Page 71 of A Dangerous Bargain

I suck in a soft breath as Leonardo touches her shoulder. “Please. I promise you we want the same things.”

Her tear-filled eyes meet his for an eternity.

Then she nods once and stands.

We follow Clarice out of a second exit from the chapel, one leading to the Medici’s private quarters. Here lies the most magnificent of the family art collection: paintings and statues and tapestries that all seem to glare at us as we pass by. Can they tell we mean their masters harm, like a pack of loyal hounds?

“How did you earn her confidence?” I say to Leonardo, too low for Clarice to overhear.

“She judged the wedding portraits this afternoon. Ours was the only one not magicked. She was frightened of the others, so I got her alone and asked why. I promised her we were trying to rid Florence of the demons, and if she picked our portrait to win, we could help her. She picked Rucellai’s instead.” He runs a hand down his jaw, frowning. “She wouldn’t tell me why but insisted we’d be more useful if we didn’t win the commission.”

None of this sounds good. Except… “So she liked our painting more than Bartolomeo’s?”

“Of course that’s what you’d latch onto.” But his mouth quirks anyway.

Clarice comes to an abrupt halt in the middle of a hall. At the end, two Medici guards flank a door. A torch burns close, its light catching strangely on their sword pommels.

I brush the skull-handled key hidden in my inner pocket. I’d wager anything it matches their swords.

At the sight of their new mistress, the guards square their shoulders. “Signora, what are you doing here?”

Clarice draws herself taller. “Step aside! These are my chosen painters.” Gone is the terrified woman from the chapel. She strides forward, not waiting for a reply, but one of the guards stops her with a gauntleted hand.

“Your husband’s instructions were clear, signora. No one is to let the winners inside except for him.”

Clarice’s nostrils quiver. “This is outrageous! I will not be denied.”

The three of them begin arguing in earnest.

This close, I can see their weapons clearly: ruby-eyed skulls on both pommels.

Leonardo nudges me forward. “Go on.” His hand lingers on the small of my back, brushes along the base of my spine. “I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

Too distracted by their argument to pay me any attention, I slip my key into the lock.

And the door creaks open.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

It’s a workshop.

Or perhaps less a workshop and more a painter’s studio.

A wooden canvas lies on an easel, waiting to be prepped. The workbench is bare of brushes and pigments, but I see the old stains. I drag my finger through a spill of cinnabar on the floor. It’s gritty and dusty—too old to have been spilled recently.

The only window is located in the ceiling—a strange, slanted thing. Leonardo might know what it’s called, but I certainly don’t. A swath of stars is visible beyond. A sleeping pallet in the corner and a chamber pot beside it make up everything else in the space.

I spin around, trying to make sense of it. Why would the Medici hide this?

There’s a creak, and a section of wall starts to move.

I scramble backward, needing to hide, but there’s nowhere to go.

Niccolo, my brother, freezes at the threshold of the secret doorway. “How did you get in here?” His eyes snag on the still-cracked door behind me.

I should run. This isn’t a place wedding guests are supposed to see. His growing frown confirms it.

And yet.