Tuscany, 1601

 

“I SIMPLY CANNOT tell you what the future holds.”

Lucia turned from her mother, chilled, and looked out of the carriage window. Why couldn’t she tell her? She always knew.

There was nothing but her reflection to look at, the black night impenetrable on the other side of the glass, so she let the curtain fall closed again. It was cold and the furs wrapped around her shoulders did nothing to stop her shivering. Her mother knew what was to come, but was afraid to tell her. It was the only explanation.

“If you’ve seen something terrible, there’s no need to keep it from me,” she said. “I am old enough to face it.”

Her mother’s face was pale in the lantern light. She looked tired, and older than Lucia liked to think she was. The deep red velvet of her cloak made her look ill in contrast. “Dear heart, I have always told you the truth. I cannot tell you because I cannot see it.”

“Have you lost your gift?”

“No.”

“You can see the future for others, then, still?”

Her mother’s sigh was one of a woman tired beyond words. “Sweet child, rest now.”

“But where are we going?”

“To one who has answers to our questions. The one who taught me how to See. She will reveal the path ahead again and all will be well.”

Her mother’s eyes closed again and Lucia knew there was nothing more to learn from her.

So this was what it was like for everyone else. Their future was like the darkness outside of the carriage. How did they bear it? The uncertainty twisted Lucia’s stomach into painful knots as she tried to hold on to what she knew—what she had always known—for surely that hadn’t changed?

Her mother had never lied to her, not when it came to matters of the Sight. She had gifted the truth to her daughter in stories, now woven so deeply into her that Lucia could not think of herself without thinking of them.

The stories started with her birth and how her mother had taken the blood from the cord that had joined them in the womb and gone out into the moonlit night to smear it on her eyelids and lips to learn of her child’s fate. She had seen her child’s future so clearly it was like looking out of a window onto a pageant outside. Joy and celebration, drama and love, all were there for her to see; and her child at the centre of it, bringer of peace. She saw the tiny baby, crying even now for her breast, grow into a beautiful young woman, saw her marry the son of their enemy, saw her end the war. She saw the love she had to foster between the young couple and her duty was clear. She had to surmount the challenges of war and find a way for the boy and the girl to meet often, so that the gardens of their hearts could be planted with moments to bind them together. Such a handsome young man. So noble, despite his father. And her daughter, sweet as a pomegranate, so gifted in the arts of song and politics. She saw her grandchildren, the eldest ruling over Tuscany, the fields rich with bounty and the people happy and plump again. All springing from the blood on her lips and eyes, the blood in her baby, in her emptied womb.

Lucia de Medici had her future drawn out by her mother like a coastline beneath a cartographer’s hand, and Lucia was all too happy to follow that map. Francesco de Medici didn’t know his path, but he was happy to fall into step alongside her as the love between them deepened. Lucia reached beneath the furs to touch the locket, resting warm over her heart. She thought of the miniature of him inside it and the lock of his black hair that she longed to run her fingers through. They had kissed three times, when he thought her mother wasn’t looking, not knowing that their chaperone was there to ensure the blossoming of lust rather than prevent it. His lips were like the petals of roses and just the thought of him sent a thrill through her body. Her moon’s blood had come at last and her mother had prepared her as best she could. The mothers had met in secret, solving the problem of the war in a simple conversation over wine. So much more civilised that the breast-beating, sword-wielding men who couldn’t get past their own pride to end the war they’d started. The betrothal was arranged, leaving only the fathers to be persuaded at the right time so that the formalities could be observed and the wedding arranged.

All had unfolded as her mother had Seen, some sixteen years before; and Lucia had found it nothing but comforting. Of course, there had been some trepidation before she met Francesco for the first time, but that was only natural. As her mother had explained, their love was inevitable. History and myth were riddled with stories of people doing all they could to escape their fate, only to meet it through their struggles. All it did was increase suffering on the way. There was nothing to do but sink into her destiny as she would let her head sink into a feather pillow. Francesco—handsome, noble Francesco—was all that she would want in a husband and there was no need to fear he would reject her attention. Attracting and winning him was as easy as breathing. And she fell in love with him the moment he kissed her hand, as if her heart had been waiting for it.

But this past week her mother had started to look tired in the mornings and the laughter that usually flowed from her dried up like a river in drought. She seemed uncertain when Lucia asked her how to reply to a secret letter from Francesco, and she wouldn’t even talk about the wedding. Lucia had taken to avoiding her—it was too unsettling!—choosing instead to practise her dancing for the wedding whilst the rest of the household fretted about the war. Her brother had shouted at her, saying she was a silly child for being so happy as so many suffered, but she forgave him. He didn’t have the comfort of knowing that it would all be over soon.

As she was brushing her hair before bed that night, her mother had come to her chamber and bid her dress for travel. That had been hours ago, surely? Whoever her mother’s teacher was, she liked to live a long way away from the civilised. With nothing to keep her from worrying about her mother’s behaviour, Lucia had finally confronted her, and the answer had been far from comforting. She couldn’t decide if knowing what troubled her was worse than ignorance.

She wished she was still a child and could move to the seat next to her mother and curl up with her head on her lap, like she used to. But now she was a woman and soon she would be riding in carriages with her husband and a new entourage; and besides, she was too tall. This was simply practice—yes, that was it, practice for her married life when she wouldn’t be able to consult her mother daily and would have only her own thoughts for counsel.

Just as she had settled into patience, the carriage tilted as the road climbed a hill. A mournful howl made Lucia pull her furs tighter around her. There was no footman, only the driver. The worst of the fighting was far from here, but in these times of war, violence spread like the plague. Had her mother not considered bandits or deserters? She shook her head at that; her mother wouldn’t have set out if there was danger ahead. She would have Seen it. Lucia settled again, hoping above all else that her mother still had the Sight for her own safety, even if it had been lost when she tried to see her daughter’s future.

The carriage tilted as the road got steeper, and she slid forwards in her seat, rousing her mother. Grasping Lucia’s hand, she moved across to sit next to her, pushing their backs into the seat against the incline. Her mother didn’t let go and Lucia wrapped her other hand around hers too, squeezing it affectionately. Her mother kissed her cheek and it felt better again, like it always had, the two of them together as they moved forwards.

“We’re almost there,” she said to Lucia’s relief.

“Are we to stay the night?”

Her mother’s smile suggested she’d said something ridiculous. “I think not.” She kissed the top of Lucia’s hand. “Now you must listen. I cannot go in with you, so you must remember everything I’ve taught you about respect for the craft. Speak only when you are invited to, and if you must ask a question, think carefully before you do.”

“How should I introduce myself to the servant who answers the door?”

“Sweet one, my teacher waits for you in a cave near the base of Monte Prado.”

Images of a fine mansion were swept from her imagination. “A cave?”

“One that is steeped in history. A place of power for those of the Sight. It may look humble, but you know better than to trust the lies your eyes tell you.”

Lucia nodded, greedy for the information, preparing herself for whatever awaited her. “Is there anything I should not say or tell her?”

Her mother smiled again, this time filled with love and appreciation. “Her knowledge is vast and her interest in our politics is negligible. If she asks you a question, reply truthfully. Everything I have done is in accordance with her teachings and you have nothing to fear.”

“Will I be tested in some way?”

“I think not. I have asked her to divine your future and see which force impedes my Sight. We are so close, dear heart, so close to ending this war and giving you your heart’s desire. I cannot let anything endanger our plans or your happiness.”

The carriage slowed and then stopped, Lucia’s heart with it. She pulled the curtain aside to see the entrance to a cave lit from within by a flickering, orange glow. “What if she finds me wanting in some way?”

“My teacher will see your purity and your merit. They are as impossible to hide as these mountains.”

