Chapter 17 #2
Saturnino clasped her hand, his cool thumb brushing against her wrist. “This isn’t about right or wrong, good and evil. This is about accepting who you are. The stones won’t yield to you without your magic, Ravenna.”
She looked at his hand covering hers. It felt protective, almost tender.
Every instinct inside her warned her to pull away from him, but she was drawn to the passion illuminating his eyes, his words, as if they were a lantern held against the dark loneliness she’d felt for years.
“For someone who has lived a lot of life, who has seen and done so much over the course of the years, and is by all accounts bored, you have a very inquisitive nature.”
“Fair.” He rose to his feet. His form was unlike those of the sturdy men in Volterra; he was lithe, lean, and sinewy, towering over her.
He could knock her down with a flick of his wrist. And he nearly did, but not by strength, but by the quiet intensity in which he said, “But then, I’d never met you. ”
Her heart battered against her ribs. She didn’t blink, she couldn’t speak. She was conscious of his hand on hers, the weight of his thumb, the pads of his fingers. Oddly, his skin wasn’t ice-cold anymore. It felt a touch warmer, as if he’d been lit from within.
“Ravenna,” Saturnino coaxed. “Try using magic again. Instead of stifling it, let it flow through you.”
“My magic brings death,” she whispered.
“It’s only a rock,” he whispered back. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
He released her hand, and she used it to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. Saturnino tracked the movement, expression soft, unguarded, and Ravenna thought of shooting stars disappearing into the heavens.
“All right.” She took a step, intent on retrieving the tools, but Saturnino reached for her again, fingers circling around her wrist. She turned to him, her brows rising in question.
“Without the chisel and mallet,” he said. “Only the magic.”
Ravenna nodded. He released her and followed her back to the stone.
With a slow inhale, she placed her palms on the rippling surface, the blue and faint streaks of fiery red glowing beneath her fingertips.
Magic pulsed in her blood, in a mad rush to spill beyond her reach.
She curled her hands almost into fists. The raw power terrified her; she hated how small it made her feel, how out of control.
She gritted her teeth, overcome with an instinctive urge to harness the magic.
It felt like she was trying to stop time with her bare hands.
Saturnino brushed the back of his hand against her locked jaw. “Ravenna, let it go.”
She exhaled sharply, loosening her limbs, uncurling her fingers.
The magic streamed out of her, wild, untamed.
She felt its malevolent power rush through her veins, pooling in the palms of her hands.
She bit back a curse, her lips twisting in pain.
A heady rush escaped her, leaving her dizzy, spent.
The veining across the marble shifted as if swept gently by a paintbrush.
It curled around the edge of the stone, exposing the top portion.
But the virgin stone had cooled, its heat fading under the force of Ravenna’s onslaught.
Her magic seemed to call to the Nightflame, and for the first time it answered back.
To strike.
This way, it seemed to whisper, if you must.
Saturnino handed her a chisel and mallet.
Wordlessly, she took both, lined up the chisel’s flat edge, and struck the blunt end with the mallet.
The stone gave way and she felt the responding shudder, a magical pulse that rippled through her.
It was as if the magic inside her and in the stone were facing off, and hers was the aggressor, able to diminish the other’s life force.
Ravenna let her magic guide her, chipping away at a steady rate, but only where the stone had been overrun.
She kept at it for what felt like mere minutes, only to look up to find Saturnino seated at the bench.
He’d stretched out his long legs, crossed them at the ankles.
Every day he seemed a little more human to her.
He dipped his hand into one of the pails, retrieved a linen rag, then stood.
His approach was both slow and familiar; he held out the cloth to her.
Ravenna took it gratefully and wiped her face clean.
He pored over her significant progress; she’d cleared a sizable corner of the stone.
When his eyes traveled back to hers, they were creased, brimming with joy and relief.
The smile he gave her was unfettered, and it stayed on his face longer than a shooting star winking in and out of sight. It dazzled her.
“Your magic is wondrous, a thing to behold.” He hesitated. “Like you.”
For a moment, she forgot about His Holiness and his promise of atonement.
She forgot about her parents and how they loved her as much as they were terrified of her.
She forgot about how the Luni family had stolen her away from her life.
Her eyes blurred. When she thought about her life, the years lived, and the years that stretched ahead of her, she’d never expected anyone to call her wondrous.
Let alone her magic.
“Ravenna—” He broke off as the dungeon door creaked open.
Imelda stood within the frame, frozen, her hands gripping a tray laden with a pitcher and ceramic cup. Whatever Saturnino had been about to say hovered between them, lost in the swirl of fading magic and firelight.
“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Imelda said, her cheeks reddening.
Everything came back to Ravenna in a rush: the pope, the task he’d demanded of her, her soul hanging in the balance.
She was suddenly aware of how close she and Saturnino were standing, just a hand’s width apart.
Saturnino must have realized it at the same time, because he stiffened and moved away from her.
Ravenna had the uncanny notion that he’d surprised himself.
And judging by the muscle jumping in his jaw—probably from gritting his teeth—he did not like it.
A subtle change settled over him as if he were putting on a thick, well-tailored mantle suited to his needs.
A barrier between him and the world, something to protect him from the mundane habits and conversation of the dullards he crossed paths with.
His face smoothed over, and gone was his irritation, his baffled disbelief that he found her magic wondrous.
The hood of his mantle had gone up, and Ravenna knew that he would lash out in some way.
Not to remind her of her place, but to remind himself of his.
The opposite ends of a chessboard.
“I trust you won’t have any more trouble, Ravenna. Finish the work.” His voice dropped into a whisper meant for her ears only. “For both our sakes.”
He gave her a cool look, and it made the blood in her veins swim with ice. Ravenna had the sense that she understood the full pendulum swing of his emotions. She intrigued him, exasperated him, and was a curiosity he wanted to learn about, but he would not extend a hand to help her.
Saturnino turned away and left without another word, another glance. Imelda watched his progress, and it was only when he had shut the door behind him that she moved farther into the room. She placed the tray onto the bench, then turned to face Ravenna, her expression pinched.
“I only came to drop off refreshments,” Imelda said. “Do you need anything else?”
Ravenna shook her head.
Imelda dipped her chin stiffly, her cheeks drawn in worry. She turned to go, but abruptly stopped. “Signorina…”
Ravenna knew what her maid was going to say before she said it.
“Please be careful,” Imelda whispered. “Don’t fall prey to his honeyed words, his wealth and connections. He is a dangerous man, and I’ve seen him ruin many good people.”
Ravenna didn’t doubt it. Shame burned up her throat, flushed her cheeks. She knew better, and yet … and yet. She could have sworn he’d spoken from the heart.
But he didn’t have one. He’d said so himself.
“I’ll come back to escort you to your room in another hour or so, if that’s agreeable?”
“Certo,” Ravenna said.
Imelda inclined her head again, but just before she left, Ravenna added, “And thank you.”
“Signorina?” Imelda asked, her hand on the iron latch.
“For the warning.”
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, to her. 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.