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...
"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble."
– Macbeth (Act IV, Scene I).
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I WATCH HIM WAKE. THERE I sit, freshly bathed, hair combed into long waves, gown the color of happiness and I watch as he stirs and blinks against the morning sun. He stretches and the intimacy of it stirs within me.
Torna da me, Petra.
Giovanni's sleepy gaze settles on me, and my face heats. "You're alive?" His voice husky from sleep makes him even more irritatingly frustrating. Why can he not wake like the rest of us – like trolls after a long night of drinking? He makes his way slowly to me, not once taking his eyes away from mine – in disbelief and suspicion – half interrogation, half conversation.
How I just want to spill all that I had discovered last night. But I keep silent, for he will not believe me.
'Oh, signore! While I was floating around as a phantom of myself, you wouldn't believe who I ran into!'
'Oh, do tell!'
'Why, the Marchisios of course, Cecilia and Alfonse. You wouldn't believe, but apparently Alfonse Marchisio murdered your uncle King Lorenzo in cold blood and plans to do the same to you!'
'Oh, you don't say! Well, thank you for telling me, Petra! I should have never have doubted your grand powers. By the way, I also believe in magic and think you are much more beautiful and talented than that simpleton Valentina –'
I hardly believe it myself and so instead keep my eyes on my toast, as it has become the most intriguing object in the room. "Very much alive signore."
He slumps into a chair opposite me and sighs. "Last night..." He stops and studies me once again. "You were dying."
I swallow a knot.
"Yet, today you look ..."
He stalls and I wait, wait for him to continue, to say what I can clearly see in his eyes. He looks away but not before I can notice a small smile on the corner of his mouth.
Such a simple look, such a small expression, however my insides flutter like leaves in autumn. My skin heats like the floors of the Shazastar desert and I too look away, suddenly timid.
"Voglio toccarti per assicurarsi che non sei un fantasma," he whispers.
"You know I do not understand Florentian. How would you feel if I went around speaking and you did not understand me?"
He leans back in his seat and shrugs. "Learn."
"I already forgot what you said." I stab jam on my toast, taking out my frustrations on my breakfast. " I don't have time for your games."