Lucia pulled up the hood on her cloak, its midnight blue the colour of her eyes, something Francesco had commented on when they last met. She tried to remember the last time she’d done something important without knowing how it was supposed to go. She battled the impulse to stay safe in the carriage with her mother, and reached for the door handle as the driver climbed down.

Her mother rested her hand on her shoulder. “Lucia, you are the world to me. A mother could not hope for a more delightful daughter. Have courage.”

She kissed her mother’s cheek and let the driver help her down. Only when the door was shut behind her and she started towards the cave did she realise how warm it had been in the carriage. The wind howled and tugged at her furs and cloak, but she gripped them tightly in her gloved hands and made her way to the mouth of the cave. As much as she wanted to, she didn’t look back, fearing that if she saw her mother’s face pressed against the glass with worry, she might lose her resolve.

A few paces inside, away from the wind, Lucia relaxed her grip on the furs and pulled her hood down to shield her eyes and see better. The cave was lit by torches and huge candles set into natural recesses in the rock walls. Heaps and streams of tallow beneath each candle marked the years in their thickness and length. Towards the back of the cave the floor sloped downwards into darkness and she knew that was where she had to go.

Lucia lifted the hem of her dress and made her way deeper into the cave, taking care to avoid pits in the rock, deep enough to turn an ankle. The place smelled of smoke, animal fat in the tallow and damp stone. She had never been anywhere so primitive; she wondered if this was where her mother had learned her art. The slope was steeper than she’d appreciated, and as she moved away from the entrance, she could see that it fell to an area about the size of her bedchamber. It was darker, only one torch lit between her and something that caught the light right at the back... a puddle perhaps?

She paused, uncertain if anyone was there, and then remembered what her mother had said. She closed her eyes and stilled herself, becoming aware of another presence at the back of the cave, shrouded in shadow.

“Aaahh...”

The voice was that of an old woman, deep and rich with age and wisdom. Lucia curtsied deeply.

“Such beauty, such manners... Come, child, come.”

Lucia straightened and walked towards the voice, into the darkness. She had no sense of a cave wall ahead of her. It felt as if she were in an alcove on the edge of a chasm so wide and so deep that all of the night-times of the earth could be contained within it at once.

Just as she lost sight of her feet in the dark, she saw a small pool of water, held within a natural stone bowl hollowed out of a stalagmite at waist height. It was lit by a single pale yellow flame that burned without a wick at the centre of the water. The sense of magic was so strong it made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck prickle.

“Are you afraid, child?”

“A little. I was taught that magic is like fire. If it’s respected and one takes care, it can be of great benefit. But if one is ignorant or careless, it can destroy and disfigure. I don’t know you and I’m not in control of the magic here. I respect you—and it—enough to be fearful.”

“Your mother taught you well. Come to the pool. No harm will come to you here. There is no magic to be worked against you, little bird, and no nightmare that will manifest itself before the dawn.”

As Lucia approached the pool, the woman did too. Lucia couldn’t see her face, which was hidden beneath a veil of spun silver, but she could see some strands of hair it didn’t cover and they were black as a crow’s breast. She was wearing a white samite gown with a silver cord about her waist. Only her hands were visible, slender and elegant. Lucia wondered if she was beautiful beneath the veil, and then remembered that it hardly mattered. With a magic such as she could sense under her command, surely she could appear as she wished.

“Your mother was one of my favourite pupils. I could see she wanted a child, even when she was younger than you. For most, I would deny it, but she was a brilliant, bright thread in fate’s weave and to deny her that would have been to deny a force greater than I. And now you stand before me, ripe yet unplucked, woman yet still child, innocent. You have beauty, yet it is of a budding rose, one yet to bloom; and when it does, the world will know it. Why did your mother bring you here?”

“She cannot see my future. She said a force impedes her Sight. With so much resting on my betrothal to my love, she wanted to be certain that nothing could interfere with our plans.”

The woman walked around the bowl, moving to stand behind her. She eased the furs and then the cloak from her shoulders, letting them fall to the floor. Lucia still wore several layers of cotton, silk and wool, but she felt the cold nonetheless. “When did you last bleed?” The woman rested a remarkably warm hand over the space a child would grow. Lucia could feel the heat penetrating her dress and undergarments.

“Almost a moon ago.”

The woman’s hand pressed in, as she had seen a midwife press a pregnant woman at her friend’s house once, and a murmur of satisfaction rumbled behind her. “Good. Yes. Good. Look into the flame.”

Lucia did as she was told as the woman moved away and returned to her station on the far side of the bowl. The flame floated just above the water and she worked hard to accept it as it was. Disbelief and questioning would only get in the way. The flame was there, now; it didn’t matter how.

“Draw in a breath, deep, and think of your love, your marriage and the destiny you believe is yours. Hold it in your breast until it burns and then breathe out, over the flame.”

When Lucia drew in the breath, the flame guttered and she felt a quickening deep inside her, beneath where her hand had rested but moments before. She forced herself to think about Francesco and the marriage and ending the war, and her thoughts were pulled back to him: his body, the wedding night and the moment they would join.

She breathed out, a flush in her cheeks. Her fear that she would blow out the flame was short-lived. It spread outwards until the surface of the water was completely covered with fire. Instead of a pale yellow it burned a ferocious red, and the heat made her pull back for fear of singeing her hair.

“This pool was formed over thousands of years from the tears of the earth,” the woman said. “There is power here that men cannot understand. There is power here that sorcerers cannot understand. There is power here that the fairies themselves cannot understand. But it speaks to me. Look at the fire you have made, rosebud. Are you willing to hear what it will tell me?”

“I am.”

The woman lifted her hands until her palms were either side of the fire and tilted her head as if looking up in to the rock above them. “Lucia de Medici”—the flames turned a cold blue as her voice deepened—“you are destined to wed Francesco de Medici two moons from now, on a day that will see snow fall and the sun shine. This union will end the war and bring peace to this land. But the path to that day is beset with suffering. There is a man who intends to destroy your plans.” The flames paled and rippled, as if bent by a sudden breeze that Lucia couldn’t feel, yellowing at the tips. “Prospero, sorcerer Duke of Milan possesses a knife he intends to use against you and your love.” The flames brightened again, taller than before, radiating a cold that she could feel as if she were leaning over a pool of ice. “The blade will shed blood that will worsen the war. The blade will kill the man you love. You will never bear his children.”

The flames went out and they were plunged into darkness. Lucia fumbled for her cloak and furs, trying not to cry, trying to hold herself together. She couldn’t take it in. A blade? The Duke of Milan? This was never the story her mother told her. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be!

The pale yellow flame returned and she pulled her cloak about herself, shivering, as the woman gripped the sides of the bowl. “This is why your mother cannot see,” the woman said. “Prospero weaves a dark magic about you, thinking that no woman would be able to see his design. He does not know the extent of my power.”

“He’s going to kill Francesco? But why? It makes no sense. Unless...” She grasped the locket tight, as if it could somehow hold him close and safe too. “Does Prospero know that our marriage would end the war?”

“He is a powerful man, with many skills.”

“He must want the war to continue. Father thought as much—else he would have allied himself to him, or my uncle. I heard tell of his foul disposition since the death of his daughter. Now I and the man I love are to suffer because of it? Can nothing be done? Am I not fated to marry Francesco? Are not destiny and love enough to prevent his foul scheme?”

The woman moved around the bowl again, cupping Lucia’s face in her hand. This time it felt cold and Lucia’s cheek burned against it. “Perhaps they are, if you have courage too.”

A flicker of hope ignited in her chest. “What must I do?”

“You must steal this blade before he works his evil and you must take his life with it, to cut that evil from the world.”

