The Fortune Teller Page 14

  Holy hell, why was Theo calling?

  She picked up. “Mr. Bossard, I’m so sorry. Have you been informed about the incident?” she asked, floundering. She had no clue how to handle this call.

  “Mikhail called me,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  The question caught her off guard. “I’ve only just heard the news. I’m so sorry.” She apologized again. “I hope the investigators recover the piece.”

  She waited for him to respond, but there was only silence from his end. She hedged. “Mikhail and Fritz will be following up with the investigators and keeping you apprised.” She heard him sigh, but still he said nothing. Just what did he want her to say? Why was he calling?

  He finally spoke. “Semele, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely frank with you about my father. This isn’t happening like I expected.”

  A chill burrowed deep inside her. So he knew. He had known all along about Ionna’s manuscript.

  It was as if the veil between them was falling away.

  “There are certain things I need to share with you, but it’s best to do so in person. I’m in Rome right now but can be there by the end of the week.”

  “Friday,” she whispered. The thought she’d had this morning was coming true.

  “Yes. Until then, be careful.”

  “Theo,” she said, her voice sounding shaky, “if you’re trying to scare me, it’s working.”

  “You’re in the middle of something you don’t understand. I’m not even sure I understand it.” He sounded frustrated. “I’ll call you when I’m en route. Please be careful.” Then he hung up.

  Semele stood on the corner and a cold wind whipped around her. She was afraid to go back to her apartment, and reading the rest of Ionna’s story had taken on a new urgency. Someone wanted the manuscript enough to break in to Kairos, and now Theo Bossard was flying halfway around the world to tell her something that couldn’t be said over the phone.

  She needed to get out of New York for a few days so she could finish reading and figure out what to do.

  She needed to go home.

  Even though she hadn’t spoken to her mother in months, suddenly home was the only place she wanted to be.

  * * *

  She headed to Brooklyn to pack a bag, sure that a five-minute stop at her place would be safe. But when she got off the train, a sense of foreboding enveloped her.

  The black BMW parked in front of her building looked out of place.

  Semele walked several more feet toward her apartment, but every instinct told her to stop moving. She ducked inside a nearby café and waited, looking out the glass window. Minutes passed.

  Then she saw him. The man from the library was running out of her building.

  He jumped into the passenger seat of the BMW.

  Semele stood frozen inside the café, her world in free fall. Her paranoia had been justified. That man was watching her at the library. Ionna had really warned her.

  God only knew what he had been doing at her apartment. Hysteria gripped her: Who the hell was he?

  As the car drove past, Semele watched through the window. What she saw completely paralyzed her.

  Raina was driving the car.

  Message to VS—

  We lost her.

  From VS—

  Watch the apartment.

  Message to VS—

  Theo Bossard is coming to NY.

  From VS—

  Of course he is.

  History does not remember Hayl’s or Rinalto’s stories. But you should. Then you will start to understand.

  Rinalto was not the most physical man. He usually spent his days hunched over a worktable painting miniatures. But his height and lean frame stood in his favor: the boy he was chasing couldn’t be more than six years old and shouldn’t be this hard to catch.

  “Mi scusi, mi scusi.…” Rinalto pushed through the crowd apologetically. The market was busy today.

  Rinalto had been browsing the items on display at one of the stalls when he saw two small, dirt-covered hands reach out and snatch a necklace off the shelf. Then the boy dashed off. Rinalto had no idea if the necklace had any value, but he knew the seller, Hayl, was too old to chase him.

  Rinalto lost sight of the boy for a few seconds, then spotted him heading toward the piazza. There was a special mass at the Duomo today, and all of Milan had converged on the city square. Rinalto forced himself to run faster. He lunged forward and grabbed the boy’s shirt right before the little rat tried to dash between a man’s legs.

  “That’s enough,” Rinalto gasped, catching his breath.

  “Let me go!” The boy kicked and spit and tried to wriggle away, but Rinalto anchored him with a firm grip.

