“Yes,” Signor Luni said, grave. “Whatever your security is for the machine, triple it. Above all else, Rome must never find out of its existence until we unleash it in a fight to protect Florence.”
All four men agreed. Silvio turned toward the door, and from the corner of his eye, he caught Saturnino whispering something in Lorenzo de’ Medici’s direction. A quick exchange, but it made Leonardo da Vinci’s brows rise to his hairline.
Now it was Silvio’sown sonwasting Lorenzo’s time.
Silvio didn’t care for how the human girl influenced his son. He didn’t care for the way Saturnino gazed at her when she wasn’t aware of him doing so. What purpose didthatserve? For the first time innearly a century, Silvio worried about Saturnino’s interaction with a human. The last time had nearly ruined him and, by extension, the family.
Nothing mattered more.
He bid a farewell to Lorenzo, reminding him of the upcoming banquet. He nodded at the young artist and then hurried after Saturnino, who had joined the girl just outside the door. His son offered her his arm, which she accepted, and together they set off down the corridor, looking for all the world a matched pair in the bliss of young love. Ridiculous.
He followed them, his mood vinegar-sour, lips pursed.
The sooner the sculptress extracted the Nightflames, the sooner they could get rid of her.
Capitolo Sedici
Ravenna swept out of the Palazzo della Signoria, her mind buzzing. The stone facade loomed behind her, bright sunlight catching on the crenelated roof. She couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Not only had she held her ground against the most powerful man in Florence, but he would consider her demands. She felt like laughing; she felt like spinning around in tight circles like she did with Tereza to make her giggle.
“Bravissima,” came a cool voice, whispered close to her temple.
She turned to squint up at Saturnino. The sun’s rays shone over the rich black of his hair, and his eyes glittered a vibrant green. For the dozenth time, she wished she didn’t find him appealing. “I keep expecting him to burst out of those doors, screaming that he’s changed his mind and won’t consider my request after all.”
“He won’t.” Saturnino glanced at the tall double doors of the old palace. She followed the line of his gaze; Signor Luni approached, walking slowly toward her, his expression holding a glimmer of annoyance as if she were a misbehaving child who refused to do what she was told.
“I assume that you are pleased with the outcome of the meeting?” Signor Luni asked.
Ravenna smiled. “Si, grazie.”
“Meraviglioso,” Signor Luni said. “Now that we’ve wasted the whole of the morning, let’s return to the palazzo. I trust you’ll make up the hours lost.”
“You go on,” Saturnino said. “I’ll take her back.”
Signor Luni looked at his son narrowly. “Need I remind you—”
“You don’t,” Saturnino cut in.
“Then what are you planning on doing?” Signor Luni demanded in a testy tone.
Saturnino held out his arm toward Ravenna, and she accepted it with a bemused smile to the sounds of Signor Luni’s indignant sputtering. “Celebrate her victory.”
Then he led her away from his father, away from the bustling palace filled with scheming politicians.
They wove through the maze of narrow alleys lined with wooden stalls, canvas awnings flapping in the breeze, casting shade over the scores of buyers meandering on the cobbled path. Prices for a variety of wares were called out by street vendors; a Greek spice trader offered fragrant cinnamon, clove, and saffron, while a Turkish merchant displayed shimmering glassware and metal ornaments that glinted in the sunlight. Ravenna passed a stall where bottles of olive oil gleamed like jewels on a necklace, sold by a man who said he was from Navarre.
Ravenna had never experienced a market like this one. Her gaze flicked from one stall to another. Apprentices and workers rushed through, carrying baskets and purchasing small hammers, chisels, whetstones. Painters bought pigments from apothecary stalls—cinnabar, ochre, ultramarine—while a dark-skinned physician offered his services for any ills.
Saturnino guided her through the jostling crowd, her shoulders brushing against merchants and artists, workers and revelers. She passed rows and rows of stalls owned by bakers and local farmers selling small bundles of cheese, apples, figs, cabbages, onions, salted anchovies, and sardines. Barrels filled with almonds, raisins, and dates from the Mediterranean were sold by a jovial trader who told stories to his customers as they filled cloth bags with their purchases. The scent of roasted chestnuts and the tang of citrus flooded her nose.
Her stomach rumbled.
“This way.” Saturnino jerked his chin in the direction of anotherwooden stall where the cook was busily roasting meat. They stood in line, Ravenna gazing at Saturnino with a faint notch between her brows.
He looked at her expectantly. “Yes?”
Ravenna recalled a time when her twin brothers had lavished her with compliments and praise throughout the day only for her to discover it had all been a ploy to lure her to their side of an argument against their parents. She had a keen sense Saturnino was attempting the same ploy by not taking her straight to the palazzo, giving her a tour of Florence’s busy and oldest market instead.
She narrowed her eyes. “What is it that you want?”