Lucia shook her head. “I can’t even kick a dog or step on a spider! How can I kill a man? I haven’t the stomach for murder!”

“Perhaps you have the stomach for grieving over your betrothed’s coffin. Perhaps you have the stomach to live the rest of your life without him as your family is torn apart by war, and its sisters, famine and plague? Perhaps when everyone else you love is either dead or grieving, you will find solace in the purity of your conviction that you could never kill a man.”

Lucia looked away, back to the pool, stealing her face from the woman’s touch. “How could I possibly succeed? He is a sorcerer. I... I know nothing of use.”

A finger beneath her chin made her face the veil again. “You are a woman and the one you love is in danger. You will find a way. And you will not be without help. Tell your mother what I have seen in the pool’s flames. She will get you to Milan. But only you can enter Prospero’s tower and only you can kill him, because you will have fate on your side. His actions pull you away from your true path, like a bow string pulled from rest. There is power to be used here. Kill him with the blade before he can kill your love, and fate’s thread will draw you back into place, making you stronger than you may believe.”

“And if I kill him? Will all be well?”

“Little rosebud, ask yourself this: if I do not kill him, will all be well?”

Lucia bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling. Could she find it within herself to do such a thing?

“And I will aid you,” the woman said. She presented a tiny glass bottle, pulled out its cork, filled it with water from the pool, stoppered it and gave it to her. “Thrice you may drink from this, and thrice you will see your future. But have a care, there is always a price when such magic is employed.”

Lucia took it and the yellow flame flickered again, a chill spreading over her skin and seeping into her breast. She couldn’t stop shivering as the woman kissed her through the veil, once on each cheek, and wished her well. She was still shaking when she got back to the carriage; and even in her mother’s arms, with her hand stroking her hair and her gentle voice saying they would find a way back to her destiny, that chill did not lift from her heart.

 

 

AT THE END of it all, Prospero could summarise his decision so neatly it brought the first smile to his face for years. Better to let go of a life that had ultimately disappointed him, than to spin dark magics and prolong it. He had power—both political and magical—and yet the sense of dissatisfaction was immense. What use was power without desire? What use was life without love? What use was holding on to the present when there was no future anyway?

His daughter was dead these twenty years. Whilst the sharpness of the grief had faded, the misery it had left behind had only deepened. He could keep it at bay with study, and the occasional thrill of mastering a new technique but it always crept back. It was like a darkness had settled within him, one that he had to constantly battle to lift. Sometimes he couldn’t even find it in himself to do that.

She had been unhappy in her marriage and he had ignored her plea for help. No matter how many times he told himself that her death after childbirth was no fault of his own, he couldn’t help but think that if he’d freed her from that miserable union, she would still be alive today. Perhaps she would have found love elsewhere, had children. Heirs.

Perhaps he should have settled for one of the women who’d shown an interest over the years since and started a new family. But he’d known their interest was in being Duchess, not in him. And they were such gutless, vacuous things, all silks and no substance. He wanted a woman who had the courage to fight for what she wanted, who would light a fire in him to drive away the darkness. Such a woman did not exist in Milan, not one that wasn’t already married. And he wasn’t willing to settle for a glorified house cat just for the sake of having a son. What if they’d had a daughter? He’d lost his stomach for flighty, mercurial creatures who wanted something with all of their soul and then changed their mind as soon as they had it. No constancy. No depth of spirit. A pox on daughters everywhere!

He stood and stretched, feeling the creak in his joints from sitting in maudlin silence for so long. The candles were low and there was still correspondence to address before making his final journey. He poured himself another cup of wine and cut himself a hunk of cheese, taking a moment to look about his study.

It used to feel bigger, but over the years he’d brought in books and curios and never taken them out again. Now every shelf of every book case was stacked to the brim. Tables and chairs were simply differently-shaped shelves, and a film of dust covered them all. He hadn’t seen the corners of the room in over two decades and was sure a family of mice had made their home in one. The rest of the ducal palace was pristine, because he didn’t live in it. He didn’t care about what was in those rooms. Here, where the most valuable things were, he preferred to let dust settle than let a servant in with a will to clean and disrupt.

Of course, arguably the most valuable thing in his possession wasn’t in this room, but at the top of the turret two floors above him, where he kept the most dangerous artefacts he’d amassed over the years. The knife was wrapped in cloth and bound with golden thread, sealed in its own box. Soon he would return it to Scotland in accordance with his pact with the Scottish King and formally mark the last year of his life. The decision to return it wasn’t reached easily—it was the acceptance of and the commitment to his death, after all—but it felt right. It sat well within him, like a good meal, satisfying and natural. The knife had served its purpose when he needed it and he wasn’t prepared to go down the path of exploring its other uses. Unnatural thing! He would see his obligation through and return it to Macbeth by midwinter, knowing that he would be dead by St Stephen’s Day. The return of the knife and his death were bound, and to put it off any longer was a folly. If he didn’t return it by midwinter’s day, Milan and its people would suffer. He might have been a relatively cold Duke, but he wasn’t a monster. He would see the people under his care free from any suffering he could prevent.

The pile of correspondence on his desk drew him back. It was the final task before he could pack his last items for travel. Miranda’s tomb had been swept and fresh flowers laid there that afternoon. His will was written and deposited with the appropriate parties. He couldn’t leave months of letters for his successor to find, no matter how tempting it was. Half of it was from the damn Medicis, each family begging him to side with them for whatever spurious reason they could dream into existence, so those could be sifted out and burned quickly enough. Months of letters he’d resolutely ignored and still they came. He had no interest in taking sides, no matter how much his so-called advisors urged him to. He knew the truth of it; whichever side he chose would win and then he would be blamed for all of the consequences thereafter. War was not something easy to recover from and he wanted none of that burden upon his shoulders. Let the arrogant Medicis slaughter each other. As long as they did it within the borders of Tuscany, he was incapable of having a care.

A third cup of wine went down before the last of the Tuscan letters was burned in the fireplace. Prospero belched loudly with satisfaction at a task well executed. A noise outside of his door stayed his hand as he poured a fourth cup. He opened his door a crack. “Willem?” he called, thinking his errant servant was poking around again when he should be asleep. “Willem? Are you down there?”

No call came to him, but Prospero couldn’t let go of the feeling that someone was in the tower with him. But if anyone other than one of his household were there, the wards would be sparkling now, and everything was as quiet as his daughter’s tomb. He lit the candle in the holder he used when walking the house at night and stepped out. “Willem?”

He climbed the stairs, twisting as they rose up the tower, passing the door to his bedchamber—still locked—right up to the topmost room. The door was closed, but he heard a sound within. Had something escaped? He lifted the hoop of iron and twisted it to open the door. The moon’s light streamed through the arrow-slit window, falling over a cloaked figure at the centre of the room, next to the box containing the knife. A thief? In his tower? Why had the wards not done their work? Were it not for the evidence before his eyes, Prospero would have thought it impossible. Anger swiftly followed the shock and he stormed in, thinking Macbeth had so little trust in him that he’d sent an agent to steal from him prematurely. Just two paces and then his hand was on the thief’s shoulder, spinning him round. A girl? A glint of grey metal in the moonlight and then such a pain in his gut that he dropped the candle holder and staggered back.

His hands were wet with his own blood and the dying flame showed him the hilt of that foul blade—cursed thing!—lodged deep within him. His knees crumpled as the girl rushed towards him, wrapping her hands around the handle and whimpering with emotions he could not fathom. The hungry dagger drew his soul from him and there was nothing he could do to staunch the flow of his blood or the last moments of his life. He had time to think of Miranda, running along the beach on the island on one perfect day, laughing, then the sight of her coffin, until that too faded and he was left with the sure knowledge that whoever this wretched, murderous child was, she would suffer endlessly for this crime.

