I could see her smile even from behind the mask. “Really?” She ducked her head a little shyly. “I was rather hoping you were.”
“You know—” I could hear Michel's breathing behind me, quick and frightened. “I'm kind of tired. Were you thinking of heading back to the enclave anytime soon?”
Rosalba's hand found mine. “I'll walk back with you now, if that's where you're headed.”
When Rosalba turned away, I spared one quick glance back at Michel and Travan. “Go,” I mouthed at Michel.
Michel gave me the tiniest of salutes and nodded. Michel would make it work; I could trust him. If I couldn't catch up with them, I'd come up with something. Besides, this would give me the opportunity to get the violin.
The enclave was dark and quiet. Rosalba held my arm close to her as we ducked in through the gate; the guard gave only a cursory glance at our medallions. I'd hoped Rosalba might head off to her own quarters once we were back, but she followed me back to my room. “Could you give me just a moment?” I asked when we reached the door. “This is not the world's most comfortable costume.”
“I'll wait out here,” Rosalba said. “Just open the door when you're ready.”
I closed the door and hesitated for a moment. Barring the door would be suspicious; why would I distrust Rosalba? But if she opened the door while I was unclothed—I slipped the bar into place, but very, very quietly. The bindings over my breasts were secure, so I pulled on a tunic and hose, quickly splashed the paint off my face, and checked my appearance in the mirror. Then I opened the door.
Rosalba had taken off her mask, and she held it by the string. The ragged red robe she wore was luminous in the witchlight that glowed in her hand. She smiled, a little shyly, as she came in and sat down.
I put the kettle over the fire and poked the fire up a bit. “I'll make us some tea,” I said.
“Thank you,” Rosalba said.
We waited silently for the water to heat. Rosalba tucked her legs up against her on the chair, studying me gravely as I stared at the kettle. I glanced at her after a few minutes, to see if she was still staring at me. She was, but lowered her eyes quickly. Finally the water was ready. I made the tea and poured a cup for each of us, sitting down on the other chair. “Did you have a good time tonight?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” Rosalba said. Then she shrugged. “Mascherata isn't my favorite holiday. I'm not really one for crowds.”
“Me either,” I said. “It's probably because we grew up in the country.”
“That could be it,” Rosalba said. She sipped her tea, and looked at me over the rim. “How did you celebrate Mascherata at the conservatory?”
Unbidden, the image of the Fedele priest cutting Bella's throat rose before my eyes. I turned away from Rosalba to poke at the fire, hoping that she hadn't seen my face. The Fedeli had come to the Verdiano Rural Conservatory last Midwinter—not to the conservatory in Pluma, where Rosalba thought I was from. “It's different,” I said, when I thought I had control over my voice again. “We had a chapel service, and we all made masks, but boys and girls were kept separate. There wasn't a lot of wine. They wanted us to behave ourselves.”
Rosalba nodded. “At the seminary, they kept a pretty tight lid on us even at Midwinter,” she said.
Rosalba fell silent again, and I decided I was content to let the conversation lag. As long as I wasn't talking, I wasn't going to make any stupid mistakes.
Rosalba spoke again after a few minutes. “I heard a rumor the other day that I might get reassigned.”
“To what sort of job?” I asked. “Can you talk about it?”
Rosalba shook her head. “No. But, it would mean leaving the enclave. And it would be much more interesting than transcribing confessions.”
“Great!” I said, flashing her a bright smile. “That's what you were hoping for, right?”
Rosalba nodded. “I'll finally be doing what I felt I was called to do,” she said. “But—” She sighed. “I'll miss you, Daniele.”
“Oh—I'll miss you, too, Mother Rosalba. But I know—well, not that you didn't like transcribing. But there are so many people who could do it. And you—”
Rosalba smiled into my eyes. “Daniele, you know, I think you're the only person in Cuore who understands me.”
“That can't be true,” I said.
Rosalba leaned over and took my hand. Her fingers were surprisingly cold, as if she was nervous about something, and she stroked my hand gently. “I'm so glad you came looking for me tonight,” she said. Then she leaned forward and kissed me.
