“I cast you out of this family, Imelda,” Papà said quietly. “That will be the last time you’ll ever hear your name out of my mouth.”
The ground seemed to tremble, as if the moon had fallen out of the sky, fallen out of grace. Imelda clutched at her heart; it was beating too fast, the thumping sound roaring in her ears. What would happen to her? What would happen to Alessandro? Did her father know—
“Jacopo,” Mamma exclaimed, half rising out of chair.
But he strode out of the room, saying, “Throw her out.”
Imelda was out of the palazzo within the hour. She was not allowed her clothes, or money, or jewelry. Mamma was locked away in her room to keep from interfering. Pietro raged against Papà, urging him to change his mind. Imelda cried, she begged, she apologized, but none of it mattered.
Papà threw her out anyway, wearing her beautiful dress and a single hairpin adorned with pearls.
She was living in an apartment in Santa Croce, her neighbors the working class and beating heart of Florence. It was a vibrant community, the piazza filled with market stalls and workshops. Blacksmiths hammered on their anvils throughout the day while vendors called out prices for their wares.
Not that she could afford any of it.
Her brother visited her weekly, bringing enough money for her to survive on; enough for a roof over her head and simple fare to fill her belly. He helped Alessandro find another position in a different household across town. She was thankful for it, even though she didn’t want to see her lover.
Not like this.
Soiled clothes, dirty fingernails, unwashed hair, tired eyes.
Alessandro would fall out of love with her. Men only liked pretty and shiny things.
It was better he yearned for her, better that he remembered her as a delicate beauty who had never scrubbed chamber pots or swept floors. Because that was the kind of work she did now, the only work available to her. No one from her previous life would ever recognize her.
But one day, Imelda opened the door to find a mysterious man, his hood up over the upper portion of his face. He had a hard mouth with a jaded quality to it.
Wordlessly, he handed her an envelope. It was closed with redwax, stamped with a seal featuring triple crowns. Imelda stared at the missive, her head spinning from a loud ringing noise, as if the iron bells of the cathedral were between her ears.
The pope had written to her himself.
“What is this?” she asked the man.
“Read it,” he said, his voice low and rough. “If you agree, His Holiness will restore you to your family, your reputation saved.”
Imelda read the letter, brow scrunching. His Holiness wanted her to work as a maid in the Palazzo dei Luni. She was to collect whatever information she could, byanymeans necessary, and pass it on to the man standing before her. Known simply as the courier.
Her father’s face swam in her mind, etched in contempt, disappointment. “My father will never take me back.”
“He already said that he would.”
Hope covered her from head to foot, and she was shaking. This was how she would reclaim what she had lost—her name, her beauty, her love.
“Well?”
Imelda pretended to consider. She had her own terms. She was her father’s daughter, after all. “I want to be able to marry whomever I wish.”
“Done,” he said, gruff. “Do you agree?”
“Yes,” Imelda de Pazzi said, nodding. “It’s an honor to have the trust of His Holiness.”
“You don’t have it,” the courier said flatly. “You’ll have to earn it, first.”
He turned away, vanishing into the shadows as if he’d never been there at all.
Capitolo Ventitré
Ravenna gripped the letter until the edges curled. Her body felt curiously numb, but she hadn’t opened the window, and the air in the room was still, quiet. She sank onto the bed, her finger tracing the wax seal, a bloody wound against the smooth, unblemished paper.
