Night of Fire

by Barbara Samuel

  But it seemed Analise was not the only one with that thought, for Basilio managed only to stay at the house long enough to think Analise had retired, before he was out again in the dark streets. On some nudging she did not question, Analise slipped out behind him, staying close to the buildings, glad of the soft kid evening shoes she wore that made no noise.

  For many days, she had prayed over the sign she had received. Terror burned in her that she might have it wrong, and she was frozen in indecision. When she had looked up the Scripture that was on the piece of paper that woman gave her, it read "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends."

  And Analise had been deeply dismayed. If it were only so simple as to remove herself for all of this to be fixed, she would have done it joyfully. But suicide was a mortal sin, and the one punishment Analise could not bear was to remain apart from God and the Lady for all eternity.

  So she had spent many hours in prayer, awaiting a new sign. If the sacrifice were true and honorable and right, then the Lady would intervene with God, and all would be set to rights.

  It frightened her very much to make such a large decision. She wished with great regret that she'd had the courage to stand up to her father, and the thought made her scowl. He seemed an easy hurdle, looking back. How much she had grown these past months!

  When Basilio neared the townhouse where Cassandra lived, he leaned on the wall beneath a tree that grew in her garden, and looked up at something. The house was dark, and Analise, standing in the shadows herself, could see nothing that might have drawn his attention.

  He settled as if to wait, and Analise made herself comfortable, taking the rosary beads from her pocket and running them through her fingers. "Guide me," she whispered. "Show me a sign."

  Cassandra returned from the opera with a heavy heart. Robert would tell her nothing of what Analise had said to him, and it left her uneasy.

  This was madness—all of it. Everything. It seemed a hundred years since anything in her life had been reliably normal, ordinary. Climbing down from her carriage, she shook off her hood and headed for her stairs. A voice came out of the shadows, as it had once before. "Cassandra."

  She braced herself, inhaling a great lungful of air. A servant stepped forward, ready to come to her defense if required, but she saw Basilio, halted in a pool of light thrown by a torch, and she waved her servants away. "I will be all right."

  She waited until the carriage moved away, until it was only she and Basilio with the moon shining down on them, lighting his face set in such sober, sorrowful lines.

  As if drawn by some force higher and more compelling than themselves, they moved toward each other, halting a foot apart. His eyes were tortured. "Forgive me," he said roughly, "for forcing you to such a dramatic act."

  Her hand fluttered up, but she brought it back without putting it into his hair. "I want you to be happy, Basilio. I know it seems mad that this marriage will allow it, but it will. You must trust me."

  "You must not make that sacrifice. I leave tomorrow morning. You will be free."

  "Leave?"

  A somber nod. "We will return to Italy, Cassandra. I will not come back to England, ever. You need not be afraid of our betrayals any longer."

  A tightness rose in her throat. "I have already given my word to him."

  He took a half step. "If you marry, all that has been gained for you in this will be lost." He took her hand, put it on his face. "You want my happiness," he said. "And I want yours."

  Down the street a church bell began to ring, tolling the hours. Cassandra heard it distantly, and heard a second bell start up behind it, a half beat slower, so it always seemed there was one extra hour ringing out. "This is, then, a true love. You must go and take your wife. I must marry Robert and make a new life. It is not disaster, love. It is a choice for life."

  He made a soft, pained sound and closed his eyes. "Ah, I am only insane with jealousy."

  Impulsively, she touched his hair. "I know," she whispered. Against her will, her hand pressed against his cheek. "I know," she repeated.

  With a sharp exhalation he reached for her, and Cassandra found she had no ability to turn away from this last embrace. She flung her arms around his neck, pressed her face into his neck, and felt his strong arms around her back. Tears welled in her eyes. "I do so love you, Basilio."

  He tightened his hold, crushing her to him, his breath soft against her neck, his hand against the back of her head. "Never so much as I love you," he said, and lifted his head, his eyes burning in his sculpted face.

