Free Immortal by Traci L. Slatton Page B

myself from remembering Ingrid’s soft hand in mine, and how she’d taken comfort from me. Then I imagined her bloody and contorted in pain, like Marco when Silvano cut him. I couldn’t help Marco, but I have to help Ingrid, I thought, stumbling back to my room. I could barely see the way through the fog of my fear.
    “Don’t think about it,” Simonetta whispered, tucking my hand into her heart. We stopped in front of my room. She put a soft plump hand on my shoulder. “Luca…”
    “What?” I asked, breathlessly.
    “Silvano wants me to ask if you enjoyed your old friend Friar Pietro’s lecture on Giotto.”
    My mouth dropped open. “He knows—how?”
    “He knows everything,” she cautioned, her birthmark turning dark red on her round face. “Don’t forget that,
caro.
You must not endanger yourself the way Marco did.” She squeezed my shoulder and was gone, and I went into my room wondering who Silvano’s spies were. I promised myself that I would extend my senses until I could perceive Silvano’s minions as well as I could perceive him, and that promise almost stilled the quiver of fear in my gut.
             
    TEN DAYS LATER I ROCKED BACK AND FORTH on my heels in front of St. John the Evangelist at Santa Croce. I was trying to figure out how to save Ingrid. Time was growing short. I had no plan. I was desperate and sought answers in what I knew was wondrous: Giotto’s paintings. If there was anything real in the stories that had inspired them, if there was any truth to the tenderness of color and line and expression, if there was a real saint who basked in the glory of these paintings, then surely that saint would help me. I had seldom prayed before, would curse at God more often than pray over the long years of my life, but I was praying at that moment. “It’s not for myself, St. John,” I murmured to the ascending figure.
    “What’s not?” an amused voice inquired. I whirled around.
    “Master Giotto!” I exclaimed, so happy to see his short, stout form in the flesh. I learned later that people often had that reaction to him. Though he wasn’t beautiful in the way beauty is thought of, and, in fact, his features were decidedly homely, Giotto had such a lively intelligence and such an expansive and humane spirit that he was a joy to behold.
    “If it isn’t the young pup, wagging his tail in front of my fresco, right where I left him,” Giotto teased. His gray brows wiggled at me.
    “I’ve been learning about your work,” I said, words tumbling over themselves. “I’ve been asking the monks—”
    “Be careful, you’ll educate yourself out of an aesthetic appreciation.” One corner of his mouth lifted in irony. “There’s something about the natural response that doesn’t mediate the truth. I thought I’d find you here. I brought something for you.” He held out a small package.
    No one had ever given me a gift before—except Marco, who had given me sweets—and I didn’t know what to do. This thing was obviously not edible. It was wrapped in glossy, finely woven linen and tied with a red ribbon.
    “It won’t bite.” Giotto gestured with the package. I took it and held it up. “Go on,” he encouraged me. So I inhaled deeply and then untied the ribbon. The cloth fell open, revealing a square wooden panel. I stuffed the fabric into my shirt and ran my finger over the panel, realized it was actually two small panels, facing in toward each other. I opened them out and held them side by side. Each painting was about the size of two of my hands in length and width. A luminous Madonna in her starry blue cloak stared out at me from one. On the other stood the Evangelist, and next to him a small young dog, his adoring gaze on the saint.
    I dropped to my knees. “Master, I don’t deserve these.”
    “But they are your family,” he said, flushing. “If my paintings are going to be that for you, you must have some to take with you wherever you go. I can’t get away from