The two of them laughed, abruptly.
"Still," Francesca continued, "I think we should start with Sophia Tomaselli. We should question Morando again also, of course, but I doubt he'd say anything. If this mysterious woman—"
"Female, Francesca—not 'woman.' Trust me. The distinction, if you understood it, would be even more important to you than to me."
" 'Female,' then. If this female is an accomplice of his, at this point he'd never tell us. Even that she exists, much less her identity."
"Why? He seems eager enough to tell us everything else."
"Because Morando is expecting he'll be executed, when he's returned to Venice. A traitor's death, too, his legs broken first." For a moment, she glared. "Thanks to those idiot men! That includes you, Eneko! A lesson: Never tell a man you're going to execute him, if there's any chance he might still have information you want. You just eliminated any motive for him to keep talking."
Eneko scowled. "He was guilty of—"
"Who cares?" Francesca slapped the armrests of her chair with exasperation. "Why does a whore have to keep reminding priests and devout knights that justice belongs to the Lord? Ours is the province of practicality, damnation!"
Eneko's lips quirked. "I believe it's 'vengeance' that belongs to the Lord, Francesca, though I understand the point. Nor, by the way, have I ever called you a 'whore.' "
She shrugged. "It's just a word. Means nothing to me, to be blunt. And to get back to the point, Morando won't tell us anything because perhaps the only hope he has left—however faint it may be—is that his accomplice, if she remains at large, might somehow rescue him from his predicament. Yes, yes, it's a very faint hope—criminal associates are hardly noted for their personal loyalties and devotion. But, who knows? There might be some deep tie between them. And, even if there isn't, a man expecting a noose will hope for anything."
"Ah. That's why you think Tomaselli would know—"
Francesca shook her head. "We should question her also, but I doubt we'll get anything useful. The problem in her case being somewhat the opposite. Too much talk instead of too little. That woman is driven by spite more than anything else. At one point in her interrogation, you may recall, she named half the women in the fortress as being witches participating in regular Black Sabbaths. She had Maria Verrier copulating with Satan himself, while the podesta's wife—" She threw up her hands. "Ah, never mind! But you see my point. How reliable is the information given to us by a woman who'd insist that Renate De Belmondo—at her age!—was . . . well. You remember. You were there."
Lopez grimaced. He'd been present for most of Tomaselli's interrogation. Sophia, hysterically, had swung from protesting complete innocence at one moment to claiming, in the next, that she was the least guilty of several thousand women in the Citadel. The accusations she'd made regarding Maria Verrier and the podesta's wife had been particularly grotesque.
"I see your point. But, that being true, what do you mean by suggesting we start with Tomaselli?"
"We need to start tracing Sophia's associations. Not by asking her, but others. I'll have Mouse start working on that."
"Mouse" was the nickname Francesca had given to the best agent she'd started employing, since she arrived on Corfu. Eneko had met the man three times, but could never quite remember what he looked like afterward. When he'd commented to Francesca to that effect, she'd simply looked very smug.
"I'll tell Mouse to start with Stella Mavroukis, Maria's friend," Francesca mused. "That woman knows all the gossip there is to know about this island. Kerkira and the Citadel, anyway."
"What would you like me to do?"
"Eneko, would you be able to recall—precisely—when each instance of this 'female magic' took place?"
Slowly, Lopez nodded. "Yes, I think so. Diego sensed it, too—and sometimes Francis and Pierre—so we can compare our memories. Yes. I should be able to reconstruct it. What good will that do?"
"Maybe none," replied Francesca, shrugging. "But you never know. This sort of work is like trying to piece together a broken tile. The more pieces you have, the more likely it is that you will succeed."
Prince Manfred came into the room, at that point. His cheerful smile vanished like the dew under Francesca's glare.
"And you! If I succeed in piecing this all together—I will expect you to exercise your power and offer Morando a pardon. A commutation, at least. So that he can confirm whatever my suspicions are."
"What are you talking about? Piece what together?"
"Manfred!"
"Yes, darling. Certainly."
Eneko laughed. "These are the times when I know celibacy is a blessing."
"Eneko!"
"Sorry, Francesca. It's true."
* * *
His lust satiated, Saluzzo's anger had faded also. He sprawled across her limply.
"Paulo, he forced me," Bianca said, in a pleading tone. "He held a knife to my throat."
Saluzzo grunted. The sound was skeptical, but Bianca could sense there was no longer any danger that he would strike her again.
That was good. She was having a hard enough time as it was, restraining her fury. The bastard was heavy.
Her hands began stroking his back. Saluzzo would think she was still trying to placate him. In actuality, she was trying to determine if her incantations had succeeded.
Yes. She could feel the small nubs of the wings, just under the shoulder blades. They'd remain vestigial, until she spoke the words of power.
Double-checking, her left hand stroked his brow. Yes, she could feel the slight nubs there also.
Unfortunately, her apparent caresses were stimulating Saluzzo again. His own hands began moving. Bianca resigned herself to another unpleasant few minutes. There was no way, in the circumstances, to do the rituals needed to allow Saluzzo to wallow in his own sexual fantasies.
So be it. Immortality had its prices. At least he wouldn't be as rough this time.
Although—
"Ow! Paulo, you have got to start trimming your fingernails."
A bit puzzled, he raised his head and glanced at his fingernails. "How did they get so long?" he wondered.
"You're careless, that's how." She took the sting from the reproach by nuzzling him. "Just keep them trimmed, will you?"
She decided it would be best not to comment on his toenails. Those would be getting shorter soon, anyway. Shorter, wider, and much thicker, as his feet began to change. In fact, she'd have to take steps to slow down the transformation. Even a thug—and this one was Florentine, after all—would start wondering why he was walking around on hooves.
PART XII
"And how are you doing at fending off the pursuit of the young ladies of Corfu, young man?" asked the governor's white-haired wife as they talked in a break during the soiree that was Corfu Citadel's attempt at maintaining a facade of normalcy in spite of the siege. The attempts were pitiful, looked at from one angle; but, after being under siege for half a year, the defenders needed them.