  “Give me what you took and I will.”

  People began to stare.

  “If you don’t,” he threatened, “there’s a priest over there I’m sure you’re dying to confess to.”

  The boy stopped fighting. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace. As soon as Rinalto had it in hand, the boy stomped on his foot with such force that Rinalto let go of him. He disappeared within seconds. Rinalto limped back to the market with a rueful grin. At least he had the necklace. It looked expensive; he was glad he had made the effort.

  When Rinalto reached the stall, Hayl saw what he had recovered. For a moment the old trader looked too stunned to speak. He turned to the shelf and realized the display that had held the necklace was empty.

  “The boy had a good eye!” Hayl bellowed as he took the necklace back, but his laughter rang false. “Thank you, Rinalto. Thank you.” The old man slapped Rinalto on the back.

  “It’s very beautiful.” Rinalto had never seen firestones like those before. The iridescent red looked like a field of poppies lit on fire.

  “From Edessa,” Hayl said.

  Rinalto watched the old man gently trace the stones with his fingers and Rinalto wondered at the sadness behind Hayl’s smile.

  Perhaps the necklace had belonged to a woman he once knew. Rinalto and his family had bought goods from Hayl for years, but he was always alone, unlike the other traders who were often assisted by a wife or child.

  Hayl was a Saracen who came from a village near the Caspian Sea. He loved to boast that he’d traveled most of the world, as far north as Kvenland and as far south as Syene—even down the Nile River in Egypt. The trader enjoyed telling tales, and every item he sold came with a story.

  “What are you looking for today?” Hayl asked, still holding the necklace.

  “The Book of Optics.” Rinalto’s eyes scanned the shelves.

  “Ah, a popular one.” Hayl surveyed his stock. He had already sold several copies on this trip.

  Every artist in Italy was buying the book to understand dimensional mastery, “the Del Aspect” as they called it. The Book of Optics demonstrated how to create two-dimensional pictorial representations of three-dimensional space.

  “Written by Alhazen, an Arab physicist and mathematician,” Hayl said as he searched his books, “born in Basra, educated in Baghdad, and lived most of his life in Cairo, four hundred years ago!” he bellowed again in his jovial way. “I’m sure I have one left.”

  Rinalto smiled, grateful. “I haven’t had a commission in months. I was hoping reading it might help.…” He trailed off, distracted by a young woman on the other side of the aisle. Every young man in the market seemed to be watching her. She was browsing the stalls and holding a petite white-haired dog in her arms.

  Rinalto took off his cap.

  Hayl looked over at the girl and smiled. “A rose in perfect blossom. Why don’t you go gardening, Rinalto?” He winked.

  “Viviana Orsini will never notice me.”

  “Bah!” Hayl wrapped up the book. “You’re young with a heart waiting to be broken.”

  “She’s from a noble family. And I…” Rinalto motioned to his clothes, which bore stains from paint. He watched Viviana move farther down the aisle. “If I had my own studio, she might
. If I had commissions like Ghiberti, her family might consider me a suitor.”

  Hayl understood the poor boy’s predicament. “Unrequited love is one of life’s worst afflictions. Trust me, I know.” He picked up the firestone necklace. “I tried to give this necklace to a girl once. She did not accept.”

  Rinalto looked over at Hayl, hoping the trader would say more. He sensed there was a story behind the necklace.

  Hayl held up the firestones and watched them catch the sunlight. He had not thought of Kalinka in years. Only the necklace knew their history, a story he would never tell.

  He placed the jewels high on a shelf where no hand could reach them. Then turned his attention back to Rinalto. “So. How does one get showered with commissions?”

  “One piece of art for the right patron.” Rinalto continued to watch Viviana. She was an angelic vision with pouted lips and hair that shone like pale amber.

  “One of your miniatures?” Hayl asked.

  Despondent, Rinalto shook his head. “Something grander. Like a deck of cards.”

  A winter breeze whipped through the market, and Rinalto watched Viviana hand her little dog to her maid so she could put on her gloves. They were a striking red that matched the print of her cape.