 

 

THE BLOOD FELT hot, spreading over Lucia’s hands as she tried to pull out the blade. She could barely see it through her tears as she sobbed over the dying man. She couldn’t understand how it had happened; she was unwrapping the knife one moment and in the next it was deep in his stomach. It was as if the blade had been pulled towards him, her hands with it, as if it had a will of its own—bloody, bold and resolute. She was only going to steal the knife to prevent Prospero’s plan and then seek a way to turn him from his scheme, and yet she had done as her mother’s teacher had asked. All that wrestling with what she’d been told, all the planning and debating and constant arguments with herself and her mother since the night at the cave, all came to nought. Perhaps fate had driven the blade into him and left her—

“Hell’s teeth!”

The voice at the doorway snapped her head up and it felt like her heart was tumbling out of her. Francesco in Milan? Now? “My love—”

“Love? If there was any love for you in my breast it is dead now! How could I have thought you sweet and pure when you are capable of this?”

She abandoned the blade and struggled to her feet, blood all over her dress, her hands, her sleeves. “It wasn’t my intention to—”

“I saw you strike him! With these own eyes! Murderer! Was not our marriage solution enough? Was the Duke about to support my father? Is that what this is?”

“Francesco! I—”

“No matter the reason, the end is clear enough. As surely as your soul is damned, so is our union.”

He turned and fled, his footsteps loud on the flagstone steps. In moments he would be calling the militia and no matter how painful her breaking heart felt, the instinct to survive was still strong. She went back to the body, closed the lids over the Duke’s lifeless eyes and pulled out the blade as easily as one might pull straw from one’s hair. Not stopping to wonder why, she wrapped it in the cloth she’d found it in, tied the golden cord around it again before slipping it into the small bag under her cloak.

The key her mother had made to get her into the room had crumbled into dust now its work was done, so she merely shut the door quietly and ran down the stairs, expecting to hear Francesco shouting the servants awake any moment. But the mansion was just as silent as it had been when she had crept in, and she couldn’t even hear his footfalls any more. She ran through the rear servants’ corridor that she’d used earlier, hoping that Francesco had done the same—it was the easiest route into the house, after all—but she couldn’t see him anywhere.

It was many hours since sunset and there were still more before sunrise. She resolved to escape the grounds, get to her horse and see if she could intercept Francesco on the road to plead her case.

The wine cellar was just as silent and empty as before. She lit the lantern she’d hidden behind one of the barrels and hurried through the vast pillared hall, the length of most of the mansion, to the back door left unlocked by a bribed servant. She blew out the candle, hooked the lantern on her belt and then slipped out into the grounds.

She could hear the guard snoring in the gatehouse as she crept past it and the orchard at the far end of the garden was just as deserted as when she’d crept through before. Francesco was nowhere to be seen and hadn’t raised the alarm either. She made it to the wall unhindered, climbed over it using the gardener’s ladder and pushed it away to land softly in the long grass. It was simple enough to drop down the other side into bushes left overgrown by complacent guards.

Prospero’s winter mansion was on the southern edge of the city and surrounded by vineyards. Hardly believing that she’d managed to get out of the house and its grounds without any hindrance, Lucia ran until her legs gave out from under her and she fell into the dirt. She picked herself up and pushed herself on as her throat clogged with tears and guilt rode her shoulders like a serf’s yoke. Finally, she reached the shallow river at the edge of the vineyard and collapsed on its bank as the horizon blushed an ominous red. Every time she closed her eyes she saw the blood, and every breath brought with it the memory of Francesco’s disgust. Safe for now, she let down her guard and sobbed into the dirt until her throat burned.

“Now there are tears? What sort of creature are you?”

She screamed and threw herself backwards until her arms were in the river. The sorcerer Duke of Milan stood before her, the blood staining his robes too, and he looked very much alive.

“Are you... but I...”

“Killed me, yes, I am aware of that. I was there.”

“I swear to you, I only wished to take the blade before you could work your plan.”

“Did he have so little faith I’d return it as agreed?”

“I know of no agreement, only of your desire to kill my betrothed.”

The Duke’s brow wrinkled and he looked genuinely confused. “I have no idea who you are, or who may have the misfortune to be betrothed to you. My plan was to return the blade to Scotland.” He looked down at his robes and tried to touch the blood stain, but his fingers passed through the robes and body as if through mist. “God’s piss, now I am dead and unable to rest. Were I corporeal, child, I would wring your neck.”

“You have every right to haunt me.”

“I have no need of your permission, you wretched boil, and don’t think I will stop at this. Enjoy your last moments of freedom, for I intend them to end soon enough.” He looked as if he were about to walk away, but he didn’t go anywhere. He simply stared back towards the mansion as if willing it to lift itself from the ground and walk to him instead. Then after a muttered curse he shook his head. “The blade... of course. Well, this is a sorry affair. I cannot even go back to my body and condemn you, despite the precautions I took against assassination. Cursed blade... Tell me, who sent you, if it wasn’t the Scottish King?”

The shock of a ghost berating her having eased, Lucia felt another emotion settle into place; worry. “One gifted with the Sight.”

“A witch? I have been murdered by a witch’s familiar? How I am brought low!”

“I am no familiar! And she is not a witch, how dare you call her that. I am Lucia de Medici, betrothed to Francesco de Medici, the one you intended to kill with that knife.”

The Duke looked at her as if she were a madwoman. “Medici? Perhaps I should be flattered that my killer is no mere serf, but a daughter of a noble house? I have no knowledge of Francesco, other than a scrawl on a family tree that has never held my interest. Why should I wish him harm?”

“I... I was told you wanted the war to go on. Our marriage is supposed to end it.” The tears stung again. “And now there will be no marriage. He saw what I did.”

“He was the one at the door... I was somewhat distressed at that point. Oh, stop weeping, you pathetic creature! Who do you weep for? Not me! I’m the one you’ve murdered, and you weep because your betrothed has seen what a villain you are? Only the Medicis are capable of such self-interest!”

“I weep for you too! The knife... it was as if it flew into you, I swear upon my soul! And Francesco saw and thought I intended it, and I swear I did not! I was going to steal the knife, I admit to that, but not murder you, even though I was told to do so to save him and my family!”

“You are like a bottomless pit into which sense sinks and never returns. Why bring him with you if you didn’t want him to see?”

“I had no idea he was in Milan! Why should he be? What reason could he have to be at the tower, this night of all nights? It makes no...” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, who schemes against us? I have been tricked! And you are dead because of it. Oh, ground open and swallow me now!”

“Enough of this wailing and drama. There is a design behind all of this, and a solution, even though neither present themselves as yet. Now, it is in both of our interests to discover them, as we are bound to each other; as much as I would like to see you at the end of a noose, it would do nothing to improve my state. We will unravel this together, and then you will see me put to rest. Otherwise I will haunt you with such cruelty and ferocity that your hair will be white by the new moon and you will be mad by the new year.”

There was sense in his words and it penetrated her misery. She nodded. “If we could find out how Francesco knew to be there, it would be a great help.” Could the woman in the cave have told him? No, her mother’s faith in her teacher was absolute. She’d said the warning her teacher had given could only be the truth, in such a sacred place. Someone else had to be involved. “I feared he would raise the alarm, but he hasn’t. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Of course he stayed quiet,” the Duke said, trying to fold his arms only to give up with a scowl as they kept passing through each other. “How could he explain his presence there without putting himself under suspicion? No doubt he will wait until he is in the bosom of his family before denouncing you. We have time. Wash yourself and follow this river upstream for an hour or so. There’s a lodge up there that is empty at this time of year.”

