The Red Lily Crown (3 page)

“My name is Chiara.” She left it at that. “I'm an alchemist's daughter, and I have more things hidden away. This silver funnel is the smallest of the lot. If the prince doesn't want it, I'll find another buyer.”

Something sparked in his expression, like a drop of aqua regia sizzling on black iron. It burned. “No,” he said. “You will sell it to no one else.”

“Try to stop me.” Chiara thrust out her chin at him.
Your chin looks sharp as a kitchen-knife when you do that
, Nonna always said.
Your face will stick that way
. “I know alchemical equipment, and I know its true value. If the prince wants it, he'll pay.”

“We will ask the prince himself. Come along.”

Chiara stepped back. “I'll walk.”

“Or run away to find your other buyer? You will ride with me.”

“I don't ride horses.”

He took hold of her arm, so quickly she never even saw him move. One moment he didn't have hold of her, the next moment he did. So he could've taken the funnel from the beginning if he'd wanted to. His grasp wasn't quite hard enough to hurt, but hard enough so she knew he could hurt her if he wanted to.

“You will ride this one.”

Her stomach lurched as he swung her upward. Up and up and up—it was wrong for any creature to be so big, its back so far away from the street. The scent of the horse made her head pound with pain. Its sleek red hide shifted as it stepped from one side to the other. She clutched the funnel with one hand and the back of the saddle with the other. One of her shoes fell off.

“Steady,” the foreigner said. “Lowarn, stand.”

The horse stopped moving as if by magic. Chiara felt her shoe being slipped back onto her foot.

“Curl your toes so it does not fall off again. You should have stockings.”

“I must've forgotten,” she said, through gritted teeth, “to choose a fine silken pair from the dozens and dozens in my gold-painted wardrobe chest.”

The foreigner laughed and swung up on the horse himself, throwing his leg over its neck like an acrobat. “When the prince sees what you have, he will give you money enough to buy a hundred pairs of stockings, and all the wardrobe chests you want,” he said. “Hold on to my jacket and do not drop that descensory.”

His arms moved, his heels. The horse turned, swished its long tail in a terrifying way, and stepped forward, first a walk and then a brisk trot. Chiara managed to thrust the funnel back into her pouch, then gave up any pretense of pride and wrapped her arms around the foreigner's waist, pressing her face between his shoulder blades. He smelled of ambergris and metal and stone. If she was going to be sick—not that she'd be able to do much of a job of it, hollow-empty as she was—she'd do it on his fine dark doublet and be damned to him.

They crossed a bridge. She wasn't sure which one because she didn't dare look up, but she knew the hollow sound of hooves on a bridge, and she could smell the Arno, offal and fish and rain.

At last they stopped. She heard other voices and smelled other horses.

“I have the girl, Serenissimo.” The foreigner pried her arms from around his waist and swung her down from the horse's back as if she were a sack of artichokes. She staggered and fell back against the horse's muscled hindquarter. As if she'd stumbled into fire she jerked herself away with a cry and tripped over her skirt. The worn cloth tore. And so she came face to face with Francesco de' Medici, Prince of Florence, the man who loved women and alchemy, with her bodice-strings knotted awry, her hair uncovered, and her skirt hanging torn at the hem.

And a thousand-year-old silver funnel engraved with a labyrinth in her pouch.

“I cannot say I am impressed, Magister Ruanno.”

The prince had dismounted from his monstrous gray horse and stood in the street as if he owned the very paving stones. Behind him was a flat-fronted edifice of three stories, ordinary-looking but for the fanciful figures in black and white plaster, only partly completed, that covered it. The
palle
, the Medici balls, yes, they were there too, frescoed in red and gold in the center on the second level, surmounted by the red fleur-de-lis of the grand dukes of Tuscany. Set over the doorway was a carving of a traveling hat with its strings, a
cappello
. That was the name of the prince's Venetian mistress, Bianca Cappello, everyone knew that. This must be her house, then. His father was dying, the whole city was holding its breath, and the prince was visiting his mistress.

He had a narrow, swarthy face with a high forehead, so high he had his cropped dark hair brushed forward—he was losing his hair, then. His eyes slanted downward, sensual, melancholic and secretive. Saints in the churches, painted on panels and murals, had halos of light around their heads and bodies; the prince seemed to have a tracing of darkness, as if he was standing in front of a prince-shaped hole that led into something terrible, and you could just catch glimpses of it when he moved.

