The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

warmth. As she straightened, she let go a whispered roar, filled with infinite rage.

      “Traitors! Traitors! Sons of whores, all of you!”

      She whirled about and saw me standing, terrified, in front of her. Her eyes were wild, her features contorted.

      “I pledged on my honor,” she said, but not to me. “On my honor, on my family name, and Capponi trusted me.”

      She fell silent until her anger transformed into ruthless determination. She took my hand firmly and led me ungently back into the corridor, where Leda was still moaning on the floor.

      She seized the pregnant woman’s arm. “Get up. Quick, go to the stables and see if the carriages have gone.”

      Leda arched her back and went rigid; liquid splashed softly against marble. Clarice took a step back from the clear puddle around Leda’s knees and shouted for Paola—who was, of course, horrified by the revelation of the men’s departure and needed severe chastising before she calmed.

      Clarice ordered Paola to go to the stables to see if all the carriages were gone. “Calmly,” Clarice urged, “as if you had forgotten to pack something. Remember—the rebels are watching just beyond the gate.”

      Once Paola had gone on her mission, Clarice glanced down at Leda and turned to me. “Help me get her to my room,” she said.

      We lifted the laboring woman to her feet and helped her up the stairs to my aunt’s chambers. The spasm that had earlier seized her eased, and she sat, panting, in a chair near Clarice’s bed.

      In due time, Paola returned, hysterical: Passerini and the heirs were nowhere to be found, yet the carriages that had been packed with their belongings still waited. The master of the horses and all the grooms were gone—and the bodies of three stablehands lay bloodied in the straw. Only a boy remained. He had been asleep, he said, and woke terrified to discover his fellows murdered and the master gone.

      In Clarice’s eyes, I saw the flash of Lorenzo’s brilliant mind at work.

      “My quill,” she said to Paola, “and paper.”

      When Paola had delivered them both, Clarice sat at her desk and wrote two letters. The effort exasperated her, as her bandaged hand pained her; many times, she dropped the quill. She bade Paola fold one letter several times into a small square, the other, into thirds. With the smaller letter in hand, Aunt Clarice knelt at the foot of Leda’s chair and took the servant’s cheeks in her hands. A look passed between them that I, a child, did not understand. Then Clarice leaned forward and pressed her lips to Leda’s as a man might kiss a woman; Leda wound her arms about Clarice and held her fast. After a long moment, Clarice pulled away and touched her forehead to Leda’s in the tenderest of gestures.

      Finally Clarice straightened. “You must be brave for me, Leda, or we are all dead. I will arrange with Capponi for you to go to my physician. You must give the doctor this”—she held up the little square of paper—“without anyone seeing or knowing.”

      “But the rebels …,” Leda breathed, owl-eyed.

      “They’ll have pity on you,” Clarice said firmly. “Doctor Cattani will make sure that your child arrives safely in this world. We will meet again, and soon. Only trust me.”

      When Leda, tight-lipped, finally nodded, Clarice gestured for Paola to take the other letter, folded in thirds.

      “Tell the rebels at the gate to deliver this to Capponi immediately. Wait for his answer, then come to me.”

      Paola hesitated—only an instant, as Aunt Clarice’s gaze was far more frightening than the prospect of facing the tebels—and disappeared with the letter.

      After a long, anxious hour—during which I managed to dress myself, with Clarice’s help—Paola reappeared with news that Capponi would let Leda leave provided she was judged sincerely pregnant and about to give birth. This led to an urgent consultation between the women as to where the letter should be concealed, and how Leda should pass it to the doctor without detection.

      Then, per Capponi’s instruction, Clarice and Paola helped the pregnant woman down the stairs to the large brass door that opened directly onto the Via Larga. I shadowed them at a distance.

      Just outside the door, two respectful nobles waited; beyond them, rebel soldiers held back the crowd that had gathered in the street. The nobles helped Leda into a waiting wagon. Aunt Clarice stood in the doorway, her palm pressed against the jamb, and watched as they drove Leda away. When she turned to face me, she was bereft. She did not expect to see Leda again—a ghastly thought, since the latter had served Clarice since both were children.

      We headed back upstairs. In my aunt’s carriage, I read the truth: The world we knew was dissolving to make room for something new and terrible. I had been sad, thinking I would be separated from Piero for a few weeks; now, looking at Clarice’s face, I realized I might never set eyes on him again.

      Once in her room, Clarice went to a cupboard and retrieved a gold florin.

      “Take this to the stableboy,” she told Paola. “Tell him to remain at his post until the fifth hour of the morning, when he must saddle the largest stallion and lead it out through the back of the stables, to the rear walls of the estate. If he waits there for us, I will bring him another florin.” She paused. “If you tell him the heirs have gone—if you so much as hint at the truth—I will throw you over the gate myself and let them tear you to shreds, because he just might realize he can tell the rebels our secret to save his skin.”

      Paola accepted the coin but hesitated, troubled. “There is no chance—even on the largest horse—that we could make it past the gate—”

      Clarice’s gaze silenced her; Paola gave a quick little curtsy, then disappeared. Her expression, when she returned, was one of relief: The boy was still there, happy to obey. “He swears on his life that he will tell the rebels nothing,” she said.

      I puzzled over Clarice’s scheme. I had been told several times that I was to go to the dining hall no later than the fifth hour of the morning, because Capponi’s general and his men would be on our doorstep half an hour later to escort us to the Piazza. Whatever her plan, she intended to execute it before their arrival.

      I watched as Paola arranged Clarice’s hair and dressed her in the black-and-gold brocade gown she had chosen to wear for our family’s public humiliation. Paola was lacing on the first heavy, velvet-edged sleeve when the church bells signaled terce, the third hour of the morning. Three hours had passed since daybreak, when I had discovered Leda huddled on the floor; three more would pass until the bells chimed sext, the sixth hour, midday, when we were to arrive at the Piazza della Signoria.

      Paola continued her task, although her fingers were clumsy and shaking. In the end, Clarice was dressed and achingly beautiful. She glanced into the mirror Paola held for her and scowled, sighing. Some new worry, some problem, had occurred to her, one she did not yet know how to resolve. But she turned to me with forced, hollow cheer.

      “Now,” she asked, “how shall we amuse ourselves for the next two hours? We must find a way to busy ourselves, you and I.”

      “I would like to go to the chapel,” I said.

      Clarice entered the chapel slowly, reverently, and I reluctantly followed suit, genuflecting and crossing myself when she did, then settling beside her on the pew.

      Clarice closed her eyes, but I could still see her mind struggling with some fresh challenge. I left her to it while I wriggled, straining my neck to get a better view of the mural.

      Clarice sighed and opened her eyes again. “Didn’t you come to pray, child?”

      I expected irritation but heard only curiosity, so I answered honestly. “No. I wanted to see Lorenzo again.”

      Her face softened. “Then go and see him.”

      I went over to the wooden choir stall just beneath the painting of the crowd following the youthful magus Gaspar and tilted my head back.