In the dawn light she could see the blood all too clearly. She plunged her hands beneath the icy water to scrub at them desperately. “I have a horse nearby, I’ll get him and do as you say. But wouldn’t it be better for me to try to find Francesco? There are few roads he can take, and—”

“If you wish me to find him, I will,” the Duke said with a bitter voice. “That is the way of things for now.”

“Very well,” Lucia dried her hands on her cloak, the blood still caught under her fingernails, making her shudder. “May I say, your Grace, you’re coping with this turn of events so very well.”

The Duke shrugged. “I had only a few weeks left. You just cast them into chaos. I would prefer things to be in order, but it seems I grew complacent. We will speak again soon and you will tell me how you got into my tower without my notice. Until then, stay out of sight. And don’t smile at me as if I care about you. I simply care that you stay alive long enough to see me put to rest.”

 

 

FINDING FRANCESCO DE Medici was far easier than the methods he’d had to employ to find someone as a living sorcerer. Now he was a ghost and the one who commanded his soul happened to be in love with the target, it was a simple matter. He followed a silver thread only he could see: from her heart, across the vineyard and along the road to the coast.

To move so swiftly without effort was a simple joy. The girl was only partly correct; he was not just coping well with Purgatory, he was enjoying it. Being furious with her had felt like opening the window of a room with stale air and having a gale blow though it. He could never have predicted that his death would make him feel alive for the first time in decades.

It wasn’t just anger, though. It was the joy of being genuinely stirred into action. Only now did he appreciate how stagnant he had become. Without realising it, his life had become a study in turning things away, be they people or challenges or simply matters of the outside world. What he thought to be triumphs were merely insignificant details, made tremendous by the simple and tragic fact that he’d driven himself so poorly, and achieved so little since Miranda’s death, that even the tiniest magical revelation seemed like a moment of genius.

Now he had a genuine question to answer. The Medici girl said she’d been sent by someone with the Sight. A witch, no doubt; and one of significant power, he’d wager. She must have gifted the girl with something to overcome his wards, for one thing, and no mere warty ‘wise woman’ could do such a thing. He’d have to question her more at the first opportunity.

The young man was in a room on the first floor of an inn that sold passable wine and excellent whores. Prospero followed the thread through the window to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He was white-lipped and still in shock, judging by the way his hands still trembled.

Prospero glided over to hover in front of him, his lip curling at the sound of the sniffling. “Can you see me?”

If the Medici could, he didn’t react. Prospero went over to the table in the corner with a letter resting upon it.

 

Snr de Medici,

To commit one’s heart is no small matter. Be sure you give it to one who is worthy. If you wish to learn of your betrothed’s true nature, be at the top of Prospero’s tower in his winter mansion, south of Milan, on the night of the full moon. Ensure you are seen by no-one. Only then will you know if she deserves your heart.

A friend

 

The handwriting was familiar, but Prospero couldn’t place it. A feminine hand, of that he was sure. He had expected to see the time of his murder—or something closer to it. There was a greater force at work here. Did this boy wait in the shadows all evening, all night, right into the small hours? No, he would have been discovered. He arrived at just the right time to witness the murder.

That, and the girl’s immunity to the wards on his room, spoke of more than simple witchcraft. It spoke of the one the witches themselves worshipped.

Francesco went to the window and looked out, eyes bloodshot with weeping and lack of sleep, in the very direction Prospero had just come from.

“You’re nothing more than a player on someone else’s stage,” Prospero said to him. “Fool! Do you hear me?”

There was no response and Prospero went over to wave his hand between him and the window, less than an inch from his face.

The first time he had ever wanted to actually speak to one of the Medicis and it was impossible. For such a long time, the only conversations he wanted to have were impossible. How many times had he ached to speak to his daughter, one last time? Death was a cruel separator.

The room took on a grey hue about him and then it felt like he was pulled from it by invisible hands. Prospero found himself on a road in the countryside, but unlike any rural idyll he’d ever travelled. It was too bright, too colourful, to be anything but Fairyland.

A young man was walking towards him and they noticed each other at the same moment. He was dressed in well-made clothes and had a neat, clipped beard and hair that brushed his collar in thick curls, brilliant white despite his youth. Prospero had never seen him before, but couldn’t shake the intense sensation that he knew him well. The young man seemed to recognise him, though, stopping so fast he swayed forwards before leaning back, as if repelled by him.

“My eyes deceive me,” the young man said. “How can you be here?”

“You can see me, then?”

The stranger’s smile was wry. “And you cannot see me.”

“But I can. Well met, young traveller. It is a day of wonders. I am Prospero—”

“I know who you are. You were in my thoughts, but moments ago. You are rarely far from them.”

Prospero paused. Something about the tilt of the head, the slant of the shoulders and the anger in the young man’s eyes, warring with need... “You remind me of someone who was very dear to me... but forgive me, I don’t recall having met.”

“I remind you of someone? Of whom do you speak?” The stranger folded his arms. “An old servant, perhaps?”

“My daughter, my only child, who died many years ago.”

The stranger looked as if he were about to say something cruel, but the sneer on his lip faded at the sight of Prospero’s sadness. “Do you miss her?”

“Every day.”

“Were you close?”

“When she was small. She married and we grew apart. It is the way of things. But I don’t know your name, or why we are here. This has been a most unusual day.”

The stranger looked away from him, choosing to attend to a flower by the side of the road instead of his face. “I’m no-one of importance. Just a traveller. Tell me, how did your daughter die?”

“A fever. She was too young. You remind me of her.”

The stranger’s eyes flashed a look at him and then he swept his hand up, as if to run it through his hair. Instead, his white hair grew as his hand passed through it and Prospero wondered if he had begun a conversation with a fairy and was about to see the glamour lifted. But then he saw the male shoulders narrow, the hips swell and the face soften and change to one he knew well.

“Miranda!” He moved forward to embrace her, but his reason returned to him before he humiliated himself. “What is this? Some cruel jest? Who are you, in truth?”

“Father... this is no jest. I am here, alive.”

Age hadn’t touched her. She looked just like she had the last time she came to him, miserable and disappointed by life away from the island. The petals of love’s first bloom had curled and fallen and she hadn’t been able to find any place in which she felt happy and wanted.

“I want to believe it is you, but we’re in Fairyland; and I know that nothing here is as it seems.”

“A... friend helped me to escape that life in Milan. I can be what I want now, go where I please, learn what I wish.” She took a step closer. “I am Miranda, father.”

The little island of joy that his daughter lived—as he had wished for so bitterly over the years—was swallowed by a tsunami of anger. “You let me mourn for you? You let me sink into despair and live a twilight life in the land of grief so you could play fairy games and do as you please? Did you not think for a moment of the man you married and left behind? Of your devoted father? Not once?”

The flicker of guilt on her face was swept away with an angry scowl. “What was there to go back to? Ferdinand and I could never be happy, and you were more interested in keeping Milan than my affection. How many times did I beg you to help me? You had no interest in my happiness when I was alive, and when you believed I was dead all you thought of was your lost happiness!”

“Such self-interest! I—”

“Do not condemn me for seeking my own life! If scolding me for what my decisions did to you is not self-interest, then pray, tell me what is! You think only of your own hurt and not once ask me if I have found some joy at last in these years apart. Is that not what love is? Wanting the other to be content and happy above all else?”

“And with your own words you prove you had no love for me,” Prospero said. “How could I be content and happy thinking you were in that tomb instead of the fullness of motherhood?”

She held up a hand, her form changing back into the young man he’d met on the road. “I am more than what men believe to be the fulfilment of my sex. I am more than merely your daughter, who you would rather suffer than cause you shame.”

“The evidence is before me,” Prospero waved a hand at his—her?—new form. “Oh, how I ache for that island! You were far more thoughtful and obedient as my daughter.”