  For a long, long moment, they only stared at each other, and Cassandra felt a powerful, enveloping light surround her, bind her to him, and he to her. Unbreakable, powerful, eternal. Long before he bent his head, she knew he would kiss her, and her body swelled with the need of it, the need of his taste, his lips, his tongue. Dizzy, she looked at his lips in longing, and accepted their touch. Only their lips touched, but at the moment of joining, the light around them splintered and turned gilded, bathing her heart, her mind, her soul with it. With reverent sweetness, she kissed him back. Then, shaking, she lifted her head.

  He pressed his forehead against hers, his hands clasped around her face. "I love you, Cas-sandra, more than all the world. I will love you always."

  The bells rang out the last chime—thirteen, which seemed unlucky somehow—and Cassandra allowed herself to touch his face one last time as she released him. "You must write a thousand poems."

  "I will write them all for you." His grip tightened, urgent. "You must write to me of your children."

  "I will."

  He took a breath, dropped his hands, and stepped back. For another moment they only stood there.

  Then he said, "Be well."

  "And you," she whispered. Then she turned and hurried away from the temptation of calling him back, of begging him to stay with her just this one last time. In honor they had begun. In honor, they would end.

  In the shadows, Analise watched as they said their farewells. Every line of their bodies was etched in deepest grief, and they swayed together, resisted, and then fell into an embrace of such power Analise felt tears on her face.

  As she watched them, it seemed she could see a golden aura of beauty around them, the same color that made her think of the Lady. They kissed, sweetly and without carnality, and Analise felt something swell inside of her—a hunger for that unity. The unity she would only know with God.

  A soft breath of illumination went through her. Only Analise had the power to make this right: to save Cassandra from a marriage that would destroy her spirit, save Basilio from the resignation growing in his eyes, save herself from making further mistakes.

  "No greater love…" she whispered, and hurried toward home, praying earnestly. Silently, she sent up her prayer, the most earnest prayers of her life, to the Lady for her intervention with God. It seemed suddenly so plain, so very clear. Suicide was a mortal sin, but not if undertaken for the sacrifice of others, surely. Surely the Lady would intervene with God after all Analise had done. Or intervene here on earth, if her purpose was skewed.

  And then—oh sweet relief!—she would be in heaven and free of these earthly coils, free to be an angel to guide these two for whom she had discovered such love.

  Exuberant, she rushed through the darkened streets, her heart very clear.

  Nearly blind with sorrow, Basilio walked back to the townhouse. There was a strange joy in him gilding the sorrow, and he wondered how it was possible to feel such relief in something that had caused so much pain.

  But he recognized with a smile that Cassandra had always been correct in this. For both of them, honor was valued more highly than indulgence. It was not written that he could not love her— and love her he would. Always.

  Weary, he climbed the stairs to his chamber. At the top he halted, instincts quivering in a strange and powerful way. There was a smell he could not quite place. Frowning, he went to the chamber where Analise
had been sleeping and knocked softly on the closed door.

  The door burst open, and Analise stood there, her face pale and somehow radiant at once. She wore only a chemise, and her extravagant hair fell down her back, well past her hips. And—oh, God!—a strip of cloth bound her left arm, but already great drips of blood were welling out of it.

  "Basilio," she cried, pressing her right hand over her left arm. "I am so glad to see you; I have so much to say!"

  "What happened to you?" He grabbed her, pressed his own hand over her arm.

  "I thought," she said, and there was a wispy sort of breathiness to the words, "that I was meant to take my life."

  A bolt of terror shot through him, and he grabbed her, lifting her arm above her head as she fainted. A drop of blood fell on his coat, and he screamed for a servant. A girl scurried out of an alcove, and yelped when she saw the blood, freezing in her steps.

  "Get help! Now!" He turned back. "Analise!"

  Her head lolled. In terror, Basilio swept her up in his arms and urgently carried her down the stairs, keeping those gruesome wounds high above her head. She weighed little and he was barely winded when he ran into the garden and plunged her into the ice cold water of the fountain.