  How he would love to paint her.

  “Ah, I see.” Hayl nodded, understanding. He’d been trading in the peninsula for thirty years and had seen playing cards take root. Noble families had begun commissioning famous artists to create their own decks, a sign of prestige. The cards were crafted with the finest parchment or wood and usually painted with gold.

  Over the years Hayl had looked for interesting and unusual cards to bring to Italy and sell for a high price. On his last trip, he traveled as far as the Zagros Mountains, where he found an old trader looking to sell his wares. He ended up buying an unusual deck from the old man, unlike any he had seen before.

  “Why are there only twenty-two?” Hayl had asked.

  “These are very special,” the old man said, “from the time of the pharaohs. They’ve been in my family for many generations.”

  Hayl doubted it, knowing firsthand that traders made up all kinds of stories to sell their goods. Yellow tin and fake gems were often passed off as gold and precious jewels in the markets. He was certain he could make up an even better story and sell the cards to a wealthy nobleman in Milan for a pretty florin.

  Hayl didn’t know what made him to do it. Perhaps it was the longing on Rinalto’s face as he watched Viviana, a girl as lovely as his Kalinka long ago. Maybe it was the look in Rinalto’s eyes that said he didn’t believe he would ever obtain his dreams. Or maybe it was because Kalinka’s memory still had yet to fade. Whatever the reason, Hayl pulled out the special deck of cards.

  “Perhaps you can gain attention with these,” he said and handed them to Rinalto.

  Rinalto took the cards and looked at each one closely. “Magnificent. The paintings…” His finger traced one design. “What kind of game do you play with these?” he wondered, studying the unusual pictures.

  “Any game.” Hayl shrugged. “They’re cards.”

  Rinalto went to hand them back. “I could never afford them, but thank you.” They were painted with the purest gold, and the parchment was of a quality he had never seen.

  “Consider them a gift,” Hayl said. “For bringing me back my necklace.” He folded Rinalto’s hands around the cards. “I too was young and in love once.”

  Rinalto looked down, unable to believe his good fortune. The nobility sought only the best artists to paint unusual decks for their salons, with each patron trying to outdo the other. With these cards his circumstances could change.

  “Hayl, how can I ever thank you?” Rinalto laughed, feeling more hopeful than he had in years.

  Viviana glanced over from across the market upon hearing the confident ring of his laughter. She met Rinalto’s eyes and gave him a shy smile before turning away to continue shopping.

  Hayl winked at him. “Win her heart. That will be thanks enough.”

  * * *

  For two months Rinalto painted an entirely new deck of cards. He used all of his savings to pay for the endeavor. Working in secrecy, he moved his table into his bedroom, away from the studio he shared with a group of other miniaturists. He even turned down a small commission to paint a client’s newborn child. A sense of urgency filled him and he made the cards quickly. For he knew exactly whom he would present them to.

  He studied Hayl’s enigmatic cards for days to figure out how to paint the images. Never had he seen such designs. Their symbology felt magical, and he sensed that, all together, the symbols told a story.

  He decided to adapt the figures to a more Milanese sensibility by adding beautiful crosses, chalices, cherubs, and angels to the cards, hoping the embellishments would please the church. For The Lovers card, he gave the woman a gown that resembled Viviana’s red-and-gold cape, but with red sleeves instead of gloves; he even grew so bold as to paint a little white dog at her feet. If Viviana ever saw these cards, she would realize he had painted her.

  With painstaking precision, he created a new twenty-two-card set using gold leaf and silver foil. Then he painted a matching Mamluk deck of fifty-two cards, the most popular cards in Milan, and combined both decks into one. The Mamluk deck had four kings, each holding a different sign—coin, baton, cup, and sword. The kings were each accompanied by two viceroys and four sets of ten pip cards.

  Rinalto made one other alteration for his new deck. He created four queens to pair with each of the kings, which had never been done before. It was a bold idea because he was planning to deliver this deck to the duke of Milan’s mistress as a gift.