Her lips were warm and tentative, and as soft as rose petals. I could smell her cinnamon-rose perfume. Her hand still gripped mine; her fingers were icy cold. For a moment I started to kiss her back—then panic swept through me and I pulled away so sharply that I nearly fell out of my chair.
“M-mother Rosalba, I can't,” I said. “It would be wrong. I'm not a priest.”
Rosalba pulled back. “No, it's all right, Daniele. One of the privileges of the Fedeli priesthood in Cuore is that we can sleep with who we please; we aren't paired, since we don't have churches. But if you don't want to, if you don't find me appealing—”
“Rosalba—” I tried to pick myself up with something resembling dignity. “Mother Rosalba, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met. But I hadn't realized— I need some time to think about it. To pray about it.” I found the excuse I'd been fishing for, and I heard my voice steady with relief. “I hadn't realized the rules were different here, I hadn't allowed myself to think about the possibility of—”
Rosalba was studying me carefully. “That's understandable, Daniele.” To my relief, her eyes no longer showed hurt, although I couldn't quite read what they did show. She smiled tentatively. “I can always tell when a boy finds me beautiful,” she said. “So I was a little startled that you pulled away. But that makes sense.”
I sat back and took a gulp of my tea.
Rosalba looked around my room. “I don't suppose you'd play something for me?” she asked.
“I'd be happy to,” I said. Playing would mean I wouldn't have to talk with her. Or kiss her. I tuned my violin and set it on my shoulder. “Any requests?”
“Play me some dance music,” she said. “Like in the streets.”
I struck up one of the tunes I'd heard earlier in the evening, and Rosalba rose to dance to my playing. She moved more slowly than the frenzied dancing I'd seen in the streets. She had a graceful, deliberate style, and she covered a lot of ground, using the whole room.
When I finished the piece, Rosalba sighed. “You know, I really am quite tired,” she said. “I'm going to go home and sleep for what's left of the night. Are you going to come play for me tomorrow?”
I bowed deeply. “I play at your pleasure, signora.”
“I'm honored. Well. I'll see you tomorrow, then.” Rosalba took my hand, then very tentatively kissed my cheek. I smelled rose and cinnamon, then she paced quickly out of the room.
I closed the door quietly. Thank God, thank God. If I hurried, Michel might still be waiting. I buckled my violin into its case, barely slowing to loosen the strings, and threw in all my sets of spare strings, since they were impossible to get in the wasteland. It didn't take me long to pack; almost everything was gathered together neatly, since I'd known I might have to leave quickly. My money, my old clothes, my violin—there wasn't much else I needed. I bundled everything together, waited another few minutes to be sure Rosalba would be out of sight, wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, and headed out.
I walked to the gate as fast as I could without drawing attention. The gate I used wasn't far from the musicians' quarters. I could see the metal of the gates glinting a little in the last of the moonlight. The guard was even awake. “I'd like to leave, please,” I said.
The guard stood. “You'll have to wait a moment, signore,” he said, not unkindly. He looked past me into the shadows. “This who you meant, Mother?”
Rosalba stepped out. �
�Yes,” she said.
I felt a cold wave of fear wash over me. “What's wrong, Mother Rosalba?”
She folded her arms and stepped forward. “Where are you going?”
“Back out to the party.”
“Without a mask?” She poked at the bundle on my back. “That's more than just your violin.”
I met Rosalba's eyes challengingly. “I'm meeting a young lady,” I said. “I promised her I'd spend the night. I'm sorry. I didn't want to hurt your feelings.”
Rosalba's lips tightened; her face was white. She addressed the guard. “I apologize, signore. There's a servant of the Fedeli whose services I need. Would you be so kind as to help me escort this man to the Citadel?”
“There's the gate—”
“There are other gates. Lock this one and come with me, on my authority.”
I had a terrible feeling I knew who the “servant of the Fedeli” would be. Rosalba couldn't possibly have warned all the gatekeepers to watch for me, so as this guard turned away to lock the gate, I dropped everything I was carrying and started to run. I had run perhaps twenty paces when something solid and heavy hit my back, throwing me to the ground. I'd been tackled, the wind knocked out of me. The guard hauled me to my feet and pinned my hands behind my back.