“Perhaps you would have been kinder to a son. Perhaps you would have listened to me when we lived in Milan, or saw value in me, if I had been a male heir.”

“Take no comfort in having a fairy glamour, daughter. You are still just as capricious and flighty as any woman, beneath that beard!”

“Enough!”

A flick of his child’s hand and then Prospero was tumbling in a riot of colours and sounds that soon fell into the shape of his vineyard, stretching out beneath the late autumn sky. The lodge was in sight, a horse tethered outside of it, and he felt the pull of the Medici girl wanting him back, oblivious to the power she wielded over him with that blade.

So Miranda was still alive. And he was dead. The world had been turned on its head, and in so short a span, and unless he did something about the blade, it would soon be worse for far many more.

 

 

THERE WERE NO more tears left, only a hollow ache in her stomach; but Lucia couldn’t bear the thought of eating the food in her pack. Her mother was leagues away and she had not Seen anything like this. After visiting the cave, her mother had been happy again, telling her each morning that she could see the wedding as clear as her own reflection in the looking glass. “All will be well,” she’d said as she’d kissed her goodbye. “Do as my teacher asked and all will be well.” Lucia hadn’t had the heart to start the argument again and simply nodded obediently.

Even though her intentions had been to disobey, it had gone the way the woman in the cave had wanted. So how could it all feel so terribly wrong now? She didn’t feel like she had been snapped back to her true destiny at all.

Then, like a sunbeam through a stormy sky, clarity of thought returned. Both her mother and the woman in the cave had told her she would marry Francesco and all would be well—and in the cave she had been told that if she dealt with the threat of Prospero, her destiny would remain intact. It could mean only one thing: there was nothing to fear. Francesco hadn’t raised the alarm as he had no real intention of seeing her harmed. All she had to do was find him and explain, and love would smooth over the disrupted earth between them so they could plant trust anew. All she needed to do was ask Prospero to lead her to him as soon as he returned.

Even as she had the thought, the ghostly sorcerer appeared in the room, casting a disapproving eye over her.

“Good Prospero, at last! Tell me, where is my love? Has he ridden far? Is he travelling—”

“I found him,” Prospero drifted closer to her, passing through the rough-hewn table and stools and making her shudder. “He’s at an inn, greatly distressed. He was told in a letter to go to my tower last night by one claiming to be a friend, who was concerned he should know your true nature before committing to marriage. A female hand, I believe.”

Lucia shook her head. “But the only women who knew of this are my mother and the woman in the cave.”

“Is your mother cold enough to have worked such a plan?”

Lucia laughed. “It is as possible as my taking flight and crossing the ocean on wings. My mother has worked hard to let love blossom between Francesco and I. Why destroy that? She first told me we would marry when I was as tall as that table. If she didn’t want the union to happen, she had ample opportunity to lie about what she had foreseen. Leave her out of your suspicions.”

Prospero’s eyebrows were high. “So there is a witch amongst the Medicis themselves? Divining political alliances with dark magic? Interesting.”

Lucia’s cheeks blazed. How careless she’d been! Not once had she betrayed her mother’s secret. But at least she had committed the error only within earshot of the dead. “Did you speak to Francesco?”

“He couldn’t hear me, nor see me.”

“Only I can do that?”

She took his irritated grunt as agreement and the tension ebbed from her shoulders. Her mother’s secret was safe still. “The only other woman who knew of this was the one who told me to do it.”

“Then there is our adversary.”

Lucia shook her head. “No, no, Your Grace, it cannot be her either. My mother trusts her absolutely, and there are very few people worthy of my mother’s trust. And there can be no political motive; indeed, it would be impossible to explain why she would do such a thing. She told me of my destiny and then how to preserve it from your foul scheme—”

“Which did not exist.”

Lucia pursed her lips. “I have only your word for that. You had the knife, after all.”

“With no intention of doing anything other than return it whence it came! Foolish girl, it is clear you have been tricked. Tell me exactly what happened in that cave and what that witch said about me—precisely.”

“It is of no matter now. I—”

“No matter? No matter! You murdered me and it is of no matter?”

Lucia shut her eyes, covering her mouth with cupped hands. For shame, she was so thoughtless when upset. “Forgive me. I simply meant that this—” She stopped, realising she was about to tell the man she’d murdered that she’d realised all would be well. “I... I simply meant that it is done now and surely we cannot undo that harm.”

“You cannot restore me to life, it’s true, but I would dearly like to know which puppeteer pulls your strings. Surely you do too.”

She nodded. The knowledge would help repair the rift between her and Francesco. After all, she still had to find a way to do that; as her mother had taught her, sitting back and doing nothing was a sure way to ensure that fate brought about its plan in the most tiresome way possible. Better to work with fate than do nothing at all.

“Now, tell me everything about this woman in the cave, with every detail, no matter how small.” When she hesitated, he spread his hands. “I cannot tell anyone else. Come now, I’d wager this creature does not deserve your loyalty.”

“But what about Francesco?”

“He isn’t going anywhere yet; and besides, I can find him easily enough.”

Slowly at first, she related her encounter in the cave. She remembered it all vividly, as if it had happened only hours before. Her mother had taught her to pay attention to detail. Prospero paced as she spoke, his silent footsteps horribly disconcerting. When she described the woman, he held up a finger.

“Her hands, tell me about them again.”

“They were slender and soft.”

“But not aged?”

Lucia paused. “No. But her voice sounded like that of an old woman.”

Prospero nodded to himself. “Go on.”

She told him the rest. By the end of it, he was still, staring at the floor. “Think back to the flames. Were they blue when she spoke of me? Think carefully now.”

Lucia shook her head. “No. They were only tall and blue when she spoke of my marriage and what would happen if you succeeded. I thought the flames flickered yellow when she spoke of you because you threatened my fate.”

“No! Ha! Here we have it. She used your ignorance against you and played upon what little knowledge you have to great effect. The pool was in a cave, I warrant this cave was near to Monte Prado.”

“At its foot! But she said men had no idea that the pool was there or what it did.”

Prospero snorted. “I’ve read about it, but until now, I thought it was mere myth. Now, the knife, where is it?”

She pulled in from her bag. He moved through the table again. “Wrap the cord about it more tightly and tie three knots as you do.”

She followed his instructions and he seemed satisfied. “You know who that woman was, don’t you?”

He nodded. “Not a witch, but the one they worship. The source of their power. Hecate.”

“I was in the presence of a goddess?” Lucia felt her cheeks pale. Her mother was her student! “But... I don’t understand.”

“The flames in the pool are blue when true prophecy is spoken. Only she would dare speak a lie in its presence. And you said her hand felt hot when she touched you the first time, then cold the second.”

“Yes, but my cheeks were hot, it is simple enough to understand.”

“No, she placed a spell on you. Did you not feel cold afterwards? Did you think you had caught a chill for days, until you became accustomed to it?” When she nodded, he pointed a finger at her. “You were able to enter my house, my private tower and my most protected chamber without my knowledge. I have wards on that uppermost room that can keep anything out—be it a spider or a thief—so tell me, why could you go in so effortlessly?”

“The spell she placed on me?”

“Precisely. I warrant you feel warmer now.” At her nod, he grinned. “I admire her efficiency. No need to continue to protect you, now you have done her bidding.”

“But... no! This still makes no sense! Why would she tell me to do this? Are you her enemy?”

“Not in person, but witches cannot abide the scholarly order we men impose upon magic. I can only assume this grievance is cast upon me tenfold by a goddess of witchcraft. And there’s the knife. I have long suspected a connection between it and her. It was hungry. That was why it pulled toward me.”

“If I am to believe you,” Lucia said, wrapping her arms about herself, “and accept that she merely used me to kill you, then what of the marriage?”

