She almost lost herself in it, but the declining sun burned on her eyelids. Her hand crept up his shoulder. She pressed the point of her dagger beneath his ear.
He jerked at the prick of it, his breath hissing inward.
"Now," she said, "you'll do as I bid. Your hands crossed behind you."
His dark lashes hid his eyes as he looked down upon her. Slowly, slightly, he shook his head. "No, Melanthe."
She breathed deeply, holding the tip against his skin. "Do you think I've not the skill, or the strength?"
"Not the will."
"Fool! Don't try me!"
His mouth was a taut line in the half light. "I try you. Do it, if you will."
She gripped his sleeve, turning the blade, pressing harder and praying.
"You think to tie and imprison me until you go," he said bitterly. "But you must slay me, Melanthe, if you will to be free, for I won't concede it while I breathe life."
She cut him. He flinched, but he held her, his arms tightening as a bright trickle of blood ran down his neck. She was trapped in his embrace.
"Fool! Fool! If Gian comes now, he'll flay the skin from you alive."
"What does it matter to you, who hates and loathes me?"
She heard horses. Hoofbeats sounded in the courtyard, and the voices of men. "He's come!"
Ruck seized her tight. "Decide, my lady. It's beyond lies now."
"He is come!" she cried. She tore herself from him. "Go!"
"It's he you want, then?"
Her mastery shattered. "Go!" she screamed. "You fool, do you think it is between you? He'll slay you—I cannot bear it, God curse you, he's killed all that I ever loved only because I loved it. Go! The kitchen, the postern door—"
But he did not go. Melanthe stood in the midst of the streaming light clutching the dagger, staring at the blind shadow of him, hearing the sounds below.
"He knows, he knows," she moaned. "He'll find you here—how did you come? You were safe, I made you safe, go, go now, if you ever loved me...please—I can't bear it." She could see nothing, only light and the window, the last sun pouring past her in rainbow hues. "I cannot bear it."
He caught her wrist, wrenching the blade from her. His body made an outline against the light, the rays shifting and dancing around him. She heard the knife clatter on the stone floor.
"Melanthe—" He held her hands up, and she saw blood on them, felt the sting where she had cut herself. "He is dead."
"Go," she whispered, but it was hopeless, too late. She could hear them in the hall and on the stairs.
"Navona is dead, Melanthe."
She shook her head. "He is not dead. He comes."
"No, my lady." He held her hands. She couldn't see his face. She wanted to see his face, but tears and light and dark were all she had.
There was a scratch on the door. She shuddered. She could not move. "He's here," she whimpered.
"My lady, you said me once, never was I to tell you false. Gian Navona is dead. I saw him—my lady, my sovereign lady. Believe me. You need not fear."
"My brother, and Ligurio," she whispered. "And my daughter. And any friend I ever thought to have but Gryngolet. I didn't mean to love you. I did not mean to. It was so far away. I never thought he could find out."
The sun rays shafted around him as he lifted his hands to her face. He smoothed her hair, his fingers catching in the net and passing over the jewels.
"She only had two years. My baby. And she was so pretty. I always remembered how pretty—and I thought—with you—if God willed—" She licked tears from her mouth. "But then I was afraid."
"I would you had told me. Melanthe. If you had told me!"
"I was afraid." Her face crumpled, and she couldn't see. "I was afraid for you. And then Desmond came, and I knew that I'd brought it all there, and I had to go away." She shook her head. "I didn't want to, but I couldn't tell you so, for you would come."
"I did come. How could I not?" His hands squeezed tight on her shoulders. "How could I lose you? Ah, Christ, a child...Melanthe, my lady, my life—even that? And you kept all from me, and made me think—" He shook her and then pulled her to his chest. "Helas, I have not known you; you've blinded me."
The scratch came at the door again. She put her hands on him, closing her fingers.
"Gian is dead," Ruck said. "It's not Navona."
With an effort she released him. He let go of her and went away. She stood facing the shining window, the tall traceries of colored glass. Her hands stung and throbbed.
Behind her, someone spoke softly in French. Ruck answered them, the words too low to understand. Melanthe turned around, and for the first time she saw him clearly, not a shadow against glare, but real and distinct. He closed the door and came back to her.
His face in the light was sober, his black brows and lashes stark. He touched her hands gently, and then her cheek. "It's Allegreto below, and Navona's men." He took her wrists.
She lifted her eyes, a new terror rising in her. "Who killed Gian?"
"No one, unless it was the Arch-Fiend himself."
"You're certain he's dead?"
"Without doubt, I am certain." He held her face between his hands. "Luflych, make your soul easy." He gathered her close to him. "He's gone beyond where he can reach you evermore."
A quiver ran through her. He held her harder, pressing his lips to her hair. The gentle kisses seemed to draw fear from her in a surge, breaching walls and barriers, transforming it into endless tears that spilled from her eyes and washed her cheeks and his black velvet.
"It can't be." Her voice was hollow, muffled against his shoulder. "It cannot. Are you sure? Did you kill him?"
"Hush, Melanthe," he murmured. "Be still." He rocked her softly. "I've said you true."
She wanted to push back and look at him, to make herself believe that he was with her, but she didn't want to leave his embrace. She closed her eyes and felt him instead, his broad back beneath her palms, the height of his shoulder and the breadth of his body. She pulled him into her as if she could make the steady rise and fall of his breath supplant the jolting sobs that shook her.
"Hush now." He drew her down onto the window seat. His arms enfolded her tight against him. He kissed the nape of her neck as she pushed her cheek to his chest. "My liege lady—my heart. Hush. You're safe with me."
TWENTY-SEVEN
In candlelight Gian Navona lay on a straw-covered hurdle, only the stone floor beneath him. He was white, his skin and his clothes, already an effigy with painted black features and gilt embellishment. A priest knelt beside him; the others left a space about the corpse, standing back clustered in the corners and along the walls, except for Allegreto.
The youth stood beside his father's body like a white greyhound guarding its master. Ruck had not sensed the depth of resemblance between them before. In his frozen pallor Allegreto was a mirror of his father: comelier, younger, perfected. He still wore the milky livery, showing damp yet, as if no one had thought to let him change. His pitch-black eyes turned to Melanthe, watching her as she left Ruck at the screens and crossed the floor.
She stood looking down on the dead man for a long time. The priest murmured his prayer softly. Ruck couldn't see her face.
Navona's men waited, a score of them ranged beyond Allegreto. Most of Melanthe's retinue gathered nearer to Ruck, at the lower end of the hall. Set apart, an Englishman stood by a clerk with a writing roll and pen. Local people pressed forward through the open door into the passage, goggling and hushing one another, staring at Ruck harder than they stared at the corpse.