“Citadel, you said?” he asked Rosalba. She nodded.
It was a long, cold walk. Someone was leaving the Citadel as we approached it. Rosalba quickened her step to intercept him—apparently, it was the “servant of the Fedeli” she'd mentioned before. He followed her over to where I waited with the guard—and, with a muffled exclamation, flipped back his hood. I stared into a pretty, boyish face framed by blonde curls. Felice.
Momentarily forgetting Rosalba, Felice stepped in closer. “Remember me?” he asked.
“You son of a bitch!” I shouted, and tried to tear my arms free. The guard jerked my arms behind me and I cried out involuntarily.
Felice laughed. “Rosalba, you've caught a bigger fish than I think you ever imagined. This is Eliana— Generale Eliana.” He bowed toward me mockingly, then stepped in closer. “You'd better talk nice to me now, Generale. You're under arrest.”
I leaned back against the guard, trying to make it look like I was shrinking away from Felice. He advanced one more step. That was all I needed. Leaning back against the guardsman for balance, I kicked out with one foot as hard as I could. “Hope you weren't planning on having babies, traitor,” I hissed, as Felice screamed in pain.
The guard yanked me backward so hard he almost dislocated my arm, then drew back his fist to hit me, but Rosalba put her hand on his arm. “No,” she said, and her voice shook. “She's ours, and we want her in one piece.” Rosalba turned to me, and her eyes were bright with fire. “So that we can properly return her to the Lady.”
CHAPTER NINE
Reach for me, and I will take your hand; I will give you all that you need.
—The Journey of Gèsu, chapter 7, verse 22.
The Fedeli guards pulled a hood over my head; I wasn't sure if it was to disguise my identity as they took me into the Citadel, to keep me from seeing my route to the prison below, or just to disorient and frighten me. I didn't know when Rosalba left me; Felice stayed back on the steps of the Citadel, still hobbled. I made a tentative effort to test the guard's grip on my arms, and was rewarded with a blow so hard I thought for a moment he'd cracked the back of one of my ribs.
We descended stairs, down and down and down. The air was cold, and I could smell charred meat mixed with human wastes, acrid urine, and sour vomit. I heard the clang of a door, the rattle of a chain, and they snapped something cold around my wrists. They were chaining me.
The hood was pulled off my head. I was in a cell, lit with witchlight that hurt my eyes. “Hold still,” the guard said, and took out a knife. I drew away, but he grasped the collar of my shirt and cut my clothes away from my body, nicking me with the blade when he cut away the cloth I'd used to bind my breasts.
“Lady's tits,” the guard said, studying me. “It is a girl, after all.”
“I'm going to tell Rosalba you swore,” I said.
“You do that, girl,” the guard said with a short laugh, and they turned away, closing the door. I was naked, alone, in darkness.
Tethered to the wall, I could stand, but not sit. I hunched my arms as close to my body as I could; the air was achingly cold, and standing naked I could feel every draft. Beyond the door of my cell, I could hear activity— footsteps, murmurs of conversation, and then a long scream of pain that made my legs shake so hard that I had to lean against the chains for support.
What had raised Rosalba's suspicions? Obviously, seeing me leave when I did had confirmed them. But she hadn't seemed suspicious when she left my room. Was it that I hadn't jumped at the chance to sleep with her? Maybe she'd seen it in my eyes. Maybe she'd realized I was a woman. There were a thousand ways to be caught. I'd told Giovanni that.
From a cell close by, I heard a hoarse moan. I closed my eyes, wishing that I could cover my ears to blot out the sound. Pray for me, Lucia, I thought. Now that the worst had happened, my fear had ebbed to a dull ache in my stomach. They knew who I was; they were going to kill me. I tried to hold that thought in my mind, to summon the fear that ought to be there, but I couldn't focus on it for more than an instant. I will never see Verdia again, I thought, but I couldn't believe it. I couldn't imagine myself dead, or the world without me in it. I started to wonder if they would burn me, or if someone would have mercy on me and cut my throat instead. I heard the hoarse moan again, and shuddered from the cold. My back itched and I couldn't reach it with my hands chained; I rubbed it against the wall behind me.
