The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

to get very drunk indeed, and by the time the feast was well under way, their conversation grew peppered with thinly veiled metaphors about the pleasures of defiling virgin flesh. At one point, the duke began to thrust a grilled sausage in and out of the stuffed capon on his plate, in a pointedly sexual manner, while Filippo howled with laughter. Caterina grinned, and Bona flushed and grew quiet. By the time supper was finished, Bona was eager to shoo the children out of the chamber and leave herself. I rose with her and accompanied her to the door; as she turned and bade her husband good night, he looked up from the table, his eyes heavy-lidded and glittering from drink, and said:

      “Not her. You can go, but she must stay.”

      He had never made such a request, and both the duchess and I were troubled by it, until Galeazzo repeated, “She must stay. And you must have one of your ladies fetch the triumph cards Lorenzo gave you straightaway.” When Bona hesitated to direct a fearful glance at me, he slammed his fist upon the table so hard that the empty platters rattled.

      When silence followed, I said to her, “Your Grace, please forgive me, but the cards are in your quarters, inside the trunk at the foot of my cot.”

      Bona stared at me as if I were the Devil himself, come to steal her soul. Without a word, she curtsied to her husband and left, taking all the children with her; Caterina passed by last, pausing briefly to study me, her expression both curious and oddly worried. I stood awkwardly by the door for a quarter hour while the duke and his drunken brothers ignored me and the conversation grew ever more raucous. When Francesca finally arrived with the diamond-studded red velvet box, my anxiety increased.

      “Sit,” Galeazzo said, slurring, gesturing at the chair directly across from him. His brother Filippo made an exaggerated show of hurrying to pull the chair out for me, as if I were the duchess. He and the duke laughed, but I curtsied and sat with dignity, placing the box in front of me on the table and resting one hand atop it.

      Only the girlish, delicate Ottaviano said hesitantly, “But you are in mourning, Dea. Was the loss recent?”

      “My husband,” I answered, and acknowledged his kindness with a nod. At that instant, a wave of grief mixed with rage overtook me, and I resolved that I would speak the truth to Galeazzo without fear. I would have been grateful to incur his wrath and die for it.

      “Enough of that,” the duke said, dismissing the gloomy subject with a curt gesture. “She’s going to tell me my fortune for the coming year, boys.” He leveled his dangerous gaze at me; for once, I returned it without disguising my hatred. “Except that this time”—his voice dropped to a malicious whisper—“my luck will be quite good, won’t it, my dear?”

      “Can we know our fortunes?” Filippo asked, with inebriated enthusiasm. His face was flushed, his lips crooked in an intoxicated grin. “My lord, may we know, too?”

      Ottaviano seconded him so eagerly that the duke waved for silence.

      “It all depends,” he said, with a wink to his brothers, “on how cooperative the lady is. And such a lovely lady she has recently become.”

      Filippo laughed—half from nerves, half from delight—as the duke reached out and put a warm, sweating hand upon mine. Disgusted, I slipped mine out from under his and instinctively glanced behind me to confirm that Bona was indeed gone, as were all the servants save the duke’s cupbearer and a pair of bodyguards who had appeared silently in front of the closed, and now bolted, doors.

      I suppose I should not have been surprised, yet I had always believed that my relationship with Bona protected me, that the duke would no more lay a hand on me than he would his own daughters. For an instant, I considered screaming and pounding on the door, but I had heard too many times how little such behavior availed the other women who sought escape. I could rely only on my wits.

      “Your Grace,” I said, with feigned confidence, “I will read your cards. For the sake of accuracy, let us have silence. You must think only of the question you would ask and nothing else.”

      “I stated the question,” the duke countered, with a hint of irritation, and slouched forward with both elbows on the table. He propped his chin upon both hands, as if his head had grown too heavy to hold up. “My future for the coming year.”

      “Then think on that, Your Grace,” I said coolly, and took the cards from the velvet box. They were warm, as if they had been stored close to a hearth, and despite the fact that they were much larger than playing cards, they shuffled easily this time, as if tailored to my grasp. I mixed them for as long as I dared, praying silently all the while. I saw no point in calling upon God; I spoke to the only one I still trusted.

      Matteo, help me. Help me to get out of here untouched and alive.

      Filippo broke the silence with a drunken giggle; Ottaviano joined in, but the duke had grown serious and hissed at them to be quiet.

      I, too, grew deeply still, and surrendered even my prayers in order to listen to the cards whispering in my hands. Instinct directed me to gather them up, stack them neatly, and push the pile to the center of the dining table, within Galeazzo’s reach.

      “Cut them, Your Grace,” I directed. An odd calm descended upon me, turning my feigned confidence into something real, a strange and ancient authority.

      Leaning heavily upon his left elbow, chin still propped upon a fist, Galeazzo reached out with his right hand. It was unsteady, and on his first attempt to cut the deck, he dropped the cards, overturning some, and swore.

      “No matter, Your Grace,” I said smoothly. “Gather them up, and cut again. It is all as fate wishes it to be.”

      By then, Galeazzo was scowling and visibly unnerved. Filippo’s drunken grin had vanished; he and Ottaviano were paying careful attention to their brother’s changing mood. Galeazzo pushed the cards back into a pile and cut them. I placed one stack atop the other, and took them back across the table.

      I drew a card from the top of the deck, turned it over, and dropped into another world.

      Before me, a glittering marble tower reared up against the bright blue sky, its pinnacle so high that wisps of clouds kissed it. At the top—so far up, they appeared as small as flies—two stonemasons wielded mortar and plane to build ever higher. This was the Tower of Babel, I realized, representing the hubris of man; and as I tilted my head far back to study its apex and the men working there, a roiling indigo cloud rushed from the horizon and enclosed the pinnacle and the men.

      It was the wrath of God, this cloud, and it birthed a blue-tinged, blinding bolt of lightning; the crack and roar was so ominous, I shrieked and covered my ears. At the same instant, the Tower exploded, sending shards of shattered marble hurtling to earth. The masons’ screams grew louder as they fell, headfirst, into oblivion. One of them, flailing a steel blade, I recognized as the King of Swords, he who metes out justice. I dropped to my knees and covered my head as he and a second man struck the earth beside me.

      Just as swiftly, God’s dark wrath disappeared, and the sky was again an unmarred blue—but the Tower was reduced to a shambles. Beside me lay the body of the second man. Impossibly, he was whole, and his eyes open in stark surprise, but he was no less dead and bloody, pierced through the heart by the King of Swords’ weapon. His hair was a light chestnut, his lips thin, the bridge of his nose marked by a single large bump. He was Duke Galeazzo, and I knew that he had at last paid for his sins, and was glad.

      “What does it mean?” Galeazzo demanded, and when I did not immediately reply, his tone changed from impatient to apprehensive. “What does it mean?”

      Matteo, help me, I prayed again. I drew a deep breath and spoke the truth. My words were just loud enough to be heard over the crackling fire and the duke’s quickened breath.

      “That you will be attacked, my lord, by those against whom you have sinned. That unless you repent immediately and make reparation, you will not live to see the coming year.”

      His brothers looked on while Galeazzo let go a ragged gasp of amazement and clumsily pushed himself to his feet. Grimacing with fury, he let go a snarl and raised