“You will be impressed, Serenissimo,” the foreigner said. He dismounted from his horse as well and bowed, rather stiffly, as if he didn't like bowing. “Girl, show the prince your silver descensory.”

When he said the words
silver descensory
the prince's expression changed. Disdain became interest—more than interest, avidity. Lust, almost. So people were right about his obsession with alchemy.

Chiara held up her head and put out her kitchen-knife chin. Her hands were shaking and she could feel the eyes of the prince and all his courtiers on her. Aristocrats. She hated aristocrats, even more than she hated horses.
Bloodsuckers
, Babbo's voice whispered.
Tyrants
.
Don't give it to him. Starve instead, until you're dead, like I am
.

With every ounce of strength she had, she took the silver funnel out of her pouch and held it up.

“I will take it.” The prince held out his hand.

“I'll give it to you,” Chiara said, “when you give me a gold scudo.”

She had no idea how much a scudo was actually worth, because her father had never had more than one or two at a time pass through his hands. But from the reactions of Magister Ruanno-whatever-kind- of-name-that-was and of the prince himself, clearly the silver funnel was valuable.

“Are you mad?” The prince was not angry, though. She watched his eyes. He was amused and if anything, more lustful than ever. He wore his darkness like a cloak of fur, the pelts of some sensuous, dangerous animal. “Have you ever even seen a gold scudo?”

Chiara didn't flinch. “I have.”

“Serenissimo,” the foreigner said. “This girl claims to be an alchemist's daughter, and to have books as well. She quoted from
De Magia Veterum
and her Latin was without a flaw. Consider her—she is barely more than a child, and could well be untouched.”

The prince and the foreigner looked at each other as if Chiara wasn't there. Something passed between them, some question, some answer, some understanding. It felt cold, like iron fetters.

The prince said, “What is your name, girl?”

“Chiara.”

“And your father's name?”

The foreigner had stepped closer, behind her. The prince's courtiers and friends had spread out on either side, cutting off any way to escape. Had the prince made a gesture to order this? Or did they just know?

“If I tell you my father's name,” Chiara said, trying to keep her voice even, “you'll go to his shop and take everything for yourself, and pay me nothing. I'm hungry, and my Nonna and my little sisters are hungry.”

“Chiara,” the foreigner said. He pronounced it oddly—a liquid
keer-ah
instead of
kee-ah-rah
, the way it should be pronounced. “Do not be afraid. Answer the prince's questions, do as he tells you, and neither you nor your family will ever be hungry again.”

He talked to her as if she were a child, and a witless one at that. Chiara scowled at him and said, “I'm a Florentine citizen born, and I believe no foreigners' promises.”

The prince laughed. “Well spoken,” he said. “Believe my promises, then—I am as Florentine as you are, back to Lorenzo il Magnifico and beyond. Come, let us go to the Palazzo Vecchio where we can speak of this matter in peace and privacy.”

Privacy? Did he want her as his mistress after all, bony chest notwithstanding?

“Privacy will cost more,” she said. “Five scudi.”

All the men laughed. Her face burned like fire.

“Messer Alessandro,” the prince said to one of his gentlemen. “Wait upon Madonna Bianca, if you please, and explain to her that I have been interrupted with a matter of importance. I will see her tonight if I can, although if my father dies today everything will change.”

The man bowed, with a great deal more grace and panache than Magister Ruanno, although his mouth pursed up as if he'd taken a bite of wormy cheese. Clearly he wasn't pleased with the task of explaining to Madonna Bianca that she'd been put aside for an alchemist's daughter. “Yes, Serenissimo,” he said.

“We return to the Palazzo Vecchio.” The prince mounted his gray stallion again. “Magister Ruanno, bring
la nostra piccola
Chiara and her silver descensory and her amusing ideas of how much she is worth.”

“No,” Chiara said. “I don't want to come with you. You can't—”

The foreigner took hold of her arm, just as he'd done before. It didn't hurt, but it could if he wanted it to. Oh, yes, it could.

