The Red Lily Crown (7 page)

Her thighs flexed sweetly as she sank down upon him. He felt her satiny hide grow warm and moist with her exertion as he ran his hands over her flanks and breasts, over her back, feeling the delicate heat and swelling of the stripes. She made a guttural sound and writhed as he touched her.

“Franco.” She groaned, as if in anguish. “More. Harder.”

He stiffened all his muscles and drove himself into her. At the same time he sank his fingernails into the welts his leather strap had made on her back. She threw back her head and screamed with her ecstasy.

When she collapsed over his chest, gasping for breath, her flesh twitching, every shred of dignity and rank and birth gone, he wrapped his arms around her and took his own long, slow satisfaction. That moment, when she was his creature, that was what he loved. More, even, than the physical release. This was what bound her to him, and him to her, and damn the conventions of the court and the laws of the church.

He rolled her to one side. She was already deeply asleep. He stretched and closed his eyes. In the contentment of a simple man with a repentant and obedient woman, he had forgotten her questions about the alchemist's daughter.

The Casino di San Marco

THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON

C
hiara was hungry and thirsty. She'd saved the rest of the bread and hadn't drunk any more of the water—there'd be plenty of time for drinking in the prince's outlandish tests. If the tests ever happened, and they hadn't just forgotten her. Finally the bar scraped and the door opened. Two men in Medici colors came in. One of them gestured to her:
come along now, and no funny business
.

“I have to piss,” she said. “Turn your backs.”

They just grinned at her. She grinned back and used the basin right in front of them. Then she stuffed the rest of the bread into her mouth and followed them out the door.

All she had to do was obey for now. Pass the prince's tests and lull him into trusting her, and eventually she'd have a chance to run away if she wanted, or choose to become this
soror mystica
if that suited her instead. It might not be such a bad thing, a place at the court with princes and princesses. A chance to hold the Philosopher's Stone in her hands. The headaches and demons' cacklings gone forever. Babbo's voice admiring and respectful, instead of telling her she was a useless daughter and should have died instead of Gian.

The guards stopped in front of a door made from carved black wood, heavy and polished. It looked out of place, as if it belonged in a room like the prince's golden studiolo and not at the end of a stone corridor. One man gestured for her to open the door and go in, then both of them walked away, leaving her alone in the dim light.

There was a line of brightness, like a thread of flame, showing under the door. Chiara closed her eyes, made the sign of the cross—
deliver me from evil, have mercy upon me, forgive me—Nonna, I'm sorry if this turns out to be something terrible and you never know what happened to me
—and pushed on the door.

It opened.

Light—dazzling light. Hundreds of candles, all around the enormous room, and behind them cabinets of books, more books than she'd ever seen in one place, even in her father's shop. In between the books there were carvings, glittering crystals, flasks of colored liquids and the hollow-eyed skulls of strange animals. The floor was a pattern in black and white stone chips, a labyrinth like the one engraved around the silver descensory—a circle with paths that twisted and folded to make one way from the outside to the center. The white chips glittered in the light from the fires in two fireplaces, one to the left and one to the right; a third fire licked lazily through a golden grate three steps above the floor, just in front of— She lifted her eyes.

At the far end of the room, a dais and a throne. That was the only word for it—a chair carved and gilded and decorated with colored paint and gems, like something out of an illuminated manuscript. The prince sat in the chair on a purple velvet cushion, looking at her with brooding, narrowed eyes. Behind him, the shadow of the throne falling over his face like a mask, stood Magister Ruanno. Both of them were wearing black cassocks like Minimite friars, with deep cowls and pointed hoods.

There were also three tables in the room, a table draped in black to her left, a table draped in scarlet to her right, and a table draped in what looked like liquid silver in front of her, between her and the fire under the golden grate. That was all she had a chance to register before the prince spoke.

“Chiara Nerini, daughter of Carlo Nerini, bookseller and alchemist.”

Saints and angels. How had he found out her full name?

“Strip yourself. You will be naked for your testing.”

Her first thought was
try to strip me and see how far you get
. She thrust out her chin and actually opened her mouth to say it. Then she saw Magister Ruanno shake his head very slightly and caught her tongue before it ran away with her. Who cared if they saw her naked? She would prove she was a virgin and they wouldn't dare touch her no matter how she flaunted herself, lest they sully her purity.

