The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

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      Lorenzo said cheerfully, “It seems, Your Grace, that the young lady does not wish to be kept waiting.”

      The duke sighed, yielding, and gestured for me to give his impatient daughter a card. I set it down and pushed it in Caterina’s direction. Rather than wait for the others, she reached out and turned her card over immediately. As she stared down at it, her expression soured. “But it is only the Fool! I want another!”

      Lorenzo looked to me before saying, very softly, “It can be a good card, Madonna Caterina. You might not want to dismiss it.”

      I studied it. The Fool’s eyes were fearless and innocent, his posture unguarded. He was on the verge of a long and tumultuous experience, ignorant as a child of the perils awaiting him. He might well decide to turn and head for the serene mountains behind him, in which case, he could reach the highest pinnacle—or he could just as well take a single step forward and fall into the dark, yawning chasm.

      “A long journey awaits you,” I said. Caterina leaned past Bona, the better to see and hear me. Expression avid, the girl propped an elbow on the table and rested her chin upon her hand; the long golden curls framing her face spilled forward and caught the light. “The most important journey of your life,” I continued. “Be cautious and reflective, lest you fall into danger.”

      She drew back, mollified. Aware that Lorenzo’s eyes were on me, I did not wait for his prompting, but drew one last card, for myself, and set it aside.

      Galeazzo was intrigued and once again smiling. “Let us go in ascending order now. Her card first”—he indicated me—“and then yours, Lorenzo, and Cicco’s, and last of all, mine.”

      I turned over my card, and fell into the image, scarcely hearing Bona’s soft, shocked inhalation.

      I saw a woman dressed in flowing golden robes and cape and seated upon a throne. She wore a nun’s white wimple, and upon her head, unmistakably, rested the triple crown of the papal tiara; in one hand, she held a holy book, in the other, a long staff atop which rested a large gold cross.

      She was a female pope, a papess—a scandalous image, yet I was not in the least appalled. I trusted her, with the same unreasoning certainty I trusted Lorenzo. I stared at the landscape around her, seeking clues as to where I might find her; a green, carefully tended orchard lay in the distance behind her.

      I must have stared for some time, but my reverie was interrupted by a sharp pain in my shin as Caterina kicked me beneath the table.

      “She is . . .” I began, and searched desperately for a word that would not offend Bona; papess was out of the question, as was priestess. Finally I said, “The Abbess. She holds much wise spiritual advice.”

      Lorenzo’s card was the male version of mine—a white-haired, bearded man wearing the gold papal crown, with a gold cross atop his staff. But the card had been accidentally turned upside down, and at the sight of it, I felt a thrill of fear.

      Lorenzo’s homely face grew solemn as he gazed upon it. “The pope, ill-dignified,” he said.

      I stared back at it, too, and saw a thousand fleeting things, too numerous to give voice to: an old, vengeful man weeping over a dead son, the swirl of frankincense, the glint of a blade, a spray of blood, an oddly familiar voice sighing, Lorenzo . . . My fear must have been visible, for when I looked up again, the women were wide-eyed and silent, and Galeazzo, though frowning, was chastened.

      I struggled to put all that I had seen into words. “There is vengeance here,” I said, “and sorrow, and great treachery. You must take care, or there will be blood.”

      Bona crossed herself; the duke and Lorenzo shared a troubled, knowing glance. “I know how to deal with the matter now,” Lorenzo said, his tone firmly optimistic; I felt his words were not so much true as intended to comfort Duke Galeazzo. “I will take care. Thank you, Madonna Dea.”

      “All this seriousness!” Galeazzo scolded. “Here now, this was meant as lighthearted entertainment.” He gazed sternly at me. “Read Cicco’s card now, and see to it that it doesn’t spoil our luncheon!” He nudged Lorenzo playfully as he addressed me. “Speak to us now of song and sport and love!”

      I murmured an apology and turned over Cicco’s card. Ten glittering golden coins rested against a white backdrop decorated with flowers; I sighed with relief. “You will come into a good sum of money,” I told him.

      Cicco gave the slightest of smiles and nodded; the duke grinned, pleased.

      “That’s because I pay him too well!” Galeazzo quipped. “Now, let’s see if I am luckier than my secretary!”

      I turned over the duke’s card. Like Lorenzo’s, it was upside down. Upon a throne, a crowned king sat in full gilded armor. In his left hand was a gilded shield, in his right, a long sword with a wicked sharp point. His hair appeared golden on the card, but my internal eye recognized a dark-haired man, a courtier wild with outrage, who had waved his sword at Lorenzo de’ Medici.

      I felt a welling of dark satisfaction. “Here is justice at last,” I said.

      The duke frowned. “Regarding which matter?”

      I shook off the pull of the card and kept my wits. I wanted desperately to see what action this king of swords would take, and whether that action would succeed; I hoped that vengeance was coming at last to His Grace, but feared warning him. I did not want him to be able to protect himself.

      And so I pretended to study the card further, then said, in as casual a tone as I could muster, “There is business that soon will be concluded, though not to His Grace’s favor, unless he take exceptional care.”

      “Which business?” he persisted. The appearance of another negative symbol had awakened his ire; if I answered in a manner that displeased him, we would all pay.

      I replied smoothly, “Political. I will speak no more of it, for I believe it concerns a secret matter. I have confidence that, should his Grace ponder the card, he will come to a clever solution to avoid the difficulty.”

      He nodded, feigning understanding, and studied the card thoughtfully until Caterina, her blue eyes narrowed with curiosity, said to me, “So it’s true . . . your mother was a witch!”

      I looked up sharply. Beside me, Bona turned to Caterina and hissed: “Mind your tongue!”

      I had spent the past nine years of my life with Bona and had never heard her criticize Caterina, much less scold her in anger. Nor had the duke, who leaned across the table to give his wife a look that threatened imminent physical violence.

      “Caterina jests,” Galeazzo said witheringly. And to prove it, he laughed, but when by accident I caught his eye, I saw the fear in it.

      An hour before dusk I made my way down to Matteo’s chamber, ostensibly to rekindle the fire. In truth, I wanted to be alone so that I could cry. Since the appearance of the Hanged Man, I had been increasingly worried about Matteo. Bona had said that he would come today, but Bona was wrong; the triumph card had merely confirmed my feeling that something terrible had happened.

      My mood had not been helped by Bona’s reaction to the deck—or, more to the point, her reaction to my reaction. After bidding Lorenzo a warm farewell, the duchess had returned to her chambers in uncharacteristic silence, СКАЧАТЬ