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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"YOU MUST WAKE," A SOFT voice murmurs. "You must, por favore!"
That bit of Florentian lights the darkness that I lay in. I open my eyes, but it is as if they are leaded down, exhausted and heavy. My vision begins to clear; a woman, blonde hair shining, eyes shimmering, and mouth quivering – Cecilia Marchisio? Has she come to finish what the Zingari did not? But why does she look so concerned?
"What do you want, Cecilia?" My voice surprises me, so hoarse, so emotionless, and so dead.
She shakes her head. "Isabella. Remember, her mother. Lavik's wife..."
Lavik.
Angry fire courses through my veins as my mind plays me visions of the Zingari, silver haired and hungry. Visions of Lavik and his brethren, watching as I screamed in pain, their only concern to consume my light. I turn to my side and heave bile, for there is nothing left in my stomach – nothing left in me. Isabella holds me, although her thin arms shake with the effort.
I remember Lavik.
"He's been asking for you," Isabella continues as she helps me sit up, but I have no energy and I slump against her petite frame. "You must see him."
Why would I want to see that animal? "No." It takes all my strength to murmur that one word, hiss it out. I just want to close my eyes and sleep – for I cannot—I cannot even breathe without breaking into a sweat.
"No?" Isabella stares at me. I can tell that she thinks I have lost my mind – then softly she whispers. "You do not wish to see him? The de Luca boy? You have gone though all of this – and no?"
Giovanni?
My heart beats so furiously, that it hurts. I feel a tremor form inside me – did they bring him back in the same way I did Zen Zen and Sven? Would Saboykan stoop so low? I do not dare ask, but the question must have been very obvious upon my face.
How?
"The Zingari have healing magic, remember?" Isabella continues to ramble, a nervous talker – not so stark and to the point as her daughter. "He lives, but the recovery ... perhaps he will wish he hadn't."
The ugly forest hag did it then. "His eyes," I whisper. "What do they look like?"
Isabella watches me carefully. "Tired, I suppose... in pain." Then she pauses. "I don't understand, Petra. Are you not relieved that he lives --"
"The color! I need to know the color!"
Startled, she stammers, "The same as they have always been ... that strange grey ... like his father's."
