“But it’s a short walk to the old bridge, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be a fool,” Imelda said. “You can’t be seen out in the streets with the Duke of Milan. It will draw too much attention to yourself.”
“What will happen once I lead Signor Sforza out to Ponte Vecchio?”
“Thatis none of your concern,” Imelda said severely. “Focus only on leading him there. You must not fail His Holiness.”
Ravenna glared up at her. “Iknow.”
She could guess what would happen. His Holiness was arranging a meeting with his mysterious courier with the same message he’d had for her. A message that amounted to:Work with me against the Medici and Luni—and eternity will be yours.If the pope succeeded in turning him, he’d have acquired another soldier for his holy war against Florence, a duke with wealth and connections and status.
A curl of doubt had spread through her ever since her conversation with Saturnino in the dungeon, unraveling her long-held beliefs, threatening to choke each one. Grace was a gift, and yet the pope offered it only conditionally—and for a price. According to him, it was also earned by deeds that he determined were good. Deeds that served his own interest.
The truth of it upset her; it disgusted her.
But following that line of thinking would lead her down a paththat terrified her and was so different from the one she’d always walked. A path her family, her entire village, walked.
“It’s not only your life hanging in the balance, you know,” Imelda said softly. “You are a single strand in a vast tapestry that’s been years in the making.”
Ravenna met her gaze. Imelda had dropped her pretend voice, and she sounded older, somber, the littlest bit grim. Ravenna was struck by the honest fear lurking in her face; it was in the slightly pinched mouth, the tight jaw, the creases fanning from the corner of her eyes.
And against her better judgment, she felt compassion for Imelda. She didn’t know how His Holiness had lured her maid to his side of the war, but Ravenna could guess it involved threats masquerading as gifts. The thought unnerved Ravenna.
Because what, then, were the differences between them?
Would whatshebe like after a year in the pope’s service?
A knock on the door had them both swiveling around. Imelda glanced at Ravenna with a suspicious quirk of her brow. “Expecting anyone?”
Ravenna shook her head, but her heart foolishly skipped, thinking perhaps it was Saturnino who waited outside. Imelda crossed to the door and opened it, revealing not Saturnino but his sister.
Fortuna strode inside and issued a curt “Leave us.” Imelda obeyed—but not before shooting a warning glance at Ravenna. It promised retribution should she misbehave.
“I’ve come to inspect you,” Fortuna said coolly. “As you’re representing the family, your appearance will have to match our station.” With that, she circled Ravenna once, twice, three times, her pale blue eyes lingering on the jewel-tone emerald-green gamurra, cinched high at the waist with a graceful swoop neckline, allowing a teasing glimpse of the lace chemise underneath. She ran a light hand along the detachable sleeves made of a gold brocade that contrasted with the shimmering copper and mahogany strands of Ravenna’s hair.
“Shoes,” Fortuna murmured.
Ravenna clutched a handful sweep of her dress, lifting the hem.She stuck out her foot as resentment flooded her. Fortuna nodded approvingly at the elegant leather shoes, soft and pale, and rounded at the toe. Then she dipped her hand into a pocket of her dress—a midnight blue with swirls of shimmering thread stitched throughout—and pulled out a strand of freshwater pearls.
“Turn around,” she said.
Ravenna obeyed, that same resentment rising. But she kept silent, watchful. Of all the Luni siblings, Fortuna was the one she understood the least. She was close to Marco, they were often seen together in the palazzo, but while he had his explosive temper, she behaved like the contessa that she was, who needed everything to go her way. Ravenna sensed a keen intellect underneath the sulking mouth, and she wondered if perhaps some of her actions and words were all a ruse, an elaborate performance meant to distract from the inner workings of her brilliant mind.
“Your hair is an unusual color,” Fortuna mused. “What would you call it?”
Ravenna smothered a flare of impatience. Saturnino’s sister wanted to discuss the precise color of her hair? She glanced over her shoulder, lips twisting wryly. “Terra di Siena bruciato.”
“Burnt sienna?” Fortuna repeated. “I thought perhaps mud.”
Saturnino’s sister waited expectantly for a reaction, but Ravenna merely smiled and said, “My younger brother once said it looked like mud, too. Though hewasnine years old at the time.”
The corners of Fortuna’s mouth deepened, but she recovered quickly and played with a strand of her own hair, already made up for the evening in an elaborate twist. It was a glossy, buttery blond, the favorite and preferred color of the elite in Florence.
Fortuna caught Ravenna looking at it.
“Not an easy color to achieve,” she said, still playing with a stray curled lock. “Or so I’m told. I came by mine naturally. There have been several mimics attempting to re-create the hue, but it’s impossible.” She gave a little laugh. “They’ve run out of dragon’s blood and henna at the apothecaries.”
At Ravenna’s confused expression, Fortuna leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, “The secret ingredients in the dye.”
