97

Neither Livia nor Thomas had spoken since they entered the Orto Botanico; their silence continued as they emerged at the bottom of the hill and made their way through Trastevere. Livia kept them to the less-traveled, more-shadowed streets, though they saw few Carabinieri or polizia; whatever had happened on the Janiculum seemed to have drawn all the law officers in Rome. Livia’s thoughts, unbidden but uncontrollable, kept returning to that long-ago violet evening, to the cobalt cloth in the candlelit room, to the moment she’d given in to her own desires, and his, and made Jonah Noantri.

The fault was hers. He wasn’t strong enough, and if she’d brought the request to the Conclave, as the Law required, they would have told her that. She had ignored the Law, because she already knew.

She’d done it, as she’d revealed herself to him at all, because she was afraid of losing him. Now he was lost: to her, to the world. To himself.

Thomas hadn’t asked where they were going, but as they reached the middle of the Ponte Sisto, Livia stopped and faced him. “The place where the Conclave meets is just over the bridge.”

Thomas leaned on the stone balustrade and watched the Tiber flow. “You intend to give the Concordat to them?”

“They’ll keep it hidden. I wasn’t sure that was still necessary, even as late as this morning. But now . . .” She leaned beside him, trying to marshal an argument. This was his Church’s copy; by rights it should be returned. Still staring out over the water, he held up a hand to stop her.

“I agree. I don’t know how many in the Church know it exists, but Lorenzo can’t be the only one who feels—who felt as he did. About your people. I don’t think we can return it to the Church.”

“Jonah wasn’t alone, either,” she said quietly. “The Conclave will protect both copies. Until it’s time.”

He nodded and straightened, and they walked on.