“Come with me,” he said. “You wished to speak of alchemy with the prince? Now you will have your chance.”

“T
onight, perhaps, or tomorrow, or the next day, my father will be dead.” The prince's voice was cold, as if he didn't care if his father died or not. He probably didn't. “I will be Grand Duke of Tuscany, and I will have absolute power in Florence. If you are wise, you will wish to please me.”

They had clattered back through the
cancello
into the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, renewed rain showers spattering around them. Once again Chiara rode pillion behind Magister Ruanno—she'd survived one ride, so why wouldn't she survive another? In fact, she'd overcome her fear to the point that she could actually feel her poor bruised backside when the ride was over. Horses! Dangerous, smelly playthings of aristocrats. On the other hand, she had to admit they'd arrived back at the palazzo much more quickly than she could have done if she'd walked in the rain.

Another thing about aristocrats—they had so many servants they never did anything for themselves. Servants had run to lead the horses away, run to open every door, run for gilded chairs and embroidered cushions and hot spiced wine, a thing Chiara had never tasted before, not once in her whole life. Just the scent of it made her head swim, and the taste—it was like Nonna's wild-currant cordial mixed with the angelica pasticci she made for stomachaches, like liquid wildflowers and honeybees, sweet and stinging and velvety. It was enough—well, almost enough—to make her think the Medici might not be so bad after all.

“I will please you if I can, Serenissimo,” she said.

“Good. Then I will tell you that my true life's work is the creation of the
Lapis Philosophorum
, the Stone of the Philosophers. In this, Magister Ruanno assists me.”

He gestured briefly to the other man in the elaborate little studiolo, the English alchemist. In his precise foreigner's Italian, Magister Ruanno said, “We have completed the third stage, the stage of calcination. For the fourth stage, the stage of exuberation, we have decided we require a
soror mystica
.”

The prince said, “Do you know what that means, Mona Chiara?”

Chiara looked from one man to the other, the prince who took wealth and luxuries and absolute obedience as his everyday due, and the foreigner in his dark doublet and hose, his shoulders thick with workman's musculature, his mouth so cruel and his eyes sadder than sad. How could two men be so different and at the same time be—well, what were they? Master and servant? The prince clearly thought everyone was his servant, and the foreigner, for whatever reason, was willing to play the part.

“
Soror mystica
,” she repeated. “Something mystical?”

Magister Ruanno smiled his unsettling wolflike smile. “So you do not know as much Latin as you claim.”

“I never claimed to know it to speak it every day. I know bits that my father taught me, that's all.”

“It means a sister in the art,” the prince said. “A female alchemist.”

“Surely you have heard of Magister Nicolas Flamel of Paris.” Magister Ruanno picked up a flask of wine and refilled her cup for her. His hands were long-fingered and finely shaped, but the palms were badly scarred, as if by hard labor. “You, an alchemist's daughter.”

Chiara drank more of the wine. It made her feel as if she was alone inside her head for the first time since the horse had kicked her and cracked her skull. She hadn't heard of Magister Nicolas whoever-he-was but she'd die before she'd admit it.

“Magister Nicolas Flamel,” she repeated, parrotlike. “What about him?”

“He is said to have achieved the
Lapis Philosophorum
, and with it the elixir of life, almost two hundred years ago. He and his wife Perenelle.”

“His wife assisted him?”

“She did.” The prince rose to his feet, assuming command of the little room. “The female principle is necessary to create the
Lapis Philosophorum
, just as it is necessary to create life in the flesh. The woman who supplies that principle is called the alchemist's
soror mystica
.”

“And you want me to be that—that woman,” Chiara said. Babbo had never told her that a woman could be an alchemist in her own right. “You don't want to buy my father's equipment, you want to buy me.”

“Oh, I do want to buy your father's equipment.” The prince reached out and pulled on the frame of one of the paintings. She thought he was going to pull it off the wall entirely, but to her surprise it swung open and revealed a secret niche. Something glinted inside, but she couldn't see what it was. “I will pay you generously for it, and put it here—I keep my particular curiosities hidden from any eyes but my own.”

“You can't hide me away in a niche behind a painting.”

He looked at her rather as if he wished he could. “No,” he said in his cold voice. “I cannot. As for you becoming my
soror
, it is not quite as simple as buying you.”

