Raven stared at his back. “Like turning metal into gold?”
“Not quite. It took time and care, but she recovered. She was now my guest. I’d taken care of her. I’d washed her, clothed her, fed her.” William turned toward Raven. “Do you understand guest friendship? The rules of hospitality?”
She looked down at her lap.
“Um, I think Homer describes it. Guest friendship is supposed to govern how a host treats the people in his house.” She clutched the sides of the chair, her knuckles whitening. “Since you’re my host, you’re supposed to protect me and keep me safe.”
William’s eyes seemed to glow in the darkness as they fixed on hers.
“Precisely.”
He ran his fingers through his blond hair, pushing the strands back from his forehead.
“What happened to your other guest?” Raven fidgeted in her chair.
William put his hands back in his pockets. “I returned her to her life. Because of her head injury, her memory was affected. I was confident she wouldn’t remember me or the attack and I thought that was for the best. Her body healed and her amnesia would allow her soul to heal.”
“There’s no such thing as souls.”
“Call it a mind, then,” he growled. “In any case, I hoped that, having been restored by my good deed, she’d live her life and that would be the end.”
“But it wasn’t,” Raven prompted, still gripping the armrests of the chair.
“No. The woman began to draw attention to herself—attention that would lead to me. I tried to put a stop to it, but she persisted.”
Raven blinked. “What kind of attention?”
“Going to the Palazzo Riccardi and asking for me by name.”
“But that was a coincidence! I learned your name from Professor Emerson. If I hadn’t been missing for a week, the police wouldn’t have questioned me. And I wouldn’t have gone looking for you, thinking you had something to do with the robbery.”
William’s eyes glinted angrily, but Raven ignored his look. “You robbed the Uffizi Gallery and stole priceless pieces of art. That’s what caused this mess. Not me.”
William lifted his gaze to the ceiling and proceeded to address it. “A perfect example of the young woman’s absolute intractability. She will not listen; she will not heed advice.”
He lifted his arms in frustration. “What shall I do? Tell me. Shall I kill her and violate the principle of guest friendship? Or shall I try to reason with her? Again.”
Raven’s breath caught in her chest.
He strode toward her, his face a mask of fury.
“I told you to leave the city. You refused.”
“You broke into my apartment. You wouldn’t tell me who you were. It would have been irrational for me to listen to you.”
He leaned over her, his gray eyes piercing hers.
“I gave you something to protect you, but you called it ‘shit.’ Tonight you came to the attention of two people who saw me with you after you were attacked. It’s only a matter of time before they realize I didn’t let you die. My good deed will be exposed, along with my weakness.”
“What weakness?” Raven whispered, unable to look away.
“You.” He lifted his hand and brought it to her cheek.
Raven ignored the feel of his touch and glanced in the direction of the door. She felt panicked, as if she stood on the edge of a precipice. At any moment, her host could push her over.
And she was unable to run.
Her mind raced, wondering what would happen if she reached over to grab the candle. Could she risk maiming him in order to make her escape? Would she have the nerve to throw the candlestick at one of the paintings, and destroy a priceless work of art?
William’s eyes took in her reaction and he dropped his hand.
“What shall I do with you, Jane?”
Her eyes met his again.
He was staring at her with a conflicted expression. “Shall I prove myself devoid of honor by killing a guest in my home?”
“You said I was your weakness.” Her voice broke on the last word, her body shaking.
“You are.”
She cleared her throat. “If you kill me, all your striving was for nothing.”
William’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Raven lifted a finger and touched the scar on her forehead.
“You said you didn’t mean for this to happen.” She gave him a searching look. “You wiped away the blood with your handkerchief.”
His eyes moved to her scar.
“Please,” she begged, knowing that her life hung in the balance. “If your story is true, you saved me from being raped and killed. Would you kill me now, after all that?”
He closed his eyes for a moment.
“Cassita vulneratus,” he whispered.
At the sound of those words, images crowded Raven’s mind. She saw William’s face, and the faces of the man and woman who’d chased her to the Duomo.
She saw herself in a dark alley, her hands covered in blood.
She saw herself in William’s room, lying on his bed while he stood over her, a tortured expression on his face.
She heard his voice, murmuring in English and in Latin.
“‘Wounded lark,’” she translated, lifting her eyes to him in wonder.
William’s lips curved into a half smile. “The wounded lark with the great green eyes and the maddening, courageous soul.”
Raven broke eye contact as she tried to come to terms with the images she’d just seen. Unless he was a hypnotist and a master of the power of suggestion, she was beginning to remember what had happened to her. Shockingly, the memories were consistent with the story he’d told.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to manage the fear and wonder that coursed through her.
“I went to a party that night,” she mused aloud. “I couldn’t remember what happened after.”
“You had a brain injury.”
She looked up at him. “Is that why I found my sneakers in the closet upstairs?”
He nodded. “The rest of your clothes were ruined—stained with blood.”
Her stomach twisted.
“The homeless man you mentioned, was that Angelo? The man who stayed by the Ponte Santa Trinita?”
“I don’t know his name, but that’s where we found his body.”
Raven’s eyes filled with tears. “He never hurt anyone. All he did was draw pictures of angels and ask people for charity.”
William watched Raven’s reaction, an unfamiliar emotion rising in his chest.
“From what I’ve inferred, you saw the homeless man being attacked and intervened. That’s why they turned on you. You’re noble, but lack prudence.”
“What should I have done? Stood by and watched?” Her green eyes flashed.
He gestured to her knapsack. “You own a cell phone. Why didn’t you use it?”
“I don’t remember. Probably I thought there wasn’t time to wait for the police.”
“Precisely.” He gave her a look that was heavy with meaning.
/>
She swiped at her eyes. “Will my memory return?”
“I don’t know.” His tone was sincere. “Perhaps it’s a mercy you don’t remember.”
She nodded absently.
After a moment, something occurred to her.
“You said earlier you could tell I was good and that’s why you intervened. How can you tell someone is good just by looking at her?”
“It’s a skill acquired over time, of which I have had a great deal.”
“I can’t be much older than you. Is it part of your alchemy?” She watched him carefully.
His posture was casual, too casual. “A kind of alchemy, perhaps. Mostly, the judgment is made based on perceptions. Your character was evident to me even as you lay dying.”
Raven turned away, her stomach churning.
“What did you give me to save my life?”
William opened his mouth to answer but stopped. He noted her tense posture, her still wet eyes, and the ferocity with which she held on to his chair.
“I think you’ve had enough for one evening.” His voice was quiet. “Go to bed. We’ll continue this conversation tomorrow.”
“I want to know about the alchemy. I want to know why my wound healed quickly.” She gestured to her forehead.
He reached out to trace the scar, his touch featherlight.
“This is a tragedy.” William’s tone was heavy with meaning.
Raven heard much more than a description of her scar in his voice. From his eyes, his face, the way he caressed her, she started to believe he didn’t want to hurt her.
He withdrew his hand. “I gave you something to heal your injuries, but the change in your leg is temporary. It’s already beginning to wear off.”
A look of horror flashed across Raven’s features. “Temporary?”
“Unless the treatment is repeated,” he qualified, searching her eyes.
“Will my head injury return? Will I die?” Raven’s heart thumped in her chest.
His hand slid underneath her hair to the back of her neck.
“Look at me,” he ordered, his gruff tone at odds with the lightness of his touch.
He brought his face close to hers.
“The mortal wounds were healed. But your appearance and the old injury of your leg will return to what they were before, perhaps with some small variations.”
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “How is that possible?”