She unfastened her mantle and let it drop. Unlaced her bodice and shrugged out of it. Untied the drawstring of her skirt and let it fall. That left her in nothing but her thin patched camicia, long-sleeved and loose, reaching her ankles, the garment she lived in and slept in and never took off, even to wash. Nonna had taught her the proper way for a woman to wash herself, with a basin and a rag, all the while keeping herself decently covered.

She untied the drawstring—the one the guardsman had cut with his poniard, had that been only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime had passed—and loosened the neckline. Let the whole thing slide down over her breasts and hips.

She could feel the heat and light from the candles on her skin. It felt so—so unnatural, to be covered by nothing but her own skin.

“Loose your hair from its braid.” It was the prince. He didn't sound particularly lustful, but he did sound intent, almost like the priest when he said the Mass. “You shall have nothing about you that is tied or twisted.”

She pulled the long braid over her shoulder and untied the cord. Slowly—now that the first shock was over she was beginning to enjoy herself, to feel the strange power she had just by being young, naked and female—she unplaited the three thick tresses of her hair. When she shook it out, it fell in spirals, like the painting of Mary Magdalene's hair in the mural at the church. She ran her fingers through the dark strands, feeling their weight and crinkly softness, and then instead of pulling them over her breasts and belly and thighs to cover herself, she threw them back over her shoulders. She could feel the ends tickling the backs of her legs.

Let them look at her. She was fifteen and untouched and the only mark on her body was the hidden half-circle over her left ear where the horse had kicked her.

“I'm ready for your testing,” she said. No
Serenissimo
. No
my lord
. “What do you want me to do first?”

The prince gestured to the black-draped table. “You will drink the black water,” he said. “All of it, in one breath.”

She walked to the table—six steps, eight. There was a goblet, carved out of black stone. It looked ancient. It was filled with clear liquid, and at the bottom of the liquid lay several shards of broken black stone, as if another goblet had been smashed and the pieces dropped into the bowl of its mate. Beside the goblet rested an arrangement of two bowls, also black stone, one above the other in a silver frame. Next to the bowls there was a black lacquer pitcher. Behind the table hung a black curtain, embroidered in black and silver thread with symbols she didn't recognize.

Chiara stared at the prince defiantly, picked up the goblet and drank the liquid. Magister Ruanno had been right. It tasted like nothing more than plain water. She was thirsty and so drinking the water all at once was easy.

She tilted the goblet toward the prince so he could see it was empty, then put it down on the black table.

“I have drunk the black water,” she said. “What is your next test?”

“Not so fast. You must now wait for the prescribed time. Please pour the water in the pitcher into the bowl at the top of the water clock.”

That didn't make a lot of sense, but seemed simple enough. She picked up the pitcher and poured the water into the upper bowl. At once she saw how the so-called water clock functioned: there was a tiny hole in the bottom of the upper bowl, and the water dripped through into the lower bowl.

“You will stand without moving,” the prince said, “until all the water has run through.”

Magister Ruanno hadn't told her this part. The dripping, trickling sound of the water didn't make much of an impression at first, but as the minutes passed in the silent room, as she stood there naked with the black water inside her and the two men watching her wordlessly, the sound seemed to grow louder and louder. Her belly began to feel taut and full and her thighs quivered. She squeezed her inner muscles together.

“If you wish to go behind the curtain for a moment,” the prince said, in a voice full of false gentleness, “you may do so. You will find a clean basin there, fresh towels and more water to wash yourself. Surely you will perform the other tests with more success if you are—comfortable.”

If Magister Ruanno hadn't warned her about the purpose of the black water test, she would have gone. Instead she said, “No. I'm perfectly comfortable.”

The prince nodded. After more endless minutes, the last of the water dripped through the water clock and the sound ceased. The need to relieve herself lessened.

“What is your next test?” she said.

The prince smiled and nodded. “Next,” he said, “is the blood-red ribbon.”

He rose from his throne and gestured to Magister Ruanno. The two of them stepped down from the dais and made their way around the edge of the room to the red-draped table, their dark robes making soft rustling sounds. A scarlet velvet ribbon lay coiled on the surface of the table; beside the ribbon lay a dagger, very ancient, its handle set with red and reddish-brown cabochon jewels and its blade glinting bronze in the blaze of candlelight.

