She knew that her efforts were no use, as he must know it. But instead of bringing the game to its foregone end, he withdrew into a strange languor. He had no counsel for Sir Thomas, no insults for Cara, nothing but those instants of living hope once a day.

She was coming to hate Desmond. As she grew more vehement, he grew more cocksure, as if he took pot-courage from her visits. Well he might, she thought, hearing dire warnings from a female, threats that must seem more impotent by the day.

"You must do something more," she said, after another fruitless session in the turret.

Allegreto gave her a level look. "Must I?" he asked softly.

She thought of Desmond, so proud of his boy's stupid courage, trying to protect someone who in all chance deserved no protection, worst of all if it was her fiendish mistress and her wicked schemes. She thought of Ficino, who at least had known the way of things. And Allegreto, standing in crimson on the dais, the color of blood and fire.

Somehow, after that night, he had given over his soul to her, as if she could protect it for him. He waited for her decision.

"You must talk to him again," she said.

He smiled. He laid his head back in the chair and laughed.

"Cara," he said. "Ah, Cara."

He said it as if he were in despair. He cast a look about the room, a prisoner's search for some weakness or crack in the walls. Then he pushed back the chair and sprang like a cornered cat from a pit, leaving Cara and Sir Thomas alone.

* * *

She was lying awake when he came in the dark. She had heard the single clarion that heralded some late arrival, and sat up hastily. Allegreto's outline against the low candle confirmed her in fear and wild relief. "She has come?" she whispered.

He put his hand over her mouth, moving with utter silence, pulling her urgently up from her bed. Some of the other ladies stirred, but he pushed her from the chamber before their sleepy mumbles gained sense. Cold air welled up the stair; he held her and went before her at once, half dragging her with him down the black descent. She could hear the voices of men in the bailey—louder at the arrowslits where the night air poured in.

He brought her to the landing, hauling her with a fierce grip toward the unshuttered window. His breath was harsh, coming fast and uneven next to her ear, as if he could not get enough. He pushed her into the embrasure, his hands on her shoulders.

Cara leaned over, looking down at the torch-lit scene with the night wind blowing in her face. She blinked, trying to see, trying to recognize the voices in French and Italian. One soft command to a porter drifted up to the tower window—someone turned a lanthorn and lit a man standing quietly beside his horse.

She covered her mouth.

The castle, the world, seemed to turn over. Allegreto clung to her, his face buried in her shoulder.

"Gian," she said, and made the cross in terror. "Blessed Mary, have pity on us!"

"What he will do to me," he whispered. "Oh, God—Cara—what he will do to me."

* * *

She did not know how Allegreto possessed himself. Gian Navona said nothing, watching each of them in turn: his bastard son and Sir Thomas and Cara—and Desmond, shackled to a bench in the council chamber, where only a single candle burned on the table, lighting them all and leaving Gian in shadow.

Allegreto had explanations. What they were, Cara didn't hear. She could hear nothing but her own pulse. At some moment her name came through it, and she felt herself observed.

"Lift up your face, Donna Cara," said that quiet voice from the shadow. "You preserved your mistress from these poisoned shellfish?"

She could not command her tongue. Allegreto gave her a look, one of his old looks, full of amused disdain. "Not by her wit, as you may see. She thought they smelt badly."

Gian chuckled. "But it's a good girl," he murmured. "A miss be as well as a mile, so they say."

Allegreto made a snort. His father's gaze turned toward him momentarily, and then to Desmond.

"Sir Thomas," Gian said, without taking his eyes from the youth, "your patience is praiseworthy. You will not wonder at my concern in these matters when I tell you that the princess and I are to be wed. Perhaps my son has not mentioned it?"

The seneschal cleared his throat. "He acquainted me, my lord, with your interest and solicitude for my lady, and has stood here as your chief man and hers, to give aid in this fearful matter."

"I hope he has been of some benefit to you, but his tender years need not bear such a grave weight longer, now that I am here."

