Chapter Fifteen
Niccolo didn’t only leave me a book; he left me a message.
One he intended I receive when he was already gone.
Which means wherever he went—whatever happened to him—he had a plan and knew what he was doing. At least in the beginning.
And wanted you to leave him alone. The thought knifes through me. He didn’t want you with him.
A familiar helpless ache curls around my ribs. Is this message a warning or a command or angry hurt spilling over in the wake of our fight?
How do you read a message from a ghost?
I’m so stuck in my thoughts, I don’t notice I’m being followed.
It’s a shadow in the corner of my eye, there and gone so fast, I could’ve imagined it. A hushed shh shh of footsteps that mirror my own.
I suck in a soft breath. I lingered at Casa delle Volpi longer than I should’ve, and twilight drapes the corners with deep shadows.
’Tis a bad time to wander without a weapon, and of course I don’t have one, because I sold off everything I didn’t need ages ago.
My shoulders hunch, and I walk faster, taking a different route back to the workshop than I normally do.
The footsteps follow.
But when I glance over my shoulder, no one’s there.
My pulse skitters. At the end of the street, golden light flickers: the braziers warming the Piazza Santa Croce. It feels like a game of tag. If I can reach the light, I’ll be safe. Another block, and I’ll be surrounded by the open space and the people already there. A dozen more steps—
Darkness engulfs me from above.
I yell and throw myself to the side before a heaviness thumps to the street, landing exactly where I was.
Lupa straightens and tosses back her cloak hood, her hair wild and windswept. “What is a birthday?”
I brace myself against the wall, heart slamming against my breastbone. “Gesù Cristo, good evening to you, too, you horrible monster!”
“Good evening,” she repeats diligently, impervious to my sarcasm. “Will you tell me what a birthday is?”
Why? Why must I be her favorite person? She won’t give me magic, so she’s got to claim me some other way? “You’re not supposed to leave the workshop without Master Verrocchio’s permission. You’ll get me in trouble.”
Lupa has been leaving the workshop whenever she feels like it—much to Verrocchio’s chagrin.
Without her, the paints grow tacky. Marble cleaves mid-sculpture.
Artists go to make their bargains with her, except she’s gone.
It’d be cute, in an annoying-younger-sibling sort of way, if I didn’t have two younger siblings already and Verrocchio didn’t glare at me every time she returns to the workshop hanging off my arm.
An odd expression flits across Lupa’s face. “You were missing all day.”
“Yes, because I had the day off.”
“But you did not tell me you had the day off!” Lupa stomps her foot. Cracks splinter through the cobblestones. “No one could tell me where you went. What if the angry mob returned because you upset them again? The girl who cornered you outside made you feel bad; I could smell it!”
An eerie glow starts to pool in Lupa’s eyes. Dust starts to cyclone in a gust that didn’t exist a moment ago. My skin prickles with warning. I catch Lupa’s clenched fists in my hands, forcing her to look at me. “I’m all right, I’m here! I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was leaving.”
She sniffs disapprovingly, the glow ebbing from her glare and taking the storm-feeling with it. “I accept your thanks. You are welcome.”
“It’s an apology, not a—you know what? Never mind. You didn’t also ambush the girl you saw me talking to, did you?”
“No. But I can if you want me to.”
I assure her heartily that I don’t. The last thing I need is for Lupa to start menacing my family like a too-protective hound. Only then does she deign to come home with me. Along the way, I explain what a family is and why I was visiting mine.
“A birthday is a celebration of the day you’re born. There are dolci and gifts. It means you’re getting older.” My thumb runs over the book spine beneath my cloak. The Inferno will be the last birthday gift I ever receive.
“You don’t like that gift, though.”
Guilt weaves between my ankles like a stubborn cat. “It’s not that I don’t like it. ’Tis more like… it makes me sad. It reminds me of someone I miss.”
Lupa nods briskly, like the pieces are all falling into place for her. “I would also be sad to have a book and no dolci.”
This time, I couldn’t quite keep my smile back. “It’s not usually an either-or—”
She fists a hand and lays it over her heart. “I will find you the dolci, Virgil, so your birthday is not so sad anymore.”
Oh God, no. Verrocchio will be livid if she disappears again. “Please don’t—”
Except she’s already gone.
Not two minutes after I step inside the workshop alone, the doors burst open.
Lupa stands there, an entire zuccotto cake in her arms. “Everyone, it is Virgil’s birthday, and we will celebrate!”
One by one, the other artists turn to look at her, then me. Their expressions range from surprise to confusion. I can almost see the same thought leaping from head to head: Angels don’t care about humans like this.
I run my tongue along my teeth, hating being the center of attention.
My gaze darts to the wood panel destined to become the Medici wedding portrait.
Leonardo swore up and down he’d prep the wood for our painting himself, but of course he’s not there.
He’s managed to leave out the bucket of glue, though.
So much for hoping he’s got a snide joke to diffuse the tension.
Lupa’s smile wobbles as the silence stretches longer.
That goddamn wobble makes my chest clench. I push off my stool. “You heard her. Do you want dolci or not?”
“You want to celebrate with us?” Giorgio’s eyebrows go high.
I shoot him a sly smirk. “If you don’t want any, I’m happy to eat your share.”
He bolts out of his chair with a snort. “Not on your life, Pitti!”
Slowly, and then with more enthusiasm, the other artists abandon their work to take a slice of the creamy sweet. Some even wish me happy birthday and seem to mean it.
When I take my own slice, I whisper to Lupa, “How did you get this?” Verrocchio’s cook would never make a zuccotto for a lowly apprentice. Which means—
“I stole it.”
Splendid! Now she’s not just abandoning the workshop for me but committing crimes for me too. The pasticciere she stole the cake from is probably already in Verrocchio’s office demanding their payment. Verrocchio’s going to make me grind pigments for weeks.
Lupa sucks cream from her thumb. “No one will know. I used my magic to steal it.”
“Your magic?” I thought angels’ magic was limited to the bargains they gave artists.
“Yes. I made myself invisible and unlocked the door. It was easy.”
A strange thrill goes down my spine. “You have magic of your own?”
“That is what I said.” Lupa frowns. “Do you not hear me? Is there something wrong with your ears?”
My heart starts pounding unevenly. “So the time I saved you from the angry mob… you could’ve saved us instead?”
Lupa shrugs and licks more jam and cream from her fingers. There’s so much I don’t understand about her. I thought I knew all there was to know about angels, yet each time I speak to Lupa, the mystery of her deepens. Perhaps I shouldn’t trust her, but it’s obvious she trusts me.
No, it’s not that she trusts me. It’s that I’m her friend.
And, despite the part of my soul that stills like a frightened rabbit when her eyes gleam in shadows, I think she might be my friend too.
I draw closer, speaking too low for anyone else to hear. “Could you use your magic to help me get past the guards at the Palazzo della Signoria?”
Niccolo told me not to follow him, but I don’t give a damn about his message. It’s been two years, and I’m not the hopeless little brother he left behind anymore. I might not deserve to have him back, but my mamma and sisters do, if he’s out there to be found.
Lupa smiles, her pointed teeth stained red with jam. “Yes.”