Her mother was as superstitious as she was practical, and she’d raised Ravenna to be the same. Magic had no place in Volterra. Best to keep it out by any means possible. And stifle her own.
Ravenna turned back to her worktable. It was her favorite time to sculpt marble, during the midnight hours while all the world slept. She inhaled deeply, comforted by the familiar scents the storage building kept trapped within its stone walls: flour, vanilla, aged wine, canvas, and pine. Outside, the wind began its nightly howl as winter gave its final cry across the rolling hills of Volterra.
Ravenna tied a clean linen apron twice around her waist, lit another candle, and then eyed the bozzetto critically. It stood only a foot tall, but there was something about the figurine that seemed to overwhelm the quiet of her studio. For her subject, Ravenna had chosen Pluto, god of the underworld, and even without his face completed, the air around him swirled menacingly. The lushness of his clothing accentuated the broad width of his shoulders, and his stronghands were edged with blunt fingers capable of wielding the most dangerous of weapons.
Even without a face, he seemed threatening.
Finish me, topolina, or you’ll regret it, he seemed to say in a deadly hush.
Ravenna had never been called a little mouse before in all her life.
With a burst of annoyance she took the flat chisel and hammer and struck the marble. It gave way easily, the white stone as pure and sparkling as if it had come from the moon.
With expert strikes, she nibbled away at the stone, angling cheekbones, carving the fine line of his eyelids, trapping the shadows that made up the contours of his face. With the claw chisel, she scratched the long sweep of eyebrows into place, the arched curve both sardonic and stern. With every step, Ravenna worked to improve each strike: deepening the lines, softening his mouth, adding the wavy details of his shoulder-length hair.
It wasn’t until Ravenna finished that she’d realized what she’d done.
The face that stared back at her belonged to the man from the alley. Not the Capitano, but the one with the perfect face, coldly beautiful and aloof. Ravenna gaped at the statue, annoyed at herself. How could she have immortalized his face in a work that was meant to save her brother?
She shook her head, furious at herself.
The wind outside the studio gave a sudden howling protest, and the wooden door burst open with a sudden slam. She jumped at the sound, dust swirling off the worktable, covering her homespun dress in speckles of white and gray. She gaped at the whirlwind as if she were caught in snowstorm, but then the wind abruptly retreated, as if satisfied with the mess it had made. The wooden door swung shut.
Her mother would say it was an ill omen.
Ravenna stepped away from the bozzetto and tilted her head. There was still something missing from the piece, an elusive something that would set her work above the rest of the competition.Her calm demeanor wobbled. She’dneverpresented her work before, other than to her own family. But now there would be an audience, critics evaluating her work. And she knew exactly what they would say.
She was an impostor.
Her creation was amateur, with no heart and soul.
She was awomandoing the noble work of a man.
Ravenna set her tools on the table, thrust her hands on her hips. She couldn’t control what the others thought, but she could control what she did now.
And that was to create something to save her brother.
“Ravenna!”
She half turned. Her littlest sister, Tereza, stepped shyly inside her studio, dragging her favorite blanket behind her, a ratty thing that had kept company with all the Maffei children.
“Amorina,” Ravenna said. “Little love, did you come here by yourself?”
Tereza walked to the tall wooden worktable and stood on tiptoe, clutching the edge to keep balance. “All by myself. Who is it?” she asked. Her dark brown hair was fitted in a braid that draped over a slender shoulder. At only five, Tereza exuded a calming presence, at odds with the rest of the family who spoke in loud and louder volumes. She tucked her index finger inside her mouth, a habit their mother had tried to curb.
“Pluto,” Ravenna said. “Do you know who he is?”
Tereza nodded once, her delicate features scrunching. “Not the hero.”
“Depends on who you ask,” Ravenna said with a wink. “I’ve always thought villains are misunderstood.”
Tereza pulled her finger out of her mouth with a small pop. “It’s not done.”
The corners of Ravenna’s lips deepened. “I agree. What’s missing, do you think?”
“Something shiny,” Tereza said, shrugging.
Ravenna pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth. Somethingshiny.An idea flickered in her mind, one that terrified her even as it sunk deeper in her, a stone tossed into a river.