"The castle be at your service, my lord," Sir Thomas said. "My only aim is my lady's welfare. I have not called in the king's aid, because—"

"Quite right," Gian interrupted him. "To broadcast news of this misfortune too hastily would have been the worst possible mistake. You have done well, Sir Thomas, as Donna Cara has done well, each to his own talents." As he spoke, he had never ceased watching Desmond. "I am a little dissatisfied to find that Donna Cara has turned her domestic arts, invaluable though they might be, to matters my son might have been thought to manage better."

Allegreto sat calmly, lazily, gazing back toward the dark end of the chamber at his father. He still had the faint lift of disdain to his lips, his lashes lowered in sleepy watchfulness.

"I am proud of thee, Allegreto, thou art so brave as to be here," his father said. "Thou art a devoted son."

"My lord," Allegreto said, acknowledging the compliment with a nod.

"But then, I neglected to send word ahead. I must give thee my regret for the oversight. No doubt that is the reason for this unfortunate reception."

Allegreto said nothing. He did not move.

"Take this"—Gian indicated Desmond—"somewhere that I may deal with it, as you have not."

Desmond's face was white. He wet his lips as Allegreto rose and loosed the fetters from the bench. The boy had the fear in him; he understood her warnings now, when it was too late.

"Donna Cara," Gian said, "you must take care that the chambers are well prepared for your mistress. I think she will be among us ere long now."

* * *

Cara kept a vigil in the chapel, for she could no more sleep than she could flee. She prayed for the souls of her parents and for her sister. She prayed for Desmond. The priest looked at her curiously when he rang the little bell for hours. She left then, unwilling to draw attention, pulling her headscarf close to her as she pushed open the door. The bailey lay silent and still under the cold stars before dawn.

A black figure stepped away from the wall beside the arched entrance. It was Allegreto, shaking in the frigid air. "Wait," he said, his voice a faint tremor in the quiet.

She felt sick. "Is it over?"

"Nay," he murmured. "Nay, he holds yet. It is early." A shudder ran through him. In the starlight she saw him grip his fists tightly. "I'm sorry."

She bit her lip. Then she shook her head. "It is your father."

"I did not know—I never thought—" Another shiver broke his words. "You must stay away from him. I never once thought he would come here!"

A soft frightened sound seemed to seep from him against his will. His shaking increased. She reached out to him, for she thought he would fall, and he caught her hand and held it hard against his face. She felt wetness there—ice, his tears and his cheeks were, as if a marble statue wept.

"Don't!" It frightened her beyond wit to feel him shake. She pulled him close to her, against her breast to make him stop, pressing her back to the wall and holding tight to force him to be still. With a groan he brought his hands up around her shoulders and kissed her.

She said, "No," but his cold lips and cheek touched hers, drawing life, taking away what warmth she had with desperate greed.

"No!" She turned her face away. She twisted her fingers in his hair to check him and yet still hold him—hold him like a child with his face buried in her throat, her arms tight around him.

She kept him there, stroking his hair. She held him until her arm ached with the strain. The tremors passed through him to her, easing, but before they had left him, he shoved suddenly away from her and turned his back.

"Monteverde bitch," he said, but he had no venom in his voice, only anguish.

His figure cast a faint, smeared shadow on the wall beside her. She opened her palm against it, but it was only cold and darkness, an illusion. She did not have life enough in her, she thought, to give him as much as he needed, even if she gave it all.

"Come with me," he said coolly, as if he had never trembled in her arms. "I have a scheme; I need your help." He flashed a look at her, his face stone white in the starlight. "But if you slip, Monteverde, you kill all three of us."

* * *

She could not look at Desmond. She was afraid to look; he made a sound as the heavy door opened that was pain and terror, choked off into wordless pants. There was no guard—Allegreto had told her to watch, and speak when she was told to speak. She no more asked what he had done to the guard than she looked at what they had done to Desmond.

A candle had been left burning in the larding cellar, lighting ordinary things. Allegreto's shadow passed across smoked meats and a bushel of apples. "Now, my stubborn little ass, you've made acquaintance of my father," he said quietly. "You may take your choice between us."