  It roused her. Blinking, she looked at him. "Did you tell her?"

  "Who?" he whispered, touching her face gently. "Tell her what?"

  "Cassandra," she said clearly. "My vision was real. The Lady called me to be a nun, and I was too weak to stand up to my father." Her eyes drifted closed, but her breath seemed strong enough. "No greater love than this…"

  "Oh, God!" he cried, and buried his face against her neck. "Oh, God, forgive us all."

  But now she was rousing herself. "No, Basilio, you are not listening." She pushed away from him, then pulled off the cloth. "I am only weak from a fast I undertook to see the truth of this situation." She showed him her arm, the small cut still bleeding but not so much as it had seemed. "See? I had the razor on my arm, and The Lady appeared to tell me it was not so dire as that."

  Visions again. He scowled. "What are you talking about, Analise?"

  She raised out of the water, and put her hand on his face. "We must go to France and annul the marriage.

  I have the name of a man who will do it quickly. Then I will find refuge in a convent, and you will come back and claim your love." She splashed out of the fountain in her bare feet, her black hair stuck to her back and hips. "Come, I must eat to regain my strength."

  "You have a name?" Basilio asked. "From where?"

  She looked over her shoulder and spoke slowly, as if to a dim-witted child. "From the Lady, I told you.

  Mary." Catching his expression, she laughed. "Ah, I forgot. You do not believe in visions. But that does not matter. I do." She paused, very seriously. "We must act quickly, my friend, and there is something very specific you must do in order to secure my safety from my father. Will you trust me?"

  He frowned. "I suppose."

  "It will not be easy, but we must go tonight."

  "But—"

  "Trust me, Basilio. Trust the Lady. She has not failed us yet. This is for you, this part."

  Chapter 21

  In the morning, Robert Wicklow arrived at Cassandra's house very early. She had not even awakened yet, but when Joan told her that he was most insistent about speaking with her, she had him shown to her salon, and quickly dressed.

  Concerned, she ordered chocolate to be brought, and hurried in to see him. Her fears were not alleviated when she saw his face, haggard and gray with the mark of no sleep. "God! Who died?"

  He turned with a heavy expression. "Sit down, Cassandra," he said. "Your brothers will be here shortly, but first I must apologize to you for my own part in this."

  "In what?" Dread built in her chest, spreading to her belly, and she put her hands around herself. "What are you talking about?"

  "I cannot marry you," he said. "That was what she was trying to tell me last night, and had I not allowed my pride to intervene, I would have listened."

  "Who said? Analise, you mean?"

  But there was a commotion just then, and Cassandra knew it was bad news the moment she saw both of her brothers together, early in the morning, their faces grave as they entered the salon. Sunlight streamed in the windows behind them, illuminating the same gray expressions as marked Robert's countenance.

  She put a hand to her ribs. "What?" she cried, thinking it must be Phoebe—or perhaps Adriana. A carriage accident, perhaps, or bandits, or—

  "Sit down," Gabriel said, not unkindly. "Let me pour you some chocolate."

  "No!" She stood her ground. "Tell me! Who is it?"

  Julian took her arm and led her to the divan. "Not your sisters," he said.

  Her eyes flew to his face, praying—oh, God, not—"Basilio?" she whispered, and was barely able to get the word out.

  "No." He swallowed. "His wife. She tried to kill herself last night."

  "Analise?" A cold knot formed in her chest. It was nearly worse to hear this. Her hands began to tremble.

  "But she… it is a mortal sin."

  "Yes. But she is very young, and she thought—" Julian broke off and looked at Gabriel for help.

  Gabriel poured chocolate and pressed the cup into her hand. "She thought it would be a kindness. She thought she had been wrong in not defying her father and taking her vows, and she believed"—he glanced over his shoulder—"that she had created—"

  Robert said, "I did not listen to her."

