Petra of the Shazastar is a thief on the run from an unforgettable past. But, like all thieves, her luck cannot last forever. When she is caught, she's given a choice: either face execution or become the fortune teller to the Mad Queen.
Not surpri...
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AZDAGS.
A COOL BREEZE FLUTTERS beside me and I quickly run into the captain's empty room. I shut the door behind me and sit with my back to the wall and as far away from any windows as I can.
I rock back and forth, fretting with a decision that eats at my conscious. I could still leave. The palazzo was still asleep. Giovanni had not yet returned from his morning ride. Annabella was preoccupied elsewhere. I could still leave and perhaps if I am careful this time, I can make it years before I am detected once again.
And leave them all to suffer?
Fat Pete and his mysterious master were banking on the fact that I have made attachments in Florentia - attachments that would make it hard for me to leave. And they were right. I cannot leave a trail of carnage where ever I stay. I cannot have it happen again.
"Oh, gram," I whisper into the empty room. "Oh, what am I to do?"
I make the Shazastar sign to ward evil again and again.
Sooner or later they will find you.
That thought stills me from my rocking - perhaps my time has come? I have been running for most of my life. Running from my mistakes, and I am tired. I am so terribly exhausted.
The bedroom door squeaks open and I stand on shaky legs. Whoever the stranger sending those demons is, he will not find me cowering on the floor. No. I will take my fate head on.
But my bravado is for nothing - for it is only Giovanni back from his ride.
Sweaty, sun kissed, striking -
I look away.
"I would like to return to my own quarters," I whisper instead; I do not know what to feel, what to think, what to believe any longer.
"I am not keeping you against your will. You may leave at any time." He walks over to the table beside his desk. There he places a brown bag from which a round juicy orange rolls off the table only to land right next to me.
Bernardino's finest fruits in all of Florentia.
Giovanni pulls a seat and makes himself comfortable. He then grabs one of the reddest apples of the bunch and bits into it. He keeps his gaze on me, just watching me, like an eagle watching a pitiful mouse in the fields far below.
Chewing and watching.
"I suppose I should have some breakfast before I leave," I whisper, his gaze making uncomfortably guilty.
He doesn't say a word, only rips a piece of bread and a chunk of cheese and pushes it over to the edge of the table. I keep my glare on the table as I walk over and instead grab an orange.
