Cass thought about the painting for the rest of the evening. She woke early the next day still thinking of it. Over and over, she replayed her terse conversation with Falco’s patroness in her head. “What a . . . lovely background,” Cass had managed to say when Belladonna had asked her opinion. “Such a unique color scheme.”
“That piece was actually painted in my bedchamber.” Belladonna had seemed very pleased to relay this fact. According to her, Falco had insisted on the location because the light through the southern windows was best for sitting. Belladonna had then raised a gloved hand to her forehead, adding that she had spent several excruciating days posing for the painting, saved from a cruel death from boredom only by Falco’s witty conversation.
“Signorina Cass. Am I hurting you?” Siena had finished lacing Cass into her favorite topaz gown and was now brushing her hair.
Cass snapped back to reality. She had unconsciously balled her hands into fists. “No. Why do you ask?”
Siena pulled Cass’s silver-plated hairbrush gently through a tangled area. “You’re making the most dreadful faces.”
“I’m sorry, Siena. I was just . . . thinking about something.” Cass took in a deep breath and uncurled her hands. She didn’t know if she was mad at Falco for painting his patroness exactly as he had painted Cass, or if she was angry with Belladonna for her baiting, suggestive remarks. All she knew was that she was in an exceptionally foul mood. Were it not for the chance to scour the library once again in search of the Book of the Eternal Rose, she might have decided to skip Belladonna’s party altogether.
Siena patted her shoulder awkwardly in a feeble attempt to soothe her. “Has there been any word from Signora Querini?”
“No,” Cass said. “No news of Luca.” She’d received just a single letter from her aunt since she’d arrived in Florence. The short note said only that Agnese was getting on fine without Cass and that she would send word if Luca’s status changed. Just over a fortnight remained before his execution.
“You must be so worried,” Siena said. After a pause, she ventured, “Perhaps coming here was a mistake.”
Cass didn’t answer. She wished the little room at Palazzo Alioni had a mirror. She felt different since coming to Florence. Older. More tired.
Outside her window, the piazza was growing crowded: another trial, and another execution, had been scheduled. This time, a pair of girls no older than Cass were to be drowned up on the wooden platform. Cass had seen them being dragged into the square when she first woke up. They had the same honey-colored hair and heart-shaped faces. Sisters, undoubtedly.
Now, as she listened to the shouts and roars from the assembled crowd, she was surprised to feel tears pressing behind her eyelids.
She blinked them away. “Could you latch the shutters?” she asked. Even her voice sounded old and unfamiliar.
“But this room is so dark without—”
“Light a candle,” Cass snapped. “Light two.”
Wordlessly, Siena went to the window and pulled the wooden shutters tightly closed. When she turned around, Cass saw spots of red blooming on Siena’s cheeks.
“
“That’s all right,” Siena answered softly, dropping her gaze.
Cass’s bad temper persisted throughout dinner. She picked listlessly at her food and did her best to avoid eye contact with anyone. Madalena tried to ease the obvious tension on the carriage ride to Belladonna’s villa. She chattered the entire trip, commenting on parts of Florence and lamenting repeatedly Marco’s inability to attend the party because of yet another business meeting with her father’s associates.
“He comes back to the palazzo so late and then falls right asleep. I can’t believe he and my father decided to attend a meeting instead of a party at Villa Briani.” Mada fussed with her lavender overskirt. “What do you think, Cass?”
Cass thought Madalena was being overly dramatic, as always, but she refrained from saying so. “Maybe things will calm down soon and you can spend more time together,” she offered. She had more important things on her mind, like how she could sneak away from the party to search for the book, and whether Falco would be present. Was he still angry with her? Was
Siena and Eva sat quietly next to the girls, conversing in whispers. Feliciana had stayed at Palazzo Alioni to prove herself to the mistress of the house. The regular washwoman was still sick, and Signora Alioni didn’t want her anywhere near the palazzo until she was feeling better. Feliciana had quickly offered to spend the evening scrubbing linens and chemises.
The city streets gave way to dirt roads and scattered estates. Cass fixated on the twin clock towers of the little church that sat almost directly across the street from Belladonna’s winding drive. The towers grew, and then the magnificent stone villa appeared through the trees. Once again, Cass couldn’t help but suck in a sharp breath. The sun was just beginning to set, giving the whole structure a magical, otherworldly look.
The girls stepped out of the carriage and into a festively decorated portego, with ribbons adorning the Roman sculptures and large vases of Belladonna’s vibrant roses sitting on every flat surface. Siena and Eva excused themselves and headed toward the kitchen, where most of the Villa Briani staff would be located. Cass handed her cloak to the butler and loitered in the portego, watching the well-dressed Florentines chat and mingle. The necklines were higher and the pearls were smaller than what she commonly saw in Venice, but it was nonetheless obvious that Belladonna’s friends were extremely wealthy.
At the far side of the room, a string quartet performed and a few guests—including Pale and Scarlet from tea the previous day—were beginning to dance. Cass sighed. Belladonna had made it sound like this evening would be another intimate gathering, but half of Florence appeared to be in attendance.
Falco appeared in the doorway that led to the back of the villa, and Cass felt drawn to him like a fly to a spider’s web. Then she thought of Belladonna posed exactly as she had been, and hesitated. Should she ignore him? Did she have a right to be angry? Was she just upset at the whole world? Her feelings were all tangled up.
A decision was made for her: Falco began to move in her direction. Cass turned to offer Madalena a word of explanation or excuse—certain that she would disapprove—but Mada was deep in conversation with a pair of men Marco’s age, and just as Cass touched her shoulder, one of the men asked Mada to dance.
Perfect. Cass retreated into a corner, hiding behind a sculpture of Venus where Madalena wouldn’t see her, and where she and Falco could converse in relative privacy. When Falco got closer, they both opened their mouths to speak at once.
“Your twin, I presume?” Falco said, gesturing toward the Venus.
Cass realized she and the sculpture both had their arms folded across their midsection. She dropped her hands to her side. “I just—”
“Come with me.” Falco didn’t wait for her to answer. He placed his hand on the small of her back as if he were merely helping her navigate the crowded portego. Once he hit the hallway at the back of the room, he twined his fingers through hers and whisked her into a small study, latching the door behind them. The walls of the room were painted dark gray and the furniture was made of a sturdy mahogany. He turned to her. “Now, at least, we can speak in private.”
Cass’s whole body felt simultaneously shivery and warm, as it always did when she and Falco were alone together. She avoided looking at him. “I just want you to know, I stayed at the execution only because one of the victims was Hortensa Zanotta, the woman who accused Luca of heresy back in Venice,” she said. “She was my best chance to prove his innocence.” She risked a glance at him.
Falco’s face tightened. “Of course,” he said stiffly. Then he sighed, and rubbed at the scar under his eye. “I’m sorry, Cass. I said things I didn’t mean. It’s not fair of me to expect you to share my beliefs when we—”
“Come from two different worlds?” she finished softly.
Falco groaned. “Don’t do that.” He took a step toward her. “Are we really so different?”
