Any Roman spy who might recognize me or Ser Abramo is supposedly dead now, except for the wicked Ser Andrea, who resides in the bowels of the Bargello these days and has proven very helpful in helping us to crack Rome’s most recent code. For that reason, we all dared to go back to the city once—just once, with me in my cunning new disguise—because there were things Ser Abramo needed from his estate that he apparently trusted only himself to get. I never understood what it was. But Celia was eager to go to the Duomo for Mass to thank God for everything—our new wealth, our kind benefactors, and the fact that none of us wound up good and really dead—and so she, Niccolo, Tommaso, Ser Abramo, two bodyguards, and I all rode into Florence one mild winter’s day and we dropped Celia, Niccolo, and Tommaso off with one of the bodyguards at the great cathedral before continuing on to the estate. Tommaso clutched Niccolo’s hand as if they’d been father and son, which clearly pleased Niccolo, judging from his abrupt affectionate grin. The two had taken to each other so quickly, I was worried Tomasso would get too attached and get hurt.
But then, I was already too attached to Niccolo myself. He and I shared warm, furtive glances when he turned his head to look back at me.
When we returned to pick them up later, they weren’t where they were supposed to be, so I climbed out of the wagon to hunt them down. It took me less than a second to figure it out: they were at the Baptistery, of course, looking at the bronze doors—at Tommaso’s favorite panel, The Sacrifice of Isaac. Niccolo and Celia turned to smile at me as I approached, but I held my finger to my lips and snuck up behind Tommaso before squatting down to coil an arm around his shoulder. He gave a startled little laugh and pointed up at the metal bas-relief as if it’d been the first time either of us had laid eyes on it.
“It all turned out okay,” he announced emphatically. “Isaac didn’t die. And Abraham took him home.”
I nodded, thoughtful. “You know what I think? I think Abraham knew all the time that God wouldn’t make him kill his own son. He knew God wouldn’t be that mean.”
Celia shot me a startled sidewise look, which I scrupulously ignored.
“I’m glad you’re alive, Giuli,” Tommaso blurted, and grabbed me with unashamed ebullient affection.
I hugged him back. “I love you, Tommaso.” The words slipped out so easily and fast, even I was shocked. I was shocked even more when my gaze caught Niccolo’s and I did not look away but smiled invitingly, silently repeating I love you.
Not noticing the electric glance between Niccolo and me, Tommaso drew back and crowed, “I knew it! I always knew it!”
He’s a smart boy, our Tommaso. He’ll go far in this world.
* * *
It was funny, finding Tommaso standing in front of the Abraham and Isaac panel, because I’d been thinking about the biblical story earlier, when Abramo and I were riding in silence to the estate. Lorenzo had left for Naples the day before, and I kept seeing that damned panel over and over in my imagination, but instead of young Isaac stretched out on that stone altar, I saw Lorenzo. Only Isaac had a much, much better chance of surviving at his father’s hands than Ser Lorenzo had at that madman Ferrante’s. It had seemed incredibly brave and daring to me at first, his going there unarmed, relying on nothing but his charmed tongue, and daring, and vaguely romantic. But once he’d gone, I was—like Donna Lucrezia, although she won’t say it—sick with fear. It no longer seemed brave, but idiotic. Insane.
The closer we grew to the estate, the darker my mood grew. The glorious new existence that had befallen me, and Celia, and Tommaso, and the city we so loved had never been in greater danger and, at any minute, a courier might come riding with word that both were lost.
Ser Abramo must have felt some misgivings as well, because not a word passed between us as we followed the guards onto the old estate. Each room we passed through brought a fresh reminder of bloodshed: of the deaths of Lorenzo’s red-bearded spy, of the Nubian and the kitchen maid, and—when my master and I climbed down into the cellar unaccompanied—of poor Albrecht. I was grateful that our visit had been preceded by others’ who had erased the worst of the evidence, the blood and corpses. Even the obscene mess created by Stout’s toppling of the supply shelf had been carefully cleaned up, the broken shelf pushed off to one side and the supplies themselves organized in piles upon the floor behind the bowed worktable. The only sign was a faint scattering of white dust on the floor, the last remnants of plaster powder that stubbornly resisted the broom.
Abramo had brought with him a basket and a lamp. I lit a second lamp, on the ground near the chair where Albrecht had not so long ago sat. There were supplies that we needed—scrolls and books and herbs from the apothecary, the last of which Abramo set himself to gathering. I quickly found the desired books and scrolls and began to pace restlessly, unnerved by the memories contained in the gloom. At last, I went to stand behind Abramo.
“You were dead, you know,” I blurted. “Really dead. I reached underneath the pig’s bladder, and you were bleeding under there.”
“A shallow wound, self-administered,” he said with his back to me, still focused on his task. “I thought it best, as Niccolo said the Romans were a suspicious lot and likely to make sure I was dead.” He paused and glanced over his shoulder at me. “Just as you did.”
“But the man with the red beard … he stabbed you so many times—”
“With a retractable blade,” he murmured, kneeling down to open a drawer near the floor. “Thank God it worked as well as it did.” He took what he needed from the drawer, rose, and turned to face me, his expression clouded. “If only I’d introduced him to Leo, he might still be alive. He was going to retrieve you after our little play and take you to Donna Lucrezia and safety. You would have learned the facts about my death that afternoon, but you ran away. Because of that, Lorenzo had to be persuaded to trust you.”
“What was the point of keeping me here like a prisoner?” I pressed. “Yes, I know, you were protecting me. But why have me make all those talismans and create a new cipher key? Did you not trust me by then?”
Abramo was peering into one of the little labeled drawers. He answered without looking up. “It wasn’t a question of trust. We needed those things.”