“Can you think of nothing else?”

“This is my fate!” Her voice filled the hut. “All of my life has been working towards this moment. And don’t say that this is my inability to consider others, for it is the very opposite! This marriage will end the war that is destroying my family and so many others. Francesco and I must be reconciled! She may have had the will to end your life, but those flames were blue when she spoke of mine and Francesco’s marriage!”

“But they were also blue when she spoke of the blade killing the man you love, and—”

“Only because of your plot against him and the knife...” she stopped. “But... I don’t know what to believe now. My mother said she could see our marriage, the very morning I left. And the blade killed you, not Francesco. Oh, would that my mother could help me now!”

“This is what happens when magic is left in the hands of women,” Prospero muttered. “Now you cannot think of anything other than what your mother placed between your ears.”

“Have a care, Your Grace. My mother is wise and wants nothing more than to end this war and see her daughter happy. Is that not true of all good parents? To seek peaceful times for their children to flourish and to give them happiness?”

He turned away. “There is a more pressing concern,” he said after a few moments. “The knife must be returned to Scotland by midwinter. Otherwise my people will be cursed and their suffering will dwarf that of Tuscany.” He faced her again. “You must return it for me.”

“I cannot! I must go to Francesco and resolve this. Two prophecies that differ so much cannot both be true. This blade cannot kill Francesco and see us married. All I can imagine is that her interference has made both possible—she is a goddess, after all—therefore I must ensure my path leads back to my rightful destiny. I will marry Francesco.”

“No. Take the blade to Scotland and do more good than simply fawning upon a man who hates you. He thinks you a monster! ”

“I cannot let him think that of me!”

“How are you to turn his heart? Will you say, ‘Love, you were mistaken, for the Duke and I were simply rehearsing a play’?”

“You mock me. I am not some lovestruck fool. I need to end this war! How can I do that by going to Scotland? You must have a servant you can send with it.”

“I would not trust that blade in anyone’s hands. At least, if you have it, I can see the job done and help you as far as I can.”

Lucia folded her arms. “I will go to Francesco first.”

“Think, you thick-headed child! Let us say you go to plead your defence to Francesco. What if it sours? What if he attacks you and you defend yourself? And with what? The knife! Going to find him could play into fate’s hands and fulfil the prophecy you fear.”

Lucia shivered. How many times had she read stories of people rushing off to do something to prevent a fate they were terrified of, only to make it come about? “I know! I shall leave the knife here, where it can do no harm.”

“I forbid it! You cannot abandon it here, it’s far too powerful and valuable. Besides, if you did manage to win him back, I doubt you would care about returning it to Scotland once you’ve left it behind. No, you must keep it close. It’s the very least you can do for me.”

The guilt struck her in the chest, as if he’d hit her, and she felt the sting of more tears. What use were they?

“Wait, I know what I have to do.” She rummaged in her bag until she found the pouch containing the tiny bottle given to her in the cave. “She couldn’t have done anything to the water in the pool, could she?”

“I have no idea.”

“I have one draught left. The first I used to determine that yesterday was the best day to come to your house.”

“Aah,” Prospero nodded. “Half of my servants are away on various errands and I was distracted. And the second draught?”

“I used it to check if I would be discovered on my route into the house.”

“But wait, does each draught show you all possibilities from a course of action?”

“No. I was just being cautious. I bribed a few people to find out about your servants and then I bribed two of them to gain entry into the house and passage through it to your tower. I used this to check what I had decided to do was correct.”

“Bribed?” Prospero looked horrified. “My servants?” When she nodded, he tried to kick a stool. “And to think of all the kindnesses I’ve shown them!”

“Well, they couldn’t have been very memorable; they forgot them soon enough at the sight of some gold.” Lucia wondered if he even knew the meaning of the word kindness. No, she was being unfair. “I’m going to go and speak to Francesco and I am going to leave the knife here—and before you protest, I swear that if this is the right course of action, I will see it’s returned to Scotland.”

“You expect me to have faith in a girl stupid enough to be tricked into murdering me?”

Lucia stood and slapped her hand on the table. “You are like an old wasp, you cannot resist the opportunity to spread misery! I am so tired of your cruel words. I know what I did was terrible but, i’faith, it was not my intention. Now you know a goddess was behind this sorry affair and whilst I will feel this guilt for the rest of my days, I cannot think of a way to put things right with your constant stinging. Now be quiet or I will ignore you and drive you into madness instead!”

His mouth had fallen open and he blinked at her, once, twice, before nodding slowly. “I have lived an unhappy life too long. I have forgotten what it is to be civil.”

“Well,” Lucia said, sitting again. “I understand that this is a difficult time for you too, so let us draw a line and start afresh, otherwise neither of us will find any resolution to our woes.” She closed her eyes, mostly to relieve herself of having to look at his face and the odd expressions crossing it, and breathed deeply. She thought clearly about going to find Francesco and what she would say to him. Then she pulled out the cork and drank the last drops.

The third time was less of a shock, but still an unsettling experience nonetheless. There was the sense of being pulled from her body, floating momentarily in pure darkness before spinning in a chaotic rush of colour and sound as if days and nights were playing out around her all at once. Then there was only one image, one sound. A room in an inn, Francesco’s reddened eyes looking at her as if she were Satan himself.

“The reason? Do you think that reason enters into this? You killed a man and there is nothing you can say that will make me forget the blood on your hands.”

A ripple of panic shot through her and Lucia fought to keep the feeling of the Sight just a little longer, shifting her decision into finding Francesco in a day or so, when he’d had an opportunity to calm himself and recover from the shock. The chaos returned and then she saw him in the woods on the way to the coast, getting on his horse, the sound of her weeping loud and awful. “You are dead to me!”

No! This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Later, then, just as he reaches the border of Tuscany and has had time to remember their love; she’ll speak to him then.

“You disgust me, Lucia. Unhand my cloak! When my family know of your evil, we will notify Milan. Prospero’s successor will be all too happy to fight with us against such corruption!”

His hatred and contempt lashed at her every time she made a new decision and tried a new way to persuade him. All the while she had the feeling that some distant part of herself was under terrible strain. She ran out of places to speak to him and things to say and then the course of future events carried on being played out in front of her, images running together in a blur. She saw him reach his father, the look on his face, the sight of messengers leaving the house, one bound for Milan and the rest to his father’s troops and supporters. She saw Francesco, beautiful, gentle Francesco, dressed for war, riding out onto the field with his brothers, that happy, trusting glint gone from his eyes. She saw her own father, her brother, forces arrayed behind them and an almighty clash on a snowy day, the white ground stained with blood. She saw her father standing over Francesco, plunging his sword into her betrothed’s chest, and then she was screaming, falling, until she landed on her back in the wooden lodge, the ghost standing over her.

Her face was wet and her throat raw. Everything seemed too dull, too slow to be real.

“Yours is not the face of love redeemed,” Prospero said, not unkindly. “Take a moment to restore yourself. I fear you grasped that magic’s nettle for longer than you should have. I would help you to your feet, were I able.”

She rolled onto her side, her body feeling heavy and uncooperative, and then struggled onto her feet. She moved slowly, righting the stool to sit in silence until her surroundings felt real again.

“All is lost,” she whispered. “Neither prophecy has survived. I have condemned so many to death. Francesco is impossible to convince and will not marry me. He isn’t killed by that knife but by my father’s blade, on the battlefield. I have murdered an innocent man, damned my soul and cast my family’s future into Hell itself.”

“Not a very innocent man, but yes, it does seem bleak.”

She looked up at Prospero, the levity in his tone jarring her. “Is this amusing for you?”

