LITMIR.BIZ

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then slowly uncurled it.

      A small black stone, polished to a sheen, rested in her palm. I snatched it from her and thought of how Aunt Clarice had looked at me when the Wing of Corvus and the herb had dropped from my gown, how she had gazed thoughtfully at me as I bent to pick them up.

       Did Ser Cosimo give you those? Keep them safe, then.

      Only Clarice could have known that I had left the stone at Poggio a Caiano. Only Clarice could have found it and returned it to me to let me know I was not forgotten. My heart welled.

      “Who gave this to you?” I demanded of Tommasa.

      “A man,” she said. “My brothers were leaving and I had just lowered the veil over the grate. The man must have looked through the bottom grate and seen the hem of my skirt.”

      “What did he say?” I asked.

      “He asked me whether I was friend or foe of the Medici,” Tommasa replied. “And when I said neither, he asked me if I knew a girl named Caterina. I told him yes, you were my friend.

      “He offered me money if I would bring you that”—Tommasa nodded at the stone in my hand—“but speak of it to no one. Is it a family keepsake?”

      “It was my mother’s,” I lied. Tommasa could clearly be trusted, but I needed no accusations of witchcraft to add to my troubles. “Did he say anything else?”

      “I told him to throw the money through the lower grate into the alms box, as an offering to the convent. And I asked him whether he had any message for you, and he said, ‘Tell her to be strong a little longer. Tell her I will return.’”

      A little longer… I will return. The words made me giddy. I tucked the stone between my apron and dress, nestling it near the fabric sash that served as my belt.

      I looked up at Tommasa. “We must never speak of this, not even to each other. The rebels would kill me or take me away.”

      She nodded solemnly.

      Despite the presence of plague and the relentless winter, I walked Santa-Caterina’s halls with growing joy. Each time I slipped my hand beneath my apron, I fingered the stone, and its cold, smooth surface became Clarice’s embrace.

      The next morning, we four remaining boarders rose to discover that the refectory had been closed. The cooks had fallen ill, and the remaining healthy sisters were overwhelmed by the added work of caring for the sick. No doubt there were more shrouds to be sewn, but the convent’s routine had been broken, so we were forgotten. We returned to our cell and sat on the lumpy straw mattress, hungry and frightened and cold, and tried to divert one another with gossip.

      After a few hours, sounds echoed in the corridor: a nun’s sharp voice, feet scurrying against stone floors, doors being opened and closed. I peeked down the hallway and saw a sister madly kicking up dust with a broom.

      “What are they doing?” Serena called. She sat cross-legged on the bed next to Tommasa.

      “Cleaning,” I replied in wonderment.

      More doors were closed; the frenzied sweeping stopped. I could hear Sister Violetta issuing orders in the distance but could see no one. After a time, we girls went back to our stories.

      Sister Violetta suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

      “Girls,” she said crisply and beckoned at them with her finger, even though this hour was one of silence for the sisters. “Not you, Caterina. You stay here. The rest of you, come with me.”

      She led the other girls away. I waited in agony. Perhaps another sister had seen the the stranger who had looked for me; perhaps Tommasa had revealed the secret. Now the rebels would kill me, or take me to a prison even worse than Santa-Caterina.

      Moments passed, until footsteps sounded in the corridor—ringing ones, the unfamiliar sound of leather bootheels against stone. A rebel, I thought with despair. They had come for me.

      But the man who appeared in my doorway looked nothing like Rinuccini and his soldiers. He wore a heavy cape of pink velvet lined with ermine, and a brown velvet cap with a small white plume; his goatee was fastidiously trimmed, and carefully crafted long black ringlets spilled onto his shoulders. He pressed a lace handkerchief to his nose; even at a distance, he exuded the fragrance of roses.

      Beside him, Sister Violetta said softly, “This is the girl,” then disappeared.

      “Ugh!” the stranger said, his words muffled by lace. “Forgive me, but the stink! How do you bear it?” He lowered the kerchief to doff his cap and bowed. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Catherine de’ Medici, Duchessa of Urbino, daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici and Madeleine de La Tour d’Auvergne?”

      Catherine, he said, like the man in my bloodstained dream.

      “I am,” I replied.

      “I am—ugh!—I am Robert Saint-Denis de la Roche, ambassador to the Republic of Florence at the will of His Majesty King François the First. Your late mother was a cousin of His Majesty, and it came to our attention yesterday that you, Duchessa—a kinswoman—were being held in the most egregious of circumstances. Is it true that those are the clothes you are forced to wear, and this is the bed upon which you are forced to sleep?”

      My fist, hidden beneath my scapular and clutching the Raven’s Wing, began slowly to uncurl.

      “Yes,” I said.

      I wanted to run my fingers over the folds of his velvet cloak, to step out of my itchy wool dress into a fine gown, to have Ginevra lace up my bodice and bring me my pick of sleeves. I wanted to see Piero again. Most of all, I wanted to thank Aunt Clarice for finding me, and that last thought brought me very close to tears.

      The ambassador’s expression softened. “How terrible for you, a child. It is freezing here. It is a wonder you are not sick.”

      “There is plague here,” I said. “Most of the sisters have it.”

      He swore in his foreign tongue; the square of lace fluttered to the ground. “The abbess said nothing to me of this!” He took almost immediate control of his temper and fright. “Then it is done,” he said. “I’ll arrange to have you moved from this flea-ridden cesspool today. This is no place for a cousin of the King!”

      “The rebels won’t let me go,” I said. “They want me dead.”

      One of his black brows lifted slyly. “The rebels want a secure republic, which they do not have. They need the goodwill of King François, and they will not have it until they show proper respect to his kinswoman.” He bowed again, suddenly. “I shall not linger, Duchessa—if there is plague in this building, I must move all the more swiftly. Give me a few hours, and we will take you to a home that is more suitable.”

      He began to move away; I called out, “Please tell my aunt Clarice how grateful I am that you have come!”

      He stopped and faced me, his expression quizzical. “I have not been in contact with her, though I will certainly try to send her your message.”

      “But who sent you?”

      “An old friend of your family alerted me,” he said. “He said that you would know it was he. Ruggieri, I believe his name was.” He paused. “Let me go now, Duchessa, for the plague moves swiftly. I swear before God, you will not spend another night here. So be of good cheer and brave heart.”

      “I will,” I said, but the instant he disappeared down the corridor, I burst into tears. I cried because Ser Cosimo, a near stranger, had found me and taken pity; I cried because Aunt Clarice had not. I picked up the abandoned square of spiderweb-fine lace to wipe my eyes, and inhaled the scent of flowers.

      I told myself that the Raven’s Wing would protect me from plague and see me freed from Santa-Caterina; I vowed never to let it go again.

      But the French ambassador did not come for me that morning,

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