The Raven (The Florentine #1)(23)
She looked at his dark eyes curiously. “If you had to venture a guess?”
Ibarra ran his fingers through his thick black hair.
“Even if I knew nothing of his history, I’d guess he was an old one, given his strength and discipline. Old ones are at least seven hundred. Since he’s been in possession of this principality since the fourteenth century, he’s much older than that.”
“His time is almost up,” she murmured.
“I’m not so sure. I don’t see any signs of madness. Do you?”
“No, but I’m told the madness creeps in slowly.”
Ibarra waved his hand in the air. “If it truly is a curse, how could it affect all of us? Wouldn’t they have to be aware of each of us and curse us individually?”
Aoibhe shivered, as she always did when their enemy was mentioned. “Don’t speak of them.”
“As you wish. But I don’t think they are as powerful as everyone thinks.”
“How is Venice?” She changed the subject.
“The Venetians seem remarkably placid, given their history. They tell me they prefer to be under our prince rather than Marcus. They think he was a tyrant.”
“An extremely intelligent tyrant. I can’t understand why he would have attempted such a sloppy coup when he knew the power of our prince.”
Ibarra shrugged. “Our city is very desirable. Marcus wanted to expand his territory.”
“The Roman would never permit that.”
“Who knows if the Roman still exists? He’d be long past his thousand years, if he did. I think he was destroyed years ago but they kept his name alive, referring to whoever’s in charge as ‘the Roman’ in order to keep everyone in line.”
Aoibhe watched him for a moment to see if he was serious. Then she laughed.
“You spin fictions.”
“I’ve never met anyone, or heard of anyone who is still alive, who has met the Roman. He’s a figurehead for whoever assumed control of the kingdom of Italy.”
She smiled. “I’ve lived in Italy a long time. I would have heard if the Roman had been deposed. We’ll agree to disagree.
“Since Pierre’s encounter with the feral, I’ve been meaning to call for a meeting. We need to increase the border patrols in order to protect against incursions. That means we’ll need new recruits to fill the lower ranks so we can promote the young ones.”
Ibarra stroked Aoibhe’s cheek with a single finger. “I have no idea why you aren’t the Prince’s lieutenant.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because Lorenzo the magnificent is a Medici. He was born here, while I merely arrived.”
“The Prince is a fool.”
“I won’t argue with that.”
Ibarra lifted his glass. “To your health, Aoibhe. May you live forever.”
She lifted her glass as well.
“May I live longer than that.”
Chapter Eight
Raven’s kitchen table was littered with charcoal pencils, erasers, pencil shavings, cotton swabs, and paper. Two fingers on her right hand were black from blending and she’d taken to chewing the end of a pencil as she surveyed her most recent sketch.
It was a portrait of a man with haunted eyes and a square jaw. His short hair fell across his forehead carelessly, partially masking the creases above strong brows. His nose was straight, his mouth full and unsmiling.
There was something lacking in his expression. Raven didn’t know what it was.
After a disastrous day at work, she’d gone to the orphanage where she volunteered. The children and workers were understandably confused by Raven’s change in appearance, which she explained as the result of a crash diet and physiotherapy.
Raven confided in Elena, her friend and the orphanage director’s assistant, about her troubles at the gallery. Elena had been alarmed and given her the name and address of one of her many cousins, who was a lawyer. Raven pocketed the information, promising to contact the cousin before she spoke to the police again.
Later, she walked to the Franciscan mission, looking for Angelo.
He wasn’t there. No one had seen him in days.
She persuaded the director of the mission to file a missing persons report with the police, wisely deciding it was not in her interest to do so herself. Then she walked home.
Her apartment was a small one-bedroom unit that overlooked Piazza Santo Spirito. The green-shuttered windows of her room opened onto the square, affording an excellent view of the central fountain and the church that stood nearby.
Her kitchen was windowless and marked the entryway into the apartment. A simple table with four chairs was pushed close to one wall, while the counter and appliances ran the length of the other two.
She cooked well, if simply, her weight a constant concern. Her fondness for pasta, cheese, and desserts, and her disability’s constraints on exercise, made weight loss seem almost impossible. She accepted the fact just as she accepted her solitude—with quiet resignation.
On this evening, she found little to work with in the cupboard or small fridge. She should have gone shopping after work, but she’d had more pressing concerns.
It was almost nine o’clock when she sat down to a modest dinner of pasta with pesto from a jar and a small salad made with wilted lettuce. She opened a bottle of Chianti, pouring herself a full glass before corking the bottle. The currant-colored liquid cheered her, but she only picked at her dinner, worried as she was about the theft of the illustrations, her sudden change in appearance, and Angelo.