“So what is it?”

“First it must be proven that you are a virgin.”

“That I'm a
what
?”

The prince laughed. It always seemed wrong when he smiled or laughed—unnatural. It didn't fit his face. He spoke over her shoulder, as if she wasn't even in the room. “There, Magister Ruanno, see? I told you a street girl would not be pure.”

“I'm as pure as any lady of the court,” Chiara said. “Purer, probably.”

“Well said, Monella Chiara.” The foreigner smiled at her. “And probably true. Nevertheless, to be the prince's
soror mystica
, you must prove your virginity.”

Whatever pit he had originally climbed out of, his Italian was good enough to play with words—
mona
was a perfectly polite form of address for a guildswoman of Florence, but
monella
, however much it might sound like a diminutive for a young woman, actually just meant a street urchin.

She'd show him street urchin. She thrust out her chin at him. “Prove it how?”

“There is an initiation,” the prince said. Magister Ruanno frowned and seemed about to speak but the prince silenced him with a single sharp gesture. “Incorporated within the ritual there are four tests of virginity—the black water, the blood-red ribbon, the silver sieve and the golden fire. If you complete the ritual and pass through the tests successfully, you will be initiated as my
soror
and allowed to vow yourself to my service.”

Black water? Blood? Fire?

“That sounds like something out of a dream or an old story, not something real.”

Magister Ruanno said, “It is—”

“Oh, it is real.” The prince overrode him. “It is a ritual I myself have created, unique in the history of the world. If you pass through it successfully, you will gain more than just a place in my household. You will earn a great deal of gold for yourself and your family. You will be taught the alchemist's art. And you will have a chance, a true chance, to join in the creation of the
Lapis Philosophorum
.”

Chiara stared at him.

The Philosopher's Stone.

It could heal anything, even death itself. It would heal the headaches. It would drive out the voices in her head. She would be one person again, whole and right.

She would learn the art of alchemy. Become a female alchemist. How many of those had there been, since the world was created?

And gold. Nonna and Lucia and Mattea, well-fed, warm, dry, safe. The shop restored, busy again with Nonna to manage it and the girls to help. A fine alchemical laboratory where she could practice her art, clean and well-lighted, not at all like Babbo's dark, secret cellar. All of them with clean feather beds and beautiful dresses and all the shoes and stockings and chopines they wanted and gold rings on their fingers. Fresh hot bread and juicy meat and flaky fruit pastries, piles of angelica pasticci and bottles and bottles of wild-currant cordial.

“And what if I agree to do this— this initiation, and don't pass all the tests?”

“Are you not a virgin after all?”

“I am a virgin! But the tests—they sound like magic, and there's no such thing as magic. What can a silver sieve possibly have to do with being a virgin?”

“You will find out in due time.” The prince took another step toward her. She stepped backward.

“What if I don't pass the tests?”

The prince took hold of her arm. Unlike the foreigner, he didn't seem to care if he hurt her or not. “You will have to try and find out.”

“I won't do it unless you tell me what happens if I fail the tests.”

The prince and Magister Ruanno exchanged looks.

“You cannot let her go now,” Magister Ruanno said. He shifted his position, stepping behind her. “You would not allow me to stop you, Serenissimo, and you should have. Now she will spread it all over the city that you sacrifice young virgins with blood and fire. They dislike you enough as it is, and with your father so close to death, a story like this could start a revolution.”

The prince shrugged. He said, “Take her to the Casino di San Marco, then. Use the secret door. Lock her up there, and allow her to speak to no one.”

“I won't say anything,” Chiara whispered. The fear she'd felt when the guardsmen took hold of her was nothing compared to this fear. “Not to anyone, I swear it. Here, I'll give you the silver funnel.”

She fumbled at her pouch with her free hand, and took out the funnel.
A thousand years old
, she thought.
Thracian silver, from the look of it
. She held it out to the prince.

A free gift.

Please . . .

Magister Ruanno, behind her, put his left arm around her neck. She felt his forearm against her throat, right up under her chin, pressing. Not too hard.

The silver funnel struck the floor with a ringing sound and rolled.

His right hand cupped the back of her head with terrifying gentleness and pressed forward.

Blackness.