Imelda nodded and left her alone with her thoughts. Ravenna stared at the virgin stones, at the pulsing veins, beating like a heartbeat, protecting the Nightflame. She had made good progress that day, but it was only for the sake of appearances. To stay Saturnino’s murderous hand.
But now, for the first time, she didn’t care about what the Medici had done to Volterra, to her brother, toher.She wanted to extract the Nightflames. Because… because…
Ravenna squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to acknowledge the truth: she cared about Saturnino, and deep down, she somehow knew that it would be the end of her.
Probably she should do something about it.
Ravenna didn’t work on the stones again for the rest of the evening. She couldn’t—her conscience wouldn’t let her. She’d all but given her word to His Holiness, and she’d already betrayed the Luni family by revealing the existence of the five Nightflames.
She’d crossed a line.
But so had they when they took me, Ravenna reminded herself.
By the time Ravenna was back inside her bedroom, her mind thought one way, her heart felt another. She paced the room, up and down the lush canopy of her bed, wearing down a path on the lavish rug. A line from the Bible spun through her, wrapping around her ribs until she couldn’t breathe:The heart was deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: Who can know it?
She clearly didn’t know her own heart.
It wasn’t until she sank onto the bed that she saw the folded note resting on the silk pillow. It bore her name in elegant handwriting. The room seemed to vanish. Her world narrowed down to the note, and she somehow knew she would hate what it said.
What it would demand of her.
The roar in her head returned, nauseating and loud. Ravenna picked up the note, opening it with steady hands even as the air around her coiled tight, as if she were spinning frantically in a circle.
Signorina Ravenna,
Tonight, you must find a way out of the palazzo without being seen. Take Via de’ Tornabuoni toward the Arno River, cross Ponte Santa Trinita, and the road will become Via Maggio. Take the same path until you reach Il Leone Rosso. There will be a red lion carved over the door.
Wait for instructions in the wine cellar.
The letter wasn’t signed, but it bore His Holiness’s red stamp. The familiar triple crown glinted back at her, a bloody stain at the bottom of the page.
Capitolo Diciotto
Ravenna made her way down the cobbled path of Via de’ Tornabuoni, clutching the wool cloak tightly around her. It had been another harrowing trek through the palazzo, but she’d made it down to the grotto and out the side door without incident. A miracle. She ought to take it as a sign of God’s approval of where her loyalties lay.
Except she still didn’t really know.
Cool moonlight dimly illuminated the narrow street, casting shadows from the ancient buildings that surrounded her. Her breath came out in soft pants, fogging around her face in the sharp wind. She shivered but kept her pace brisk.
She did not want to be caught unaware.
There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others lurking in the shadowed alleyways. Ravenna passed tavern after tavern, their weathered facades offering solemn greetings as she went. None of them bore a sign bearing the name Il Leone Rosso. How much farther? She had crossed the bridge, the cold Arno River churning beneath her feet. It seemed like she had walkedmiles.Her feet hurt from being squished in the too-tight leather boots, the only ones she could find in her bedroom. And she was freezing.
She set her jaw against the bitter wind and quickened her steps, keeping an eye out for strangers. On her way out, she had found a walking stick propped against the servants’ entrance. A weapon, she had thought. When she grabbed it, she had the notion that she could whack the thing at someone’s head if the occasion called for it.
Glancing down at it now, she felt ridiculous.
A walking stick against a knife or a sword.
Well, at least she still had the dagger in her boot.
She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but even so, she said a prayer just in case, asking for help—oh, she’d nearly passed it. The entrance of Il Leone Rosso loomed on her left. It was unassuming in appearance with a modest wood sign swinging in the cold breeze. A red lion roared above the door frame.
With a sigh of relief, Ravenna darted inside, eager to be out of the cold.
The warmth of the space hit her first, the air thick with the aroma of burning wood from the central fireplace. She tasted smoke, aged wine, and pipe tobacco; it made her think of the locanda’s cozy central room where guests lounged on comfortable chairs. Wooden beams stretched across the low ceiling, and the stone walls were covered in worn but well-made tapestries. Patrons sat at sturdy wooden tables and benches arranged in small clusters, perfect for private conversation. Servers quietly attended the needs of their guests, serving wine and beer, clearing away metal plates.
Ravenna stood at the entrance, immobilized.