I hoped Travan and Michel were well away. I trusted Michel to have enough sense to have gone on by now. I told myself that I had played my part; the others could take it from here. I was expendable. For some reason Giovanni's voice rang in my ears. Expendable? I could hear frustration and infuriation in his tone.
I wondered what Valentino and Quirino would hear in the morning. The Emperor vanished, Daniele arrested. Would they hear somehow that I was Eliana in disguise? I imagined Ulisse's reaction at learning that his drinking buddy for the last few months was actually the lady of his dreams in disguise. Only she'd be dead. And Mira—what would Mira think? It was too painful to think of Mira. I turned my face against the rough stone wall and tried to think of someone else.
In the Book of the Lady there were stories of villains who found themselves haunted by the people they'd killed. Teleso should come haunt me in this cell, I thought. I could handle that; I was proud to be able to say I'd killed him. I'd spit in the face of his apparition. But if a ghost were sent to torment me, it would be Vitale, the youngest Lupo who died in the magefire before my eyes. Or one of the other Lupi who had died that night—all the people who I had failed to protect. Who I failed. You failed, I could hear Giovanni say. You were supposed to come back.
Mario; he could haunt me too. Coughing up blood around the dagger in his belly. I wondered again how they'd kill me. Well, last I heard, the Fedeli didn't kill people by gut-stabbing them. My arms had gotten stiff in their chains, and I tried uselessly to stretch. My foot itched. I rubbed it along the floor.
I found myself thinking about my mother for the first time in months, and I realized that I wasn't certain I could picture her face. Had I really tried, up until now? Or had I satisfied myself with hazy images that faded like cloth in the sun? When I tried to picture my mother's face, all I could remember was the feeling of her arms around me as she held me on her lap, showing me the hair she kept in her sachet, a lock from me, from each of my brothers, and from the two children who died. My mind jumped to Isabella, praying to the Lady after the ambush. Burning one of the locks of hair from her sachet. Now you are truly dead to me. Isabella's face sustained me. I knew that if I were with the Lupi right now, Isabella would probably be complaining to me about some slight to one of her soldiers. I could hear her querulous voice, could even guess th
e precise words she'd use. I argued with my memory of Isabella for hours, passing time in the frigid darkness.
At some point I dozed, and was woken by the tearing pain in my shoulders as I slumped against the chains. I tried locking my knees, but I couldn't sleep standing up. I shook my head, trying to clear it, to wake myself up. I wondered how long I'd been down there—I felt as if it were horribly late at night, but for all I knew the night was long over and it was midmorning.
Light flashed through the crack under the door. Witchlight—no, lantern light. The door swung open, and a gray-haired man came in. He wore black robes— wool, not linen. I heard no rustle as he walked. He carried a small wooden box with a handle, like a toolbox.
“Hello, Eliana,” he said.
“My name is Daria,” I said, since claiming to be Daniele was pretty much a lost cause at that point.
He shrugged. “We know you're Eliana,” he said. “Felice identified you. Claiming to be someone else will only make this harder.” He set down the box with a soft clunk and approached me. My heart knocked in my ears as I looked at him. He was shorter than I was. He stood just out of arm's reach, regarding me with a slight smile, for a long time. I tried to meet his eyes in a threatening glare, but he was not looking at my face; he was examining my body.
“This will be far more pleasant for you if you simply start by telling us everything you know,” he said.
My stomach lurched. Somehow, in the night, I had managed to keep myself from ever thinking about what they would do with me before they killed me.
“Why you are here, for example. Where the Lupi are spending the winter. Who your allies are here. Who leads the apostate ‘reformers’ of Cuore. Anything else that would be of use to us. The more you can tell us now, the more pleasant this will be for you.”
I locked my knees to keep from falling and raised myself as straight as I possibly could. “I would die before telling you anything,” I said. My voice shook and I clenched my teeth, trying to force it steady.
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