Chapter 16 #2
“There are many things you don’t know about me,” he said pointedly.
Ravenna supposed that was true. “And to answer your question, we are not rushing back to the palazzo because you’ve made great progress today on one of the stones.
There’s time enough for you to enjoy a meal out in the sunshine, not hidden away in the palazzo. ”
Again, she had the sense he wasn’t telling her the whole truth. “But that’s not all.”
“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.”
“What else?” she prodded, suspicious.
He glanced away from her, his attention returning to the musician.
A reluctant smile edged the corner of his mouth.
When he looked at her again, his expression had softened.
“I’ve always appreciated artists for their vision and creativity.
When you were working on the stone, I wondered what you’d have made of it if it hadn’t contained the Nightflame.
How you would choose the subject, where you might draw your inspiration from.
” He shrugged, his manner a little abashed. “You’ve drawn my eye, Ravenna.”
There were many things he could have said, and in truth, Ravenna had expected another veiled threat, or a request made innocently but premeditatedly.
She had even braced herself for one of his chess moves, an attempt to put her on her guard or back her into a corner.
But of everything he could have said, he’d chosen the one thing that made her walls crack.
It was rare for Ravenna to speak of sculpting, or the imagination that sparked whenever she looked at a block of stone.
“This isn’t a scheme,” Saturnino said quietly. “My questions are genuine.”
She didn’t believe him; she refused to, but still, she hesitated.
Because there was an annoying part of her that wanted to believe him.
There was a reason why she spoke of sculpting so little.
Her parents were overworked, and often tired, sinking into their beds at night exhausted.
Her siblings were young and had their own interests.
The only people she’d had to confide in were Maria, who now had a young child to look after and an endless amount of work to make ends meet, and Antonio, who had been changed by the war.
He didn’t have the patience to talk about art or go with her to buy blocks of stone.
So she had stopped sharing a piece of her heart with him.
To do so again now felt daunting—especially with Saturnino.
“I don’t know what I would carve from the stone,” Ravenna began slowly, her thoughts still in turmoil. “It’s so clearly meant to protect the Nightflame, everything else feels or seems absurd.”
“Then say it was not that particular block of stone. What would you do?”
Ravenna turned wistful. “Every block of stone has this quality to it, a soul of its own, a heart trapped at its center. Sometimes I can tell what it is just by looking at it, from the veining or the way the edges might curve. Sometimes, the discovery of what that stone is might take me hours with a sketch pad until it finally reveals its secret. Every project is different, every block of stone has its own tale. My job is to listen.”
“And what about my last question?”
She smiled slightly, then gently poked Saturnino’s chest. “You know what catches my eye. You know what inspires me.”
The soft laugh he made reminded Ravenna of raw stone, scraping and rough. It was deep, even as his eyes remained serious. “Do I?”
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.