath.
She took her first bite of the frittata, and nearly let out a little moan.
It was crisp, savory, with hints of butter and roasted garlic, and finished with a dash of tart lemon juice. She ate several more bites, unnerved by the family’s silence. It was just like the dinner she’d shared with them previously. No one else displayed a hint of emotion as they consumed the meal. It was done methodically and quickly, with no sense of enjoyment or relish.
“Is this your first visit to Florence?” Signora Luni asked.
“I’ve rarely left Volterra,” Ravenna said.
“So, you’ve been nowhere?” Marco asked. “Shocking, with roads as fine as ours.” His tone held no suggestion of politeness.
“Not to mention comfortable carriages,” Fortuna added.
