The Devil’s Queen. Jeanne Kalogridis

lose myself—lose the walls and the bed and the baying wind. I traveled to the stone wall enclosing the rear of the Medici estate, where the stableboy appeared, miraculously alive, the dagger’s hilt still protruding from his neck; we argued a time over the necessity of his death. The scene shifted: I stood on the battlefield where my bloodied Frenchman lay. During my long and vague conversations with him, murmuring crows huddled before the hearth, casting long shadows over the crimson landscape, speaking senselessly. Perhaps I cried out Clarice’s name; perhaps I cried out Ruggieri’s.

      When, tearful, aching, and uncertain, I discovered I was still in my bed at Le Murate, it was still dusk. The light was still too bright, the fire too cold, the sheets too painful against my skin.

      Barbara looked down at me, one of my better gowns in her arms.

      “You’re better,” she announced. “You should sit up awhile, and be properly dressed.”

      The suggestion was so absurd that I, in my weakness, could not reply. I tried to stand but could not, and sat trembling in the chair while Barbara coaxed my body into the gown and laced it up.

      My bed was too distant, my legs unreliable. I sank back in the chair, unable to fight off the cup lifted to my lips. Cup and chair and Barbara: These things seemed solid at first glance, yet if I stared too long they began to shimmer.

      “Stay there,” Barbara ordered. “I’ll return soon.” She stepped outside and closed the door.

      I clutched the arms of the chair to keep from sliding off, and let myself be dazzled by the fire’s sparks of violet and green and vivid blue.

      The door opened and closed again. A raven stood in front of the hearth—one tall and caped with a hood pulled forward, obscuring its face. Slowly it lowered the cowl.

      I was alone with Cosimo Ruggieri.

       Nine

      I blinked; Ruggieri’s apparition did not fade. He looked older, having grown a thick black beard that hid his pockmarked cheeks. In the hearth’s orange glow, his skin took on a devilish hue.

      Delirious, I trembled in my chair. He could not be standing there, of course. The nuns would never permit him behind the cloister walls.

      “Forgive me if I have startled you, Caterina,” he said. “The sisters told me you were very ill. I see that they were telling the truth.”

      My head lolled against the chair. Speechless, I stared at him.

      “Stay just as you are,” he said. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.” He let the cloak slip from his shoulders and drop to the floor. All black, his clothes, his hair, his eyes—there was no color to him at all. On his heart rested a coin-sized copper talisman, unapologetic magic. He moved to the room’s center, just in front of my chair. Facing the fire, he drew a dagger from his belt and pressed the flat of the blade to his lips, then lifted it high above his head with both hands, the tip pointing at the invisible sky.

      He began to chant. The sound was melodious, but the words were harsh and utterly incomprehensible. As he sang, he lowered the blade, gently touching the flat to his forehead, then to the talisman over his heart, then to each shoulder, right and left. Again he kissed the dagger.

      He then took a step forward to stand an arm’s length from the hearth. He sliced the air boldly, then jabbed the knife in its center and called out a command. Four times he did the same: carving great stars and joining them with a circle. I huddled in the chair, entranced. In my feverishness, I imagined I could see the faint hot-white outline of the stars and circle.

      Ser Cosimo returned to the room’s center and flung out his arms, a living crucifix. He called out names: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.

      He turned and knelt beside the arm of my chair, his tone gentle. “Now we are safe,” he said.

      “I’m not a stupid child,” I told him. “I won’t be soothed by lies.”

      “You’re frightened of the future,” he countered. “Afraid you don’t possess the strength to survive it. Let us learn something of it together.” He tilted his head and looked into me. “A question. Formulate your fears into a question.”

      Uneasy, I asked, “A question for whom?”

      “A spirit,” he answered. “One of my choosing, for I know those whom I can trust.”

      The skin on my arms prickled. “You mean a demon.”

      He did not deny it but gazed steadily at me.

      “No,” I said. “No demons. Ask God.”

      “God does not reveal the future. An angel might—but angels are too slow for our purposes tonight.” He looked away at the shadows veiling the western wall. “But there are others who might …”

      “Who?”

      He stared at me again. “The dead.”

      Aunt Clarice, I meant to say. But something raw welled up from my core, a hurt so deeply buried that, until that instant, I had never known it was in me.

      “My mother,” I said. “I want to speak to her.”

      The emotion of the moment gave me strength. I got to my feet beside Ser Cosimo and turned toward the western wall, opposite the hearth. Ser Cosimo produced a stoppered vial, opened it, and dipped the tip of his index finger in it, then traced upon my forehead a star.

      I smelled blood and closed my eyes, dizzied. I had gone too far, let myself slip again into the grasp of evil. “There is blood in this,” I whispered and opened my eyes to see his response.

      Ruggieri’s eyes were wide and strange, as if his spirit had suddenly expanded and become a force greater than himself.

      “Nothing comes without cost,” he said and traced a star upon his own forehead, leaving a dark brown smear. Then he sat down at my writing desk.

      “Paper,” he demanded.

      I took a clean sheet from the drawer and placed it in front of him. Before I could move my hand away, he caught it and pricked my middle finger with the tip of the dagger.

      I cried out.

      “Hush,” he warned. I tried to pull away, but he held my hand fast and milked my finger until a fat drop of blood dripped onto the page. “My apologies,” he murmured as he let go and I put the offended digit to my lips. “Fresh blood is necessary.”

      “Why?”

      “She will smell it,” he answered. “It will draw her.”

      He set the dagger down, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His head began to sway.

      “Madeleine,” he whispered. My mother’s name. “Madeleine …” His eyelids trembled. “Madeleine,” he said, then groaned loudly.

      His torso and arms stiffened and twitched; this continued a moment, until he slumped in the chair and released a harsh, involuntary sigh.

      Of apparent separate volition, his right hand groped for the quill and dipped the nib in the ink. For moment, the pen hovered over the page as the hand that held it jerked spasmodically. Suddenly his hand relaxed and began to write with impossible speed.

      I gaped as the letters poured onto the page. The script was distinctly feminine, the language French—my mother’s native tongue.

      Ma fille, m’amie, ma chère, je t’adore

       My daughter, my beloved, my darling, I adore you

      My eyes filled with silent tears; they sprang pure and hot from a wound I had never known existed.

       A woman, yet greatest of all your House

       You will meet your benefactor