The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,203

against the white. I felt my heart fail with love and longing. The only true difference was that upon his ring hand the flesh was livid with burns; a desert of smooth, arid, healed skin stretched over the long bones. I wondered what other injuries were hid by the fine clothes, but did not care—I would love him, through and through, however damaged he may be.

I could not follow the service, could not breathe for the happiness that swelled in my chest. Could hardly hold my right hand up in the traditional Tuscan greeting, to my groom and guests. Could not look at the priest or heed his words, for I could not shift my eyes from my—could it be true?—husband.

I managed to murmur the responses, and we were wed.

I held his burned hand hard as we moved as one down the aisle. Caught my mother’s eye, and she smiled at me from beneath her mask. Once outside we were able to speak at last as we threw handfuls of coins to the children. I had a thousand questions but began with two.

“What happened? Where is Niccolò?”

“Dead. He contracted gangrene in his leg, and so died of his battle wounds.”

I remembered what my mother had said: his condition will not affect the wedding, it will take place almost as planned. Then she told me I’d be happy. I had to smile.

“I was the surviving heir of the della Torres,” he went on, “and at last I was ready to inherit my city. As I told you of my time in the Bargello, things change in Tuscan politics all the time. The worm at the bottom of the dungheap can next day be king of the castle.”

The children were jackdawing for coins around our feet, but we might as well have been alone in the world.

My husband tenderly tucked a golden curl behind my ear. “When I took Holy Orders I was young and untried. I loved the church and I loved books, but knew nothing of the world. You showed it to me. In Rome I fell out of love with the church.” A cloud passed over his face. “But now I know that I may love God, and you, too, and that there is no need to choose. My church is no longer my church, but my God will always be my God; is now and forever shall be.”

“But how . . . that is, how did you survive?”

‘I jumped into the sea, for I was aflame, that much is true. But I clung to the mast of the flagship and held on for dear life; life that was infinitely dear since I had found you. The storm still raged around me, and once I almost let go from the pain, for my hands were badly burned and the salt brine stung like vinegar. But something made me hold on.”

“Me?” I asked hopefully, knowing then the prayer I had offered from the lanterna had been answered.

He smiled. “In a sense. Perhaps we should thank your alter ego, the goddess Flora,” said my husband. “As I swallowed the seas and fought for breath, I saw her form, your form, and the life and promise within, and the swell of a child at her belly, and I knew I had to live to see the spring. But in my vision, as on the cartone, she had no face, and I had to see yours again.” He cupped my cheeks, as if to make sure that I was real. “At the same moment I saw the lights of the shore and washed up on the beach at Peglia. I made my way back to the doge’s palace, a slow and painful journey, for by then I was in high fever: now burning hot, now freezing cold. I knew I was not out of danger, for if I was found on the cliffs by the loyal Genoese after the battle that had lately taken place, I would have been executed as an enemy deserter. But I came to Genoa at last, where the doge was more than happy to reward me for my services. He put everything at my disposal: his best physicians, and then when I was ready, clothes, horses, and a retinue. He told me that you’d gone to Pisa with your mother. He told me to pursue you, that I might dare to hope; but I needed no telling.” He tightened his arms around me. “He’s a good man, and