Chapter Eight
Niccolo was here.
My hand clenches the canvas, as if I can reach in and pull him from the frame. Every punch of my heart scrapes bone.
It’s unmistakably him, down to the red cloak he wore the day he disappeared.
I will never forget the swirl of red against the snow when I last saw him. Even then, I wanted to take every horrible word I’d said and stuff them back into my lungs. But pride had grabbed my throat and held me still.
I trace the lines of his face. Without the cloak, I still would’ve known the sweep of his jaw, the green in his hazel eyes, the very same as mine.
Hope, raw and wild, claws through me, tears open my mind to a possibility I smothered long ago.
Is he still alive?
My knees thud to the floor, unable to hold me up.
It makes no sense for him to be alive, but not to be with us.
Niccolo knew how bad things were after Father’s death.
He would never have left us to face them alone.
He knew I couldn’t do it. He’s better than me, kinder and stronger in all the ways that matter.
It’s why I never believed Mamma when she said he was still out there alive.
He’d never leave us alone unless he was dead.
But impossibly, a portrait of Niccolo is here. Why?
“Signore, may I help you?”
A man hovers over me, clad in the red and ermine-trimmed robes of an elected official.
I scramble upright and away from the portrait like I’ve been caught palming a rich woman’s jewels. I want to flip the canvas over to see if there’s an artist’s signature. I want to demand why the portrait is here, ask this man if he knows or has ever heard of Niccolo Pitti.
“Well?” the man demands. He glares at me like I’m in trouble, but behind his annoyance, there’s a keen, near fevered curiosity. A wrongness whispers across the back of my neck.
“I got lost,” I lie, lifting my charcoal-stained hands like, Just a feckless artist over here!
The man’s smile curves, his eyes flicking toward the two green-liveried guards lurking near the entrance. “The doors were closed.”
The guards inch closer.
I bow, clasping my hands to hide how they tremble. “Forgive me. I’m searching for inspiration worthy of a wedding portrait.”
The man’s expression hardens. “Come with me. You’ve seen enough of the palazzo for one day.”
Having no choice, I follow him, head bowed, murmuring apologies. I don’t dare glance at Niccolo’s portrait on the way out, even though every single bit of me screams to turn around, tear the canvas from the wall, and start running.
I need this man to assume I’m just some lost artist, cloud-brained and harmless.
I need to be forgotten so I can come back.
I need to earn the wedding portrait commission now. It’s the only way back into the Palazzo della Signoria. Everything in this building is here for a purpose: the beautiful frescos in the courtyard, the statues guarding the doors.
There’s a reason Niccolo’s portrait is here, and I’m going to find out what it is.
And then… maybe I can find him.
The thought snatches the very air from me.
The man takes me down a long staircase and opens a side door. He tips his chin toward the piazza beyond, mouth still hard. I bow once more, trying to make the gesture look extra penitent.
I wait until I hear the snick of the door locking behind me before I start running.
Pigeons erupt into panicked flight, curious heads turn to follow me, but I ignore them all.
I race back to Master Verrocchio’s workshop as fast as I can, my lungs ragged sacks of linen, my heart near thundering out of my chest. When I burst through the studio’s door, the workshop is empty. Everyone else is still at the palazzo.
Except for Lupa.
The angel uncurls herself from her place near the fire. “Virgil?”
I stagger toward her, tugging up the sleeve on one forearm, slipping the knife from my belt with the other.
“Make a bargain with me,” I pant, each word tasting of blood.
“A month of my life for a week of perfect memory.” Verrocchio needs to pick me for the wedding commission.
I need to be able to paint again. I need my magic back.
A soft breath shudders from her. She traces the black marks along my forearm, lingering on the most recent one. I press the blade to the empty space beside it. My skin whitens under the pressure. “I know you hunger for life. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”
Lupa’s fingers skate along my blade. I wince as the knife sinks into me under the barely there pressure.
I bite the inside of my cheek, bracing myself for the welling blood, the heady rush of magic.
Striking a bargain always feels like holding my breath underwater for a second too long.
A blackness in my vision—and then a fierce golden light.
Lupa eases up her touch before my skin breaks. “No.”
“Why not?” I can’t fail again. Niccolo, my future, all of it hangs just out of reach. A single kiss of the knife is all I need to seize it. I’ll give Lupa whatever she wants. A year of my life, five of them. I need the edge magic will give me over everyone else. I need to be the best.
My entire world spins around Lupa’s gold-green irises. Her hands rise to cup my face. Her thumb brushes away the dampness from my cheeks. “I can’t do it, because I like you more than anyone else.”
That’s why she won’t do it? From some softhearted desire not to hurt me? “Angels don’t have feelings!”
She flinches like a frightened hound. I should apologize, but I don’t. Everyone else knows I’m cold, and it’s about time she learns it too.
Lupa’s fingers trail down along my neck, her pointed nails lingering on the leap of my jugular beneath the tender skin.
Her eyes darken hungrily. I swallow and lift my chin higher.
I press her pointed nails into my hot skin, yearning for the ache of my own splitting skin. I would give her anything, everything.
And then, impossibly, she steps away.
Each one of her next words drops like a stone into my soul. “I won’t do it because you have less than a year left of life. If you make another bargain, you will die.”