at the speed he was traveling, the car had become airborne and wrapped itself around a stone gatepost. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Randolph-love was barely in her vocabulary-but theirs had been a marriage of… what? For him, she had been the ultimate trophy, a woman whose beauty made men stop in their tracks, and for her, he had been just another refuge. He had provided her with a new identity, in a new place, and a new time. She needed these anchors now and again in order to feel connected to the rhythms and the texture of ordinary life.
And now that that connection was broken-yet again-she was searching for a way out, once and for all. A way out of everything. For most people, it would be easy. But for her, it was a challenge so immense she could take no chances with the outcome. No chances at all.
After Hudgins had cleared up a few other matters, he gathered his papers, and she escorted him to the door. Then, leaving the plates and glasses for Cyril to clean up, she dimmed the lights and mounted a corkscrew staircase to a portion of the apartment accessible only to someone with the silver key she wore around her neck. Once inside, she flicked on the wall sconces, and it was as if she had entered another world. Even Randolph had not been allowed in her private sanctum.
Unlike the rest of the apartment, which was flooded with natural light, this was like entering a catacombs, thirty-five stories in the air. The floors were made of dark tile, and the walls were decorated with oil paintings of religious scenes. An ivory crucifix hung at the end of the short hall, with one room on either side. On the left, a tiny chapel had been erected, with a stained-glass window-artificially backlit-depicting Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. There was a simple pew set before the altar, on which rested as many as two dozen small urns-some of them ornately carved of marble or porphyry, others cast in silver or steel. The low hum of an air-filtration system was the only sound.
On the right, a slightly larger room was lined with mahogany bookshelves packed with everything from old books in cracked threadbare bindings to memorabilia from around the globe. Egyptian candlesticks, bronze inkwells, carved totems, an ivory saltcellar. There was little furniture-just one armchair, an end table, and a torchere, which she turned to its highest wattage. Atop the table, there was a bundle of papers, as yellow and crackly as parchment, tied with a frayed string. Kathryn sat down in the chair and took the stack into her lap. She carefully undid the string, which nearly disintegrated, and lifted the top sheet of paper; even now, so many years after it had escaped being burned, it gave off an ashy odor.
But the black scrawl was still entirely legible. La Chiave Alla Vita Eterna. The Key to Life Eternal.
Scanning the pages, hastily scribbled in Italian with a sharp quill, she could imagine their creator at his desk, head down, brow furrowed. She could envision him filling one page, then tossing it aside and, without so much as a pause, starting on another. Each paper was crammed with words and sometimes drawings, all a testament to the ferment and the fecundity of his thoughts.
But when she came to one page in particular, she stopped.
Its center was dominated by a fierce scowling visage, its hair a mass of writhing snakes. Written beside it, in a florid hand, were the words La Medusa. She stared at the creature’s grim face and traced the lines with the end of one nail. She had to remain strong, she told herself. At least a little longer. She had to have hope, however tenuous. If she, of all people, did not know that anything was possible, who did?
Closing her eyes and turning out the lamp, she sat in the perfect darkness, hearing only the hum of the air- filtration unit… and allowing her thoughts to transport her backwards into an age-old dream, of another place-the city of Florence-and another time, centuries ago, when the Medici ruled… and a woman then known as Caterina had been the most sought-after artist’s model in all of Europe.
It was an indulgence she rarely permitted herself. But after the bad news about Palliser, she needed it. And the pictures were quick to come…
… the woman is lying on a straw pallet, in a moonlit studio. It is a hot summer night, and she is waiting to be sure that her lover has fallen asleep.
He is snoring soundly, one arm slung across her naked shoulders. With infinite care, she lifts his arm, well muscled from years of hard work, and lays it to one side.
How relieved she is when the artisan does not stir.
But in putting one foot out onto the floor, she very nearly knocks over one of the silver goblets that had held their wine. The workshop is filled with silver and gold, and a casket of precious jewels, some of which, she knows, have come all the way from the Pope’s coffers in Rome.
Cellini is making a scepter for the Holy Father, and the diamonds and rubies are reserved for its handle.
But much as she might have been inclined to steal some of it from any other studio, Caterina does not even consider doing that here. For one thing, she would never betray her lover, and for another, there are three apprentices asleep downstairs, along with a mangy mastiff.
No, it isn’t larceny that motivates her. It is simple, but irresistible, curiosity.
Caterina prides herself on knowing all there is to know about men. In ten years of plying her trade, she has seen and learned plenty. But that was only by keeping her eyes open and her wits about her at all times.
Earlier that day, she had been due to model for a medallion Cellini was casting, but she had arrived only at dusk. She knew that coming so late would make him angry, but she rather liked that. She liked making the great artist stew, liked knowing that without her he was unable to proceed with his work; he had once told her so-in front of all his apprentices-and she occasionally liked to wield the power that it gave her.
Still, he had his own ways of showing his displeasure.
As soon as she had come through the door, he had ordered her to strip off her clothes, without so much as a word of greeting; then, when he was posing her, his hands had been rough. But she didn’t say a word. She would not give him the satisfaction of complaining-or a reason to withhold the six scudi he would owe her at the end of the session.
When the light was utterly gone, and even the candles were not enough to work by, he had tossed his tools down on one of the worktables and rubbed the back of his hand across both sides of his thick moustache.
That, she knew, meant he was satisfied with what he’d done, for the moment. She dropped her pose-oh, how her limbs ached-and stepped down from the pedestal, then went to fetch her clothes.
“Time for dinner,” he said, thumping his foot three times on the wooden floor; a cloud of dust and plaster lifted into the air. She had barely pulled her dress on over her head before one of his workers knocked on the door.
“Come in already,” Benvenuto called out, and the apprentice-a swarthy young man called Ascanio, whom Caterina had seen looking at her appraisingly more than once-brought in a wooden tray laden with a bottle of the local chianti, a chicken roasted on a bed of figs and almonds, and a plate of sliced fruits. As Cellini filled two silver cups (destined one day to grace a nobleman’s table), Ascanio set the food out on top of a seaman’s chest, which held, among other things, the first proofs and rare copies of the artisan’s own writings. When Caterina had asked him what they were about, he had waved a hand dismissively.
“Your head is too pretty for such stuff.”
Oh, how she wished she could read, and write, better than she did.
As they ate and, more to the point, drank, his mood improved. Caterina had to admit that, when he was in good humor, he could make her laugh like no other man, and his dark eyes could hold her in their thrall just as powerfully as his broad hands did. They were getting along famously until she made the fatal mistake of demanding her wages.
“I’m not done working yet.”
“Not done?” she said. “Now you can work in the dark, I suppose?”
“I can work anywhere. Who needs light?” From the way he was slurring his speech, and the empty wine bottle now lying between them, she could tell he was tipsy. She had deliberately held back on her own drinking, waiting for the wine to overtake him.
“I can see in the dark, like you,” he said, “ il mio gatto.”
He often referred to her this way, as his little cat. Another creature known for its stealth and its cunning.
Staggering to his feet, he dragged her not to the pedestal, but toward the bed, tumbling on top of her like a pile of bricks.
“Oof,” she said, trying to push him off. “You smell like a barn!”
