“A lampredotto sandwich,” he said promptly. “A Florentine specialty. Would you like to try one?”
“What is it?”
“It’s made from the stomach of a cow, and slow cooked with tomatoes, onions, and celery and served on a toasted bun.” He craned his neck to better see the other offerings. “They also have—”
“I’ll try it,” she said. “But only if you tell me why you’re behaving differently.”
“Am I?” he asked mildly.
Her eyes narrowed farther. “You know you are.”
They reached the front of the line. Saturnino placed their order, dipping his hand into a leather satchel tied to his belt and pulling out a handful of soldi, the silver coins glimmering like polished mirrors in his pale hand. The cook handed them two sandwiches placed on wooden trenchers and bid them to return both once they finished eating.
“I asked you a question,” Ravenna said after she’d taken the first bite, a savory concoction loaded with spices and flavor.
Saturnino indicated to her sandwich. “What do you think?”
“It’s delicious.” She raised her brows expectantly. “What is it that you want?”
“I heard you the first time,” he said wryly. “And I’mthinking.”
“It’s not a difficult question.”
“But answering it is,” he said quietly. “Eat your sandwich, Ravenna.”
She eyed him suspiciously, but he made no further reply.
They stood off to the side of the chaotic square to enjoy the rest of their meal. On all sides, they were surrounded by tightly packed buildings with overhanging upper stories overlooking narrow cobbled streets. Small bundles of twigs and branches tied with colorful thread and arranged in star shapes hung from front doors. Bowls filled with honeyed nuts and herbed salt sat on front stoops next to carved wooden figurines and lit candles, despite the sun being out.
“Why light a candle during the day? It seems like such a waste.”
“Offerings for witches and fae. In Florence, people leave gifts like these to show they’re welcome here.” Saturnino indicated the stoops. “Those are shadow candles. They’re meant to burn down completely, and the smoke is believed to symbolize a friendly hearth.”
“In Volterra, we leave offerings to guard against the fae,” she said. “Witches, too, I suppose. All magic is heresy.” She couldn’t keep the wary bitterness from coating her next words. “And it’s not welcomed.”
“The churches in Florence are more aligned with the Holy Roman emperor,” Saturnino said. “Neither sees magic as a threat, not when it brings beauty and order to the city. It’s easier to coexist with what you can’t destroy.”
She shot him a puzzled look.
“Florence is a city rooted in creativity, intellect, and trade,” Saturnino explained. “Magic, much like art and philosophy, is another form of inspiration. What point is there in stifling it? Florence thrives on what it creates, whether from God’s hands or a witch’s.”
“But even churches in Florence must answer to Rome,” she said.
Saturnino’s lips turned downward. “Which is why war is coming for us all. Florence is only the beginning.”
This she knew all too well.
Ravenna’s eye was drawn to a commotion on the side of the piazza where a group of men, dressed in doublets and striped hose, red capes fluttering in the wind, were practicing flips and spins. They tossed Florentine flags high into the air in intricate patterns, the rediris whirling in a tight circle, before the acrobats caught them with astonishing precision.
“Sbandieratori,” Saturnino said. “Flag throwers practicing for the Easter parade.”
Ravenna watched their routine, delighted, until her attention was arrested elsewhere. A musician with rich, dark skin played a lute at one corner, while an enraptured crowd gathered around him to listen. The notes were gentle and flowing, rising high in the air, blending in with the sounds of the market.
It reminded her of a choir song, haunting and melodic.
The city of Florence, the Medici, had been the enemies of Volterra for as long as she could remember. But as Ravenna gazed out in the Mercato Vecchio, brimming with people from all ends of the earth, eating together, enjoying the music, trading and bartering, laughing and playing, it was hard for her to think of them as such. They were all trying to make a life for themselves and for their loved ones, however they could with whatever they had.
It moved her, making her feel connected to these strangers, who suddenly didn’t feel like strangers at all. She was no different from any of them. The opposite was true. If they knew who and what she was, Florence wouldn’t turn her away from its city gates.