I snorted. “You were perfectly capable. Why didn’t you make them? You had more experience. The process would have gone faster.”
He sighed and looked over at me, his fingers still digging in the drawer. “I was creating other things. Things Lorenzo needed far more than those you created.”
I felt stung. “How could anything possibly have been more important than those four talismans?”
He withdrew his fingers and turned his body toward me. “Here,” he said. He set down the basket and walked over to the worktable, looking first at the jumble of supplies before deciding against trying to find quill or pen or paper. He squatted down and with his finger wrote a symbol in the pale dust.
“Mercury,” I read aloud, and like a good student said, “For eloquence.”
“A most powerful eloquence,” he said, drawing a numerical square and more symbols, “to bring about a lasting peace.” He looked up at me. “The timing had to be exquisitely precise, when Mercury was at his greatest possible exaltation. There had to be a second talisman for protection, too, one compatible with the first.” He paused. “And there were a number of rituals beyond the charging of the talisman.”
Something broke in me then. “You’re letting our fates, the fate of an entire city, ride on this? On charms and ceremonies?” I shook my head, feeling the old anger swallow me. “It’s a sham, all of it. You weren’t really dead—it was just playacting with Niccolo. All of this is just playacting, but now everything is at stake.”
Clutching my lamp, I pivoted on my heel and stomped off to the magical tent. With an utter lack of reverence, I threw the flap aside and stalked in. Abramo followed, chiding me.
“Your shoes,” he said. “At least take off your shoes.”
But I was too angry. I
set the lamp off to one side on the floor and pushed back the black altar, rolled back the carpet, and gestured angrily at the revealed wooden hatch.
“There!” I snapped. “All those notes that magically appeared on the altar—those notes that you wrote me after I spoke to you, thinking you were dead—they were just a cheap trick! I have no doubt this leads up to the chamber where I found the cipher wheel. I know it. You must have been hiding up there, somehow listening to me! Playing me for a fool!”
I yanked on the leather handle and flung the hatch open with more force than was needed. It struck the furled carpet with a muted thud. I knew the depth of the pit this time, and jumped in unafraid. Fearless of spiders or vermin, I got onto all fours and moved at top speed into the utterly dark crawlspace.
And almost immediately hit my still-tender head against hard earth. The tunnel ended as quickly as it had begun. Confused, I crawled backward and turned around, thinking I must have made an error and the tunnel must have led in the opposite direction. But on either side lay nothing but implacable, long-undisturbed earth.
I looked up at Abramo, who stood expressionless, absent the bemusement I expected.
“It doesn’t go anywhere,” I said, at an utter loss.
“It never did,” he said. “The previous owner never completed it. Nor did I.”
“But the notes”—I broke off. He gazed at me evenly, steadily. He knew what I was speaking about, of that I was sure, but he wasn’t going to say a word about it. He was going to force me to say what I was thinking.
“You left written messages for me. You know you did. I figured this tunnel was connected up to the room where I found the cipher wheel. I … prayed to you for help. And you answered me.” I patted the surface of the altar. “I came in here to charge the talismans, and the notes were not there at first. Then I’d talk to you, and the notes appeared. Telling me to trust Niccolo. To trust Lorenzo.”
“And you did,” he said approvingly.
“They didn’t appear out of nowhere,” I said, my tone scathing, bitter. I stared up at the ceiling, looking for a way they could have dropped down from above, and saw nothing but black velvet sky.
“Go ahead,” he urged softly. “Look. Shall I lift you on my shoulder?” It was a sincere question, without a trace of sarcasm.
Instead of replying, I retrieved my lantern and held it aloft as I studied the velvet ceiling of the tent. The fabric was of a piece; there were no slits, no tears.
When I finally looked back at Abramo, he wore a faint smile. Even so, his tone was serious.
“My death could not separate us,” he said. “Nor could yours.” He walked over to the tunnel and closed the hatch. I helpfully rolled the carpet back into place with one hand.
He held the tent flap open for me so that I could exit ahead of him, but as I ducked my head to pass through, he spoke again. The lamp in my hand lit his face from below, making him look faintly menacing, ghostly.
“What if I told you that we had both been dead?” he asked. “What if I told you that magic had brought us both back to life, dear Giuliana?”
A shudder passed through me like the hair-raising thrill of a nearby lightning strike, leaving me speechless.
The Magician of Florence studied me with his ageless gaze.
“Lorenzo will return victorious from Naples against impossible odds,” he said. “Just as a dead child was returned to its mother and father. Just as messages appeared out of thin air, written by a dead hand. Just as a wounded heart was made whole.” He paused. “And how was this accomplished, my brave apprentice?”
“Magic,” I said, and believed.
ALSO BY JEANNE KALOGRIDIS
The Borgia Bride
I, Mona Lisa
The Devil’s Queen
The Scarlet Contessa
The Inquisitor’s Wife
About the Author
JEANNE KALOGRIDIS lives in California, where she shares a house with an adorably wiggly black Lab named Django. She is the author of the critically acclaimed The Borgia Bride and numerous other dark fantasy and historical novels. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraphs
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Also by Jeanne Kalogridis
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE ORPHAN OF FLORENCE. Copyright © 2017 by Jeanne Kalogridis. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photographs: woman © Sandra Cunningham/ Trevillion Images, cityscape © Imagentle/Shutterstock.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kalogridis, Jeanne, author.
Title: The orphan of florence / Jeanne Kalogridis.
Description: First edition.|New York: St. Martin’s Griffin, [2017]
Identifiers: LCCN 2017018868|ISBN 9780312675479 (trade pbk.)|ISBN 9781466850231 9781466850231 (ebook)
Subjects:|GSAFD: Suspense fiction.|Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3561.A41675 O77 2017|DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017018868
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: October 2017
The Orphan of Florence Page 30