The King's Agent by Donna Russo Morin

the air, beseeching the heavens, face comically twisted with sarcastic amusement. He surrendered, but it would not be categorical.
    “From city to city, from state to state ... would that include those at war?”

Five
     
This miserable state is borne
by the wretched souls of those
who lived without disgrace and without praise.
—Inferno
     
    T he pink blush of the setting sun dappled her skin as she strolled through the tunnel of tall cypress trees. In the near distance, the statue awaited her, the three women so finely wrought, their faces so similar, their hands posed in the exact same position. Within the circle marking the end of the path, their long arms crossed before their bodies at the wrists, slender fingers delicately positioned, creating a cage or a basket around which something invisible rested between their arms and their breasts, something captured and protected.
    Aurelia refuted them. Turning sharply to the left, she chose a different path through the ornamental garden of the palazzo, making for the isolation of the mock grotto full of dangling mosses and the calm tinkling of its fountain.
    She entered the secluded space, a raised hand forbidding her two maids—her constant shadows and companions—to follow. It was not the first time she had halted them thus, and they stopped at the edge of the stone path, turning their backs and closing the circle around her.
    Blocking out their presence in her mind, Aurelia sat on the stone bench with her back to them, closed eyes facing the furry green wall. She drew in her breath, and released. With each pass through her lungs, it slowed. She heard nothing but its soft, rhythmic shush, and she sunk into the space it created. Time ceased, as did her physicality, and her essence moved free.
    But not for long.
    “Monna Aurelia?”
    The niggling call pulled at her.
    “ Per favore, my lady?”
    Aurelia opened her eyes to narrow slits. This was not Teofila’s first attempt to pry Aurelia back to earth; she saw it in the tight lines about her maid’s pink mouth.
    “It is time?” Aurelia asked dourly.
    Teofila nodded, daring to step into the grotto as Aurelia stood.
    With a critical eye, the maid scanned her mistress’s appearance. With gentle hands, Teofila brushed the back of the full pleated skirt of gray damask and gave a small tug on the wide belt of matching fabric trimmed with garnet jewels. She scrutinized the position of the almost-off-the-shoulder neckline, which revealed, as did the slashings of the puffed sleeves, the maroon lace camicia beneath . The straight line of the damask rose high on Aurelia’s chest; Federico would not allow her to lower it as fashion prescribed.
    Teofila tucked an errant chestnut curl into the dark red net scuf-fia that held Aurelia’s abundance of hair, the heavy, loose bunch resting upon the back of Aurelia’s neck.
    “We will need to pluck you soon,” Teofila murmured, and Aurelia huffed, forever annoyed at the painful custom that raised a woman’s hairline high upon her head.
    She had had enough of her maid’s nitpicking. With an impatient gesture, Aurelia stepped around Teofila. “Let us away. The sooner the evening begins, the sooner it will end.”

    Aurelia stepped into the glowing dining room, surprised at the long line of people perched on each side of the endless banquet; faces sparkled in the trio of multibranched candelabra posted at even intervals along the table’s length. Beneath their glow, sterling and gold platters covered every inch of the thick gold cloth, filled with a wide array of offerings ... salted trout, roast capon, sweet rice cooked in milk of almonds ... game, meat, fruits, salads ... it was all there, more than even this horde could consume.
    She took a step forward, spying the young women and men with whom she most often sat, and faltered. No empty chair awaited her among them. She beckoned to them with a quizzical stare, but their sheepish and puzzled glances skipped away like stones