The Raven (The Florentine #1)(5)

She blinked against the streaming sunlight. It was unusual for the shutters on her bedroom window to be open, but open they were. (Not that Raven focused on the anomaly.)

She’d had the strangest dream, but all she could remember was a vortex of swirling emotions and colors. As an artist, it was not surprising for her to think and dream in color. But it was strange that her memory, which was usually as sharp as a knife, was amorphous.

Yawning, she swung her legs over the side of the bed¸ its narrowness a testament to her single status, and walked to her laptop. She opened her music application and began playing her favorite Mumford and Sons album.

When she entered the bathroom, she didn’t bother looking in the mirror suspended over the vanity. The mirror was only large enough to show her best feature—her face. Even looking at that feature was something Raven avoided.

After her morning ablutions, she wandered into the tiny kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment and began making coffee.

It felt like a Saturday or Sunday, but she was pretty sure she needed to go to work. Seized by a sudden anxiety, she took a few steps to the left, peering into her bedroom. When she caught sight of her knapsack sitting next to the small table that she used as a desk, she breathed a sigh of relief.

She’d drink her coffee and check her e-mail, as was her custom, and figure out what day it was. According to the clock on the wall, it was seven in the morning.

She leaned against the counter. That was when she noticed something had changed.

The old-fashioned nightgown she was wearing should have attracted her attention, since it wasn’t hers. But it didn’t. Instead, she focused on what was visible beneath the hem of her gown. Her right foot, which was normally turned to the side, was symmetrical with the left, something it had not been for over a decade.

She froze. She shouldn’t have been able to walk from her bedroom to the bathroom and to the kitchen without her cane. She shouldn’t have been able to stand on both feet without pain. Yet that was exactly what she’d done.

Raven almost sank to the floor in shock, but she was too busy lifting her formerly injured foot, experimentally rotating the ankle. She repeated the movement with her left. Each foot moved with perfect ease and without discomfort.

She walked into the bedroom and back again. She held her breath and jumped.

Arms held wide, she ran in place, footfall after footfall a mad, enthusiastic triumph over what she knew to be impossible.

It was a miracle.

Raven didn’t believe in miracles, or in any deity or deities who could possibly produce them. She closed her eyes, trying to remember anything from the night before—anything that might serve as a clue for this sudden, momentous transformation. Apart from the whispered voice whose words she could not make out, there was nothing she could hold on to.

Maybe I’m still asleep.

As if to test her hypothesis, she stretched her lower limbs and positioned herself into a wobbly, amateurish arabesque. She held the position as long as she could, revelling in muscle memories long since forgotten. When she finally lost her balance and placed both feet on the floor, she almost wept. Her right foot and leg had done what she’d asked them to, finally. All the damage that had been done to her that terrible, terrible night had been healed.

She heard the Moka espresso maker humming and spitting on the stovetop and rushed to switch off the gas. Opening the small fridge, she withdrew a container of milk.

She glanced at the label, reading it easily. Her eyes widened. She turned the container in her hands, reading the fine print. She blinked, feeling on her face to see if she was wearing her reading glasses.

She wasn’t.

Without her reading glasses, she shouldn’t have been able to make out the words printed beneath the label. But they were clearly visible.

This can’t be happening. I’m delusional.

Raven put the milk on the counter and jogged to the bathroom.

In the mirror, she caught sight of a strange woman and shrieked.

The woman had long, shiny black hair. Her eyes were a sparkling green and she had a lovely oval face with high cheekbones. It was the kind of face, Raven thought, that deserved to be painted. In fact, the image reminded her of the actress Vivien Leigh.

She jumped back in fright.

So did the woman.

She moved to the right.

So did the woman.

It took a moment for her to realize the woman in the mirror was her reflection.

In amazement, she touched her face, her cheekbones, her mouth, with its full lower lip.

Raven knew how she was supposed to look—plain, overweight, and with a leg that didn’t work right. Yet her appearance was that of a beautiful young woman with two completely functional legs.

Was she hallucinating?

But my senses seem to be working. I can hear, touch, see, and smell.

Was her previous appearance and injury a nightmare? She stepped into the hall and peered into her bedroom, which was decorated with framed prints of Botticelli’s Primavera and the Birth of Venus, along with personal photographs. Pictures of herself and her sister, Carolyn, gazed at her from her bookcase, confirming her previous appearance.

She didn’t believe in miracles, the supernatural, or anything that couldn’t be investigated by science. She had to be hallucinating. There was no other scientific explanation.

She tried to remember what she’d done the day before. She recalled going to work, but she couldn’t remember anything afterward. What if she’d been drugged?