  Duke Filippo Maria Visconti was the foremost card collector in Milan and also the wealthiest man in Italy. Only the Medicis in Florence rivaled him. Giving the cards to the duke’s mistress at the ball, a ball being held in her honor, was the only way Rinalto could think to gain his notice without requesting an official audience. Rinalto could never give the duke the cards directly; to do so would be overstepping his place. But if the duke’s mistress showed him the cards in front of the crowd, it might win Rinalto his attention.

  When he was finished, the seventy-eight cards glittered on his worktable like his own firestone necklace.

  The time had come to unveil his masterpiece. The duke of Milan was holding a ball to honor his mistress and the birth of their new daughter the next week. It would be the perfect event.

  He used his last coins to buy presentable clothes. The market seller assured him the outfit was the height of Florentine fashion. The voluminous cape had thick pleats made of ornate brocade, fully lined. He paired it with blue hose, parti-colored boots, and a matching hat. They were among the finest clothes he’d ever owned.

  He managed to secure an invitation to the ball from one of his studio mates. By now they had all seen Rinalto’s finished work, and rumors were spreading throughout Milan that a special deck of cards would be presented to the duke’s mistress. Rinalto was taking his first step into high society and had little time to prepare. In Milan, every mannerism was an art. He practiced throwing back the sleeve of his cape all week.

  * * *

  The city was ready for a celebration. The duke had recently beheaded his latest wife, and the people hoped the birth of his mistress’s child would improve his mood. Most of the attendees had never seen the tyrant. He was a suspicious and paranoid man who distrusted people so much that he changed beds several times a night for safety. Rinalto was not the only one curious to see the duke in person.

  Rinalto’s curiosity quickly turned to horror when he caught a glimpse of the surly fat toad hobbling around on deformed feet. The duke’s protruding eyes surveyed the room. He looked ready to order someone’s execution, which was disheartening since his advisors had assured the people in attendance that his lordship was in high spirits. Rinalto almost lost his courage.

  All the nobles were deep in their cups, pretending the fear in the
room did not exist. Rinalto’s mother had always warned him to be wary when approaching the seat of power. If she were still alive, she would have advised him to keep his cards, return to his studio, and cherish his modest life. But when Rinalto saw that Viviana was watching him from across the room, the warmth in her eyes steeled his nerves. Without giving himself another moment to doubt his actions, he approached the duke’s mistress.

  “If I may be so bold to present this token in honor of your celebration tonight.” He knelt before her and opened the wooden box of cards with a bow of his head. “A gift for you, my lady.”

  His heart thundered in his chest as he waited for her to look inside the box. She gasped with pleasure when she pulled out the deck. “Who made these?”

  He dared to raise his eyes to her. “I did, my lady.”

  With great excitement, she called the duke over. Soon a whole crowd had gathered, and the duke’s inner circle began to pass around the cards. Rinalto could hardly believe that Michelino da Besozzo, the most celebrated artist of the day, was holding his work in his hands.

  “Exquisite.” Besozzo gave him an assessing look.

  The duke seemed thrilled. “Ingenious! Think of the trick games we can play.” He turned to Besozzo. “I must have one like it!”

  Besozzo bowed meekly. “Of course.”

  The duke held out a card and squinted. “See how he’s painted my coat of arms and mottos.… He’s even made the coins in my currency.” He looked back at Rinalto. “Well done,” he praised. “Well done!”

  With those two words, said not once but twice, Rinalto was granted a seat at Milan’s table. Before the end of the night, he received a dozen commissions for identical decks.

  Throughout the evening he caught Viviana staring at him. As the ball neared its end, he steeled his nerves and finally approached. He bowed low with a flourish.

  “Your playing cards have made quite an impression,” she said.

  The praise and the ever-flowing wine made him bold. “I painted them to win your notice,” he confessed with bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

  Viviana looked astonished, then gave a tinkling laugh.