  Cassandra doubled over. "Stop!" she cried, putting her face into her hands. A low, wild sound came from her throat, and even as it appalled her—now they would know, would see the heart of things—she could not stop it. She jumped up, guilt an animal that threatened to devour her whole, and Basilio, too.

  She put her hands in her loose hair, clutching it away from her face, pacing the floor in an attempt to regain control. "She is alive?"

  Gabriel offered the answer. "Yes. He arrived in time, and saved her life."

  A tumble of visions swelled over her eyes, and she whirled, resumed pacing.

  It did not help. Her mind echoed with ricocheting images—that sweet, beautiful, innocent face, pale white, near death. Because of her. Because of Basilio. Because they had—she halted with a moan, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Oh, God!" she cried. "What have we done?"

  And she sank to the floor, consumed by sorrow and guilt, her eyes dry even as she began to tremble from head to toe. She could not think of what to say, how to sweep her emotional storm beneath a carpet this time, and only raised miserable eyes to her brothers. "What have we done?" she whispered.

  It was Gabriel who came to her, putting his long arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his gentle, soothing embrace, stroking her hair, her back. "She told him she wanted to be a nun. That if she had been stronger, none of this would have happened, that all of you would have had what you wanted." He pressed a cheek against her hair. "All of you are blaming yourselves for it. And none of you are to blame." Very, very gently, he stroked her hair. "He is worthy of loving, Cassandra. I always knew, when you fell, it would be to some very great passion. You mustn't regret it. He loves you. She loves you. And you love them both."

  At that, she crumpled. For the first time in her life, she let another person witness her pain, because it flowed from her in vast, unstoppable waves, grief and sorrow and guilt, all mixed together with relief—

  she had not died!—and a vast, strange love. Through it Gabriel held her, a rope in the vastness of the uncharted territory of emotions. When she was spent, he led her to bed, rinsed a cloth with cold water, and put it on her eyes.

  "You see," he said, holding her hand. "You were honorable, both of you, and it saved her life. If he had not arrived when he did, she would have bled to death."

  "I cannot believe she would attempt suicide. She is so devout!"

  He smiled sadly, wisdom in his pale green eyes. "She is young. All young girls wish to be martyrs to someth
ing."

  That brought a fresh wash of tears, and Cassandra clutched his hand tightly. "Oh, what if she had succeeded!"

  "She did not."

  Cassandra tried to capture a sense of herself, her old self, before this new one had emerged. "I did not ever think to love that way."

  "I know. Nor did Julian—and he fell as hard as you."

  "And what of you, Gabriel? I thought it would be you."

  A flicker crossed his eyes, but was hidden quickly in a smile. "I love them all. Tall and short, blond and brown, white and black, rich and poor. That is my place in the world."

  She smiled wanly. "Where is she this morning? Analise, I mean."

  "He is taking her home to Italy."

  She let go of a breath. "Good." It didn't seem enough, so she repeated it, drifting in the aftermath of her storm. "Good."

  Hours later, when the worst of her storm was over, Joan tiptoed into the chamber. "Milady?" she said, and again, more urgently. "Milady, there's a letter for you. It came from his man."

  Cassandra sat up and took the note, her hands trembling a little as she broke the seal. But it was not Basilio's hand on the paper. It was written in Italian, in a strong, bold handwriting that was as beautiful and surprising as the young woman who'd written it.

  My dearest Cassandra,

  Do not listen to the rumors of my attempted suicide. The story is not what it seems, but the world must believe it to be true, for all our sakes. My father must believe it to be absolutely true.

  You must not marry. Wait for Basilio, who loves you more than the sun, as you love him, as I love God.

  Analise

  Gabriel, roused by Cassandra's sharp intake of breath, sat up. He blinked his long eyes like a cat. "Are you all right?"

  She folded the letter carefully and tucked it into her bodice, close to her heart. "Yes," she said. "I'm very well."

  Part Four

  England

  I have not a joy but of thy bringing,