The Medusa Amulet by Robert Masello

done working yet.”
    “Not done?” she said. “Now you can work in the dark, I suppose?”
    “I can work anywhere. Who needs light?” From the way he was slurring his speech, and the empty wine bottle now lying between them, she could tell he was tipsy. She had deliberately held back on her own drinking, waiting for the wine to overtake him.
    “I can see in the dark, like you,” he said, “il mio gatto.”
    He often referred to her this way, as his little cat. Another creature known for its stealth and its cunning.
    Staggering to his feet, he dragged her not to the pedestal, but toward the bed, tumbling on top of her like a pile of bricks.
    “Oof,” she said, trying to push him off. “You smell like a barn!”
    “And you,” he said, kissing her lips, “taste like wine.” His hands fumbled under her dress before, in exasperation, he simply ripped it off her shoulders and tossed it aside.
    “You’ll pay me for that!” Caterina cried.
    “I’ll buy you a silk dress first thing in the morning,” he promised. “And a hat to match!”
    She would hold him to it. Benvenuto could be coarse, but he could also be contrite. She knew how to play him.
    But then, he knew how to play her, too. As a lover, he made her feel like no other man ever had. There was something about the two of them, a spark that ignited when their skin touched, that she had never known before. His hands felt as if they were molding her flesh, and his eyes studied her face and her body as he turned her this wayand that, using her in any way he chose. In his arms, she felt at once compliant, ready to do whatever he wanted, and utterly uncontrolled, free to indulge any impulse of her own.
    Was this, she thought, what people meant when they prattled on about love?
    When the act was done, and he had dropped like a stone into his habitual slumber, she lay there, her own heartbeat slowly subsiding, her breath returning, the night breeze cooling her limbs.
    The moonlight slanting through the shutters fell on the loose boards of the opposite wall.
    It was there, behind one of those boards, that she had seen him conceal an iron casket large enough to hold a honeydew. He had thought she was sleeping, but Caterina had kept an eye open—her mother had warned her never to shut both eyes in life—and watched as he covered over the hiding place.
    Whatever was in there, she thought, she had to see. She had the curiosity of a cat, too.
    And now that he was snoring loudly enough to wake the whole town, she crept, naked, across the creaking floorboards. His worktable was littered with the tools of his trade—chisels and hammers and tongs—along with the waxen model for the medallion he was fashioning for the duke. Often, she marveled at the miraculous things that came from his hands—the silver candlesticks, the golden saltcellars, the rings and necklaces, the coins and medals, the statues in marble and bronze—and at her own small role in their creation. For all his fury and willfulness, she knew she was his muse, the inspiration to one of the greatest artists in all the world. She had often heard him described so … and truth be told, he often declared it himself.
    The loose board was flush with the wall and would never have been noticed by anyone unaware that it was there. Caterina used her long fingernails (men liked long fingernails, to rake their backs) to pry it open, and it swung down on a concealed hinge. That was just like him, to make everything mechanically precise. The iron casket fitneatly into the space, with only an inch or so to spare. She drew it out—it was heavier than she expected—and carried it over to the window, where the moonlight was the brightest. The sound of snoring suddenly stopped, and she stood as motionless as one of his sculptures, until she heard him roll over on the pallet and grumble in his sleep.
    Sitting down on the floor, she put the strongbox between her legs, and was not at all surprised to find it locked. Nor