But Magister Ruanno had promised her the blood wouldn't be real.

“Come here,” the prince said. “Stand before the table, and bow your head.”

She hesitated for a moment—courage, courage, what can they do to you? They want you alive to be their
soror mystica
—then stepped over to the table and did as he commanded.

Ceremoniously the prince paced around behind her. She felt his fingers pressing against the curve of her skull, through the loose masses of her hair, then drawing the ribbon up over the top of her head.

“Lift your head.”

She lifted her head. Magister Ruanno took hold of the ribbon and placed one finger between her eyebrows, pressing the ribbon against her skin. The prince let go of the end of the ribbon at the back of her head and stepped around in front of her. Magister Ruanno then drew the ribbon from between her eyebrows, down to the tip of her nose and beyond, and held it taut.

The prince stepped in front of her again and picked up the dagger.

Chiara's heart stopped. The black water swelled and trembled within her.

With one perfect, ritualized sweep, the prince brought the dagger up and sliced the ribbon exactly at the end of her nose.

She gasped. She reached up and touched the end of her nose, then looked at her fingertips. No blood.

Magister Ruanno dropped the sliced-off end of the ribbon on the red table, and handed the measured length to the prince. He stepped back. The prince wrapped the ribbon around her neck and brought the ends together in the hollow at the base of her throat.

“It is exactly the right length,” he said. “Very well, we shall proceed to the test of the silver sieve.”

He put the measured piece of ribbon and the bronze dagger back on the red table and returned to his throne. Magister Ruanno followed him. It was all like some kind of complicated dance, or the way the acolytes assisted the priest in the church.

Chiara fought back a crazy urge to laugh.

“Step forward, Chiara Nerini, to the silver table.”

The table was long and narrow, its surface covered with silver cloth. Chiara wondered if it was somehow woven of real silver. On the cloth rested a silver bowl of water—more water, please please don't let this whole business last much longer—a silver ladle and a round silver sieve strung with white horsehair.

“You will fill the sieve with water,” the prince said. “You will carry it around the table. Then you will step upon the golden grate, beneath which a fire is burning, and when you have crossed it, on your knees you will offer the sieve to me.”

So he only required the sieve to be offered, not the sieve filled with water; he instructed her to step on the grate, not the fire. Again, if Magister Ruanno hadn't explained the trick to her, she never would have guessed she was to shake the water from the sieve upon the fire, to put it out and cool the grate.

First, though, there was the business of carrying water in the sieve in the first place.

She stepped to the table and picked up the sieve. Other than having an engraved silver rim, it looked much like the sieve Nonna used to sift flour, when they could afford to buy flour; its mesh was very fine, tautly and evenly woven, and it appeared to be perfectly dry. She tilted it slightly in the candlelight and caught the faint reflection of oil, not enough to clog the meshes, just enough to give the horsehair the same gleam as the leather of her father's fine old bookbindings.

. . . hold the sieve level and steady, and take care that the underside remains absolutely dry . . .

She transferred the sieve to her left hand and held it level, parallel to the top of the table. She picked up the ladle with her right hand and dipped it into the water, then very slowly, very carefully, with the ladle very close to the meshes but not touching them, she poured a little of the water into the center of the sieve's circle.

To her amazement, the water did not instantly flow through. It formed a flattened circle with a rounded edge, standing up slightly from the mesh of the sieve. It's like the time Nonna was sick, she thought, and I spilled the rose-hip tea on her bedcover. It made round droplets and they stood up on top of the cloth for the longest time, before they sank in. That's what this water is doing. I have time, but not endless time.

Steady. Steady. Level.

She dipped up another ladleful of water and poured it gently around the edges of the circle of water already in the sieve. It held.

The room seemed to shrink in size. It became round, like the sieve, with a straight line running through it. She added another ladleful of water, and another, keeping the sieve level, willing her hands to be steady.

The shining flat circle of liquid touched the sieve's silver rim.

She put the ladle down and curved her right hand very gently around the frame of the sieve. Steadied it. Now. Walk. Slow. Easy. One step at a time, keeping the sieve level. Watch the surface of the water inside—water inside a sieve! She was amazed that it was actually happening—so it did not tilt or ripple in the slightest. Walk around the silver table—left, forward, right, forward. Three steps up. Careful, so careful.