Chapter 2 – Ink and Ashes
Florence, 1533
The candle burned low, its wax pooling onto the marble desk as Beatrice di Caravello dipped her quill into ink the color of midnight.
She paused, listening.
The corridors beyond her chamber were silent. The servants had retired, and the guards outside her door were half asleep. It was the only time she could write—when Florence itself seemed to hold its breath.
She touched the edge of the parchment and began:
To my dearest Matteo,
I write to you from the northern tower, where the moonlight spills like silver across the floor, and I pretend it is your hand brushing mine.
I am told that I will soon be promised to Lord Vescovi's son. A good match, they say. A political triumph. I want to laugh. Or scream. But I do neither. I smile. I nod. I sew golden thread into useless sleeves and imagine they are chains.
I saw you this morning near the stables. You did not look up, but I knew you felt me watching. My brother says I walk too often in the gardens. He does not know that every petal I pass blooms because I am thinking of you.
If I had been born a peasant, I would have run by now. No dowry, no honor. Just your hand, and the road ahead.
She stopped, fingers trembling.
The door creaked, and she slid the letter beneath the loose tile under her desk. A shadow entered—just her maid, Elena, barefoot and sleepy-eyed.
"Milady," Elena whispered. "Your mother is awake. She says there's to be a supper tomorrow evening. Noble guests. Foreign diplomats."
Beatrice gave a soft sigh. "More eyes. More cages."
"You could refuse."
"I could," Beatrice said, rising to her feet. "And then I could watch my father disown me. Or worse—send me to a convent."
The maid hesitated. "You'll find a way, Beatrice. You always do."
Beatrice smiled faintly and touched the edge of the quill again. Her hands were made for poetry and rebellion—not embroidery and obedience.
When Elena left, she returned to the letter.
You once asked why I still write when I cannot send these to you. Perhaps I do it to remember who I am. Or to remind the future that we lived—that love bloomed in shadows, and that I chose you, even if history does not.
Tomorrow, I will wear the red silk. The one you once said made me look like fire. And I will imagine you watching.
Yours until the end,
B.
She sealed the letter with wax from her own candle, pressing her family's ring into it—a quiet act of defiance. Then she slipped it into the hollow beneath the tile, alongside the others.
She didn't know if anyone would ever read them.
But if they did, she hoped they would know that love had lived here once. And that it burned brighter than any throne.