“No. I apologise. But whilst you were looking forwards, I was looking back. To the day I made the pact for that blade, in fact. It’s capable of so much more than inflicting a premature death. I see a solution, one that prevents the war, but it won’t be easy for you.”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks and straightened her back. “Then tell me this plan, Your Grace. I will do whatever I can to prevent the war. No matter how hard it may be.”

 

 

“OH, LUCIA.” HER mother’s eyes shone with tears. “You look so beautiful.”

Lucia stared at her wedding gown in the looking glass, unable to look herself in the eye. It was midnight blue velvet with gold embroidery and tiny seed pearls on the bodice. It was just as she had always wanted it to look, and evidently what her mother had always seen.

“Why so sad?” Her mother came over and fussed with one of the jewels pinned into Lucia’s hair. “Is it nerves? That’s perfectly natural. But you have no need of fear today, dear heart. You are not the ignorant bride who has no idea whether she will be making her home in a house of happiness or misery. We both know this is the beginning of a wonderful marriage, many times blessed, just like you are. So smile and enjoy the day! It’s not just a wedding, it’s the end of the war!”

Lucia forced her lips to curve just enough to send her mother bustling away to the door to shout at one of the servants, as she liked to do when filled with an excess of excitement.

Tired of her reflection, Lucia went to the window and looked down onto the courtyard bathed in winter sunshine. It was filled with a frenzy of activity. Servants carried platters of food from the kitchens to the hall, cutting across the courtyard as the cloisters were full of people arranging flowers and banishing cobwebs. She watched the gates open to admit a band of musicians dressed in their finery, followed by more florists. Were there any flowers left outside of this house?

Her brother, Matteo, strode into the centre to look up at the clouds and noticed her looking down at him. He bowed with a flourish and sent a kiss up to her. He had narrowly avoided death several times over the past year. The news he would never have to ride out again made him run over to her, scoop her up in his arms and spin her around, kissing the top of her head as she squealed. “My life is mine again! I hope this union brings you more happiness than it costs you.”

“Of course,” she’d said. But only because everyone was looking at her. She had endured a fortnight of pretending to look happy. Everyone thought her early nights had been to ensure she looked her best for the wedding, but in truth, it was simply the fact that by the end of the day, she was sick of their endless cheeriness and banter. She was tired of aunts taking her to one side to impart their paste gems of wisdom, tired of her father boasting of how easily he’d brokered the peace, as if the entirety of her mother’s work had played no part, and tired of her mother’s quiet satisfaction.

But more than anything, she was tired of keeping silent about what happened in Milan.

“It’s going to snow,” her brother shouted towards one of the ground floor windows. “I’d wager one hundred florins on it.” The doors behind him opened again and a footman went to her brother. “Groom ahoy!” he called out. When he saw she was still looking down at him he waved his hands at her, as if shooing away a cat. “Go, Lucia! Don’t let him see you!”

She ducked behind the curtain, heart booming in her chest. This was it. The day she had been waiting for ever since she could speak. She should be happy. She should be skipping down the stairs and giggling as her train was arranged. She bit her lip and waited for the tearfulness to pass. Her mother was calling her name. It was time to meet her destiny.

A flurry of attendants, her mother’s last emotional goodbye, her father’s arm at the doorway to the great hall. Whispered assurances that she looked radiantly beautiful, messages of luck, health and happiness and smiles everywhere she looked. A rush of guests taking their seats, the scraping of their chairs and the gentle murmur of their anticipation. It felt unreal, impossible, as if all of it was happening to someone else and she was a few steps back, watching. And then the doors opened and the musicians began.

 

 

“FRANCESCO! I CAN call you brother at last!” Matteo clapped him on the back. “Much better than running you through!”

Francesco laughed. “Better to be brothers, indeed. War makes fools of us all and I would much rather the wine do that.”

“Have a care, brother,” Matteo grinned as he clinked his cup against Francesco’s. “An excess of foolishness in the daytime can lead to misery in the night.”

Lucia blushed and Francesco laughed at her, wrapping an arm about her waist and pulling her close to kiss her cheek. “There will be no misery now. I forbid it. And as your lord and husband, sweet wife, you must obey.”

Lucia forced a smile and extricated herself from his grip. “Forgive me, there are so many more people to speak to.”

She spent the rest of the afternoon smiling until her face ached, talking until she was almost hoarse and dancing until her feet throbbed. As with all things borne on the wings of dread, the call to let the married couple go to their conjugal bed came all too soon.

Francesco, laughing and rosy cheeked, let himself be pushed by his groomsmen to the centre of the hall and Lucia knew better than to resist her attendants. The cheer when he picked her up made her ears ring. They were followed out of the hall, across the courtyard covered in snow, through the doors into the other wing of the house; and then watched as Francesco carried her up the stairs. When they reached the top, he swung her around so she could wave and see her mother dabbing her eyes and then they carried on down the corridor as the guests returned to the party.

Francesco fumbled with the door latch and then they were inside their room. He stole a kiss before putting her down and closing the door.

The bed was laid with fresh linen and rose petals were strewn across the pillows. The candles had already been lit, as had the fire, and pomanders scented the air beautifully.

She moved away from him, putting the bed between them. “Hasn’t this gone far enough?”

He ignored her, singing some bawdy song that Matteo had taught him as he began to loosen his doublet. It was only when all the buttons were undone that he looked at her and realised she was standing still with her arms crossed.

“Oh... you’re afraid. Yes... I see. I can only assure you that I will do my best to be a kind and considerate husband.” His smile didn’t warm her. “After all, hasn’t it been foretold that we will have a happy marriage?” He came round the side of the bed. “With many children?” He looked at her breasts as he said it and she feared she was going to be violently ill.

She darted out of his way as he came closer and put the bed between them once more. “But don’t you have another obligation? The blade must be returned to Scotland by midwinter, and that’s so very close.”

The sorcerer smiled at her with Francesco’s eyes. “Oh, I have given that considerable thought and I’ve concluded there is no longer any need. After all, I find myself in a healthy, young body, with a beating heart and many years of life left in it. I would be willing to argue that as my soul is housed within it, I couldn’t possibly be considered dead. Therefore the terms of the agreement dictate that I may retain it.”

Lucia looked away, unable to bear the sound of his voice without the echo of her lover’s soul. She had cut it from him as he slept, the sorcerer instructing her as she had sobbed, her only pitiful comfort being that he showed her how to do it in such a way as to send her Francesco’s soul on, rather than trapping him in purgatory. The ritual had been complex and exhausting, but it was the only way to bring peace.

She made herself look at him, tried to reconcile the beauty of her lover with the wily old man looking back at her, as if his face were a mask he had stolen from another. Would she be able to live with him? Was it enough to know there was no other way to end the war?

Everything spoken over the blue flames in the cave had come to pass. She had married Francesco de Medici on a day with both snow and sunshine and the union had brought peace to the land. She had indeed suffered. The blade had shed blood that would worsen the war. It had killed the man she loved before they could have children and now another was in his place. And now, seeing it all laid before her, she wondered whether her mother’s assurances about it being a happy marriage were even true. Nothing had been said about that in the cave.

She had been a child that night, and then her innocence had been peeled from her, leaving her raw and weeping. The last sliver was about to be lost, all because she had listened when she had been told what was to happen to her and accepted it without question.

No more.

She had written to Edinburgh; would see the horrid weapon returned to its master. She’d had no reply, though she’d seen things in her dreams, just as the unseasonably bitter weather had settled in.

She would learn about politics. She would learn about gods and fairies. She would study.

She would give her new husband a turn of the moon. If Prospero’s soul didn’t learn kindness and the art of being gentle from his youthful form, she needn’t suffer for the rest of her life. After all, she hadn’t only learned not to trust to the whims of others.

She had also learned how to kill.