Capitolo 30 #2
Ravenna stepped out of the tub, wishing Imelda would leave her in peace.
But she clearly meant to ask her more questions.
Fine. Ravenna needed answers of her own.
Imelda motioned for Ravenna to sit on the armchair by the roaring fire.
Ravenna looked at her through her lashes, considering how to broach the subject about her brother.
Imelda was already on edge, already suspicious.
Acquiring information from her would take careful wording.
Her brother was proficient with that crossbow. His hands had been steady when he fired the shot, as if he’d lined up a target in his line of sight dozens of times. Who had trained him—and why?
Ravenna settled into the chair and stared at the flames, comforted by the fire’s symphony; a crackle, snap, and hiss. It reminded her of the inn, of late nights with her family around the dinner table, Ravenna baking bread for the next day.
She thought about the boy her brother had been and the man he had turned out to be. And the people responsible, who had helped make him that way. Ravenna had a very good guess, she only needed confirmation. “My brother underwent significant training in a short period of time.”
Imelda snorted. “I was told your brother was utterly helpless, practically an infant.”
Ravenna’s fingers curled around the armrests, nails digging into the stitched fabric. She kept her tone mild, seeking for more answers. “Antonio never liked to hunt. The sight of blood always bothered him.”
“Not anymore,” Imelda said. “He will be ready for—”
Ravenna shifted around to face Imelda. “Ready for what?”
She had been folding Ravenna’s gown, but paused in her movement. She stared at Ravenna, lined in firelight. “For the pope’s final task.”
Terror gripped her. “What will His Holiness have him do?”
Imelda curled her lip. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Ravenna fell silent. “He won’t talk to me anymore.”
“Then he won’t appreciate it if I speak for him,” Imelda snapped.
Ravenna narrowed her eyes at her. “You don’t know what the final task is, do you? The pope still doesn’t trust you with the details.”
Imelda stiffened, her eyes gleaming with a mad light. “It’s your fault he doesn’t.”
A single knock cut off Imelda’s words. Ravenna whipped her head around toward the door.
Saturnino’s terrible expression down by the river filled her mind, the feral smile that told her he had scented her blood in the water.
She stood, her legs shaking, and waited.
He had come for her, and he would not knock again.
He only needed to do it once, but she heard his quiet hiss in her ear: Open this fucking door, Ravenna.
Imelda frowned slightly, her gaze moving to the tray sitting on the bed.
Ravenna understood her thoughts clearly, as if her dangerous maid had spoken them out loud.
It was too late for anyone to pay Ravenna a visit, and she had already received everything she needed for the night; hot water, food, something to drink.
“Are you expecting someone?” Imelda asked, her hands on her hips.
“In a manner of speaking,” Ravenna said grimly. “I would open it if I were you. He won’t wait longer before kicking it in if he has to.”
“You’ve nothing on but a towel,” Imelda said, but she crossed the room, placed her hand on the latch—
Ravenna glanced down in alarm. She was only in a towel. “Wait—”
Imelda pulled the door open, and Saturnino stood on the other side.
He’d changed from the clothing he’d worn at the banquet.
Now he wore a cream long-sleeved tunic that went down past his wrists under a forest-green jerkin and matching hose.
His black hair was still damp, the ends giving in to a slight curl that brushed across his shoulders and collarbones.
He regarded Ravenna with a curious, undefinable emotion that glimmered in the dark pool of his murky eyes. His lush mouth tightened at the corners, and Ravenna had the sense that he wanted to shout at her. But with chilling restraint he kept his face nearly devoid of expression.
His attention flicked to Imelda.
She had been gaping at him, but at his sudden fierce look, she snapped her mouth closed and made herself smaller. The picture of demure obedience.
“Cavaliere Saturnino,” Imelda simpered, dropping into a quick curtsey.
“It’s Imelda, isn’t it?” Saturnino said. “You’re here with your brother.”
A flutter of emotion swept across Imelda’s young face. “Yes.”
“His name?” Saturnino asked softly.
His whisper chilled Ravenna and she took a step closer to the roaring fire. Imelda must have sensed the danger she was in. He had never looked more like an immortal. His manner was almost lazy, as if he had all the time in the world to get what he needed.
And he would get it, by foul means or fair.
“Pietro,” Imelda said through stiff lips.
Ravenna’s lips parted. They were brother and sister? She studied her maid, and recalled Pietro’s face in her mind. They looked nothing alike … save for the color of their eyes. It was a blue that had looked gray down in the dungeon, where the lighting was soft and dim.
“What is your family name?”
Imelda blanched. “We are no one of note, signore.”
“Answer the question,” he said.
She swept her hands behind her back and clenched them tight. “Alessandri.”
“Alessandri,” Saturnino echoed.
Ravenna drew in a shaky breath as she studied his reaction. He had gone very still, and he was clearly thinking—but what? For the hundredth time, she wished she could read his inscrutable face.
“That’s correct, Signor Luni,” Imelda mumbled. She had infused her tone with a note of awestruck wonder, as if she couldn’t believe the lord of the house, heir to the dukedom, knight of the realm, would deign to know her name, let alone speak with the likes of her.
Ravenna had the hysterical urge to bow at Imelda’s performance. If her career as a blackmailer and spy didn’t work out for her, she could make a career starring in a Greek tragedy.
Saturnino studied Imelda for a moment but seemed to become bored by the conversation. He waved her off with a dismissive gesture. “Leave us.”
Imelda flicked a glance at Ravenna. It was instinctive, and in that space of a second, Ravenna read the fear in her gaze, followed quickly by a spark of anger, bright and terrifying.
She would go straight to her brother and inform him of Saturnino’s late visit to Ravenna’s room. They would speculate about the reason.
And when they were done speculating, they would come with their threats.
Ravenna clutched at her towel tightly. “I’m not dressed for a visit, Signor Luni.”
Saturnino arched an imperious brow. Any trace of warmth he had shown her earlier was long gone.
But then her gaze lowered to his knuckles.
They were cut up and raw, slowly healing.
Ravenna lifted her eyes to meet his. He stared at her with an expression that seemed intended to goad her into asking what he had done to his brother.
And he would tell her how he had won the fight, what Marco’s face looked like, about the bruises covering his cheekbones.
He would tell her everything in order to remind her who he was.
But he would not share why he had attacked his brother.
Had he done it for her? Because Marco had pulled her hair, had marred her skin with bruises? Ravenna didn’t believe so. He had made himself clear on that score: Saturnino always had reasons for everything he did, and none of them were kind.
Imelda cleared her throat. “Do you need anything else, signorina?”
It would have been so easy to say yes. Ravenna could make up a task for Imelda, something inane, anything at all for her to remain in the room. But Saturnino would find a way to get her alone—there was no delaying the inevitable.
“Signorina?” Imelda prodded.
Saturnino gave Ravenna a pointed look. His look asked, Will you face me? Her heart raced. His attention narrowed to her pulse beating against her throat. She lifted her chin, straightened her spine, gripping tightly on to her towel as if it were a shield.
“I need nothing,” Ravenna said.
There was no turning back now. Imelda shot Ravenna a furious glance. It promised retribution for her impertinence. She shut the door behind her with a measured click.
Ravenna and Saturnino were alone.