The look in his eyes cut through her. It was a miracle she remained upright, her legs shaky. Ravenna turned away and cleared her throat, fighting to yank their conversation onto safer ground.
“I’m inspired by the ordinary.” She swept her hand out wide,gesturing to the chaotic market square. “The everyday, the mundane. I used to want to carve the heroes and heroines of old, but managing the inn changed that for me.”
Saturnino placed his hand around her elbow, gently moving her back to face him. “Why?”
The point of contact enflamed her, and she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. His eyes dropped at the motion.
Her voice came out breathless. “Over the years, I’ve met scores of people who have come and gone from the locanda, living quiet lives, trying to make ends meet, traveling with their families, or seeking adventures on their own. I think all these people are their own heroes, doing their best and what they can to survive in a world that isn’t fair. When the world is sometimes frightening, surviving is its own kind of art form.” She shifted away from him, thinking of the magic hidden within her, a dark and restless force waiting for a moment to be set free. Her jaw tightened. “This is what life is made up of for the many people who walk this earth. And it’s marvelous and humbling, and if I can capture their truth in marble or alabaster or terra-cotta, then I can sleep at night, proud of a good day’s work.”
“And yet your last work was of Pluto, a god not known for his ordinary feats.”
Her lips twitched. “I was trying to win a competition and your favor.”
Saturnino ducked his head to better look into her eyes. “You have.”
A warm feeling spread through her.
Once, for her birthday, Mamma had made her a mostaccioli alla Romana. It was, by far, the sweetest and most luxurious treat she’d ever tasted, loaded with sugar and cinnamon, coriander, and dried fruits. She still remembered how she’d treasured every bite. But all the sugar had made her ill, and she’d been sick throughout the night. Her mother had grumbled at the waste; the ingredients had been costly. It had been a bittersweet birthday.
That’s what his words tasted like in her mouth.
Sweet, but not worth the cost.
“Stop it,” Ravenna said.
Saturnino straightened, and wordlessly held out his hand for the trencher. She gave it to him, and together they made their way back to the cook, whose line had grown. Once he had returned the plates, he guided them in the direction of the palazzo.
They made their way silently, tension curling between them like a fine ribbon. Just before they reached the palazzo’s loggia, Saturnino turned toward her and said, “Not every kind word of mine is a dagger in disguise.”
“Yes, it is,” she said back.
Capitolo Diciassette
Ravenna stared at the stones, quieting her mind, quieting the voices that stood on either side of her shoulders, whispering their threats, their promises of suffering and heartache. She concentrated on the weight of the chisel in her left hand, the mallet in her right, and tried to ignore the silent immortal sitting on the workbench behind her.
Saturnino hadn’t spoken a word to her since he arrived five minutes ago. He drank from a steaming porcelain cup, and every now and again, she heard the hushed noise of him blowing softly across the surface. Ravenna closed her eyes, wishing she could intuit his feelings. His words were barbs hidden in polite phrases; sheknewthat. Except there were moments when she’d catch him unguarded, moments that were fleeting but were like stars shooting across the impervious night sky.
More than anything, she wished shedidn’tcare.
“Sage water?” Ravenna guessed. She’d know that scent anywhere. It was her favorite drink to sip on while she watched the sunrise.
“Sage water,” he confirmed neutrally.
He might have brought me one, Ravenna thought. It would have been the polite thing to do, considering he was observing her every move, writing a report in his mind, tallying her mistakes.
“I’ll bring you a cup tomorrow,” he said.
Ravenna glanced over her shoulder in surprise.
Saturnino winked at her.
She wrinkled her brow. “Can you read my mind?”
He took a sip and looked at her over the rim. Black brows rising slightly. “I swear on the Bible I can’t.”
“You shouldn’t swear over scripture.”
He shrugged. “The least worrisome of my vices, I’d say.”
