He’d never allowed anyone to come between him and the city he loved, which was why he’d always been alone.
Then a wounded lark had flown across his sky and changed it. Forever.
As the first rays of sunrise illuminated the city streets, William exited one of the secret doors that led to the underground near Santa Maria Novella Station. He was disguised as a tourist, in sunglasses and a Panama hat, a cloth doused in an old vampyre’s blood pinned to his shirt. If anyone were to track him, he hoped they’d be confused.
He ignored the headache and discomfort he felt the moment he stepped on holy ground, entering the church of Santa Maria Novella and moving swiftly and almost invisibly to the Spanish Chapel. He approached the famous fresco and bowed his respect.
“Hail, Brother.” He greeted the image of his teacher in Latin, as had been their custom when he was alive. As ever, the saint stared at him impassively.
“It has been some time since I’ve visited. You’re looking well.” William tore his eyes from the painted wall and began to pace. “I find myself in some difficulty, which is why I have returned.
“Your Church has taken an interest in my city. There are rumors of war. I find it difficult to believe such conflicts fail to disturb your rest, since you clearly taught the clergy should be pacifists.”
William paused. “Yes, I know. They battle against principalities and powers, and the forces of darkness. I’ve resigned myself to the darkness. But there’s someone close to me who has not.
“There’s a woman.” William watched his teacher closely, fancying that, just perhaps, the visage had changed. “A young woman, very lovely. Brave and generous and fierce. The stuff of poetry and dreams.
“You’ll laugh at this, old friend. The woman loves me.”
The image’s eyes seemed to burn into his. The Prince continued his pacing. “She was the protégée of one of the Curia’s priests. He’s demanded I deliver her to him in exchange for peace.”
William straightened and crossed to the fresco, facing it.
“If I accede to his demand, I save my city but I lose her. I’ll break her heart and the Curia will break her spirit. If I keep her, the Curia will come. They’ll kill as many of us as they can, including me. So you see, old friend, no matter what I choose, I will lose her.
“What would be worse, to lose her voluntarily but know she will be protected by my enemy? Or to keep her, knowing the war will eventually separate us?”
William rubbed his eyes with both hands, blotting out the holy imagery that confronted him.
“It’s exactly the kind of dilemma our colleagues would have posed to you in Paris. So what say you, magister? What is the virtuous decision?”
The Prince stared at his famous teacher.
“Yes, of course it’s a false dilemma. I could send the woman—my woman—away. But that would only hasten the Curia’s arrival. They’d assume I’d killed her.
“I could kill the priest. It would be difficult to do since he lives on holy ground, but assassinations have been carried out in the past.” The Prince ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I know what happened as a result. The Curia marched on Budapest and massacred the covens there. The principality has never been the same.”
He paced, back and forth and back and forth, fists shoved into his pockets. “I could attempt to negotiate with the Curia. But why should they negotiate a treaty with me, when one of their own wants his protégée safe from my control?
“No. There are myriad possibilities, all equally vicious.”
The Prince cast a baleful look at the personifications of virtues that surrounded his teacher. The Virtues, of course, remained silent.
“You and I spoke many times of the beauty of goodness. This young, extraordinary woman is so beautiful, so noble in her character, you would have been entranced. She’s read your works. I told her of you and she thinks you’d have compassion on me, despite . . .” He cleared this throat.
“I don’t hope for compassion. I made my choice; I accept my fate. But for her, for her beautiful, brave soul, I shall hope.” William lifted his face. “I love her. And because I love her, I come to you now to ask for your help.
“I know better than to try to bargain with you. Either you will come to my aid or you will refuse. I have nothing to offer in exchange, no way to expiate my sin, no virtue to recommend me.
“But I ask you, teacher, whatever compassion and love you had for me, for the boy I once was, that you would extend the same to her. Whatever grace has been given unto you, I ask you to pray that same grace will rest on her.”
William extended his arms, his figure like a cross, and bowed very low. “Once again, I am sorry for disturbing your rest. I ask one favor in memory of our friendship—only remember my woman, that her beauty and goodness may not die.”
Without a backward glance, the Prince left the chapter house, his body tight, his heart beating an uncertain tattoo in his chest.
Chapter Forty-one
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Birth of Venus.”
With a flourish, Dottor Vitali removed the large tarp covering the newly restored painting. The crowd gathered in the Botticelli room at the Uffizi burst into loud and enthusiastic applause.
Vitali introduced Professor Urbano, who offered a few prepared remarks on the restoration process. He introduced Raven and the other members of his team to thunderous applause.
While he was thanking the donors and organizations who had funded the restoration, including Professor and Mrs. Emerson, who were not in attendance, Raven stood to one side, appraising the work.