Copyright © 2006 Richelle Mead
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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Francesca thought the priest was a lost cause, but I still believed I could lure him into my bed.
"Help me, Father," I sobbed, falling to my knees before him. "I don't know what to do. I'm lost. I'm going to burn forever. There's no hope for me."
"Child, child," he murmured. "Of course there's hope. God forgives all."
He leaned forward, eyes kind, but he didn't touch me, thus forcing me to stifle a growl of annoyance. That was the whole point of this weeping spectacle. It was the perfect opportunity for him to gently pat my hand or--better yet--to hold me in a compassionate embrace. Then, perhaps, he might run a comforting hand along my cheek, perhaps down my neck, on to my breast...
Father Betto wasn't falling for any of it, unfortunately. As it was, I knew meeting with me in private unnerved him. He knew the risks--both to his own resolve and to his reputation. With the force of my money and power, however, I had insisted no one else would counsel me through the 'spiritual crises' that continually plagued me.
"I want so badly to be good." I continued to kneel, conveying just how much the pain of my sin ached in my bosom while also giving him an excellent view of said bosom. "But I'm weak. I can't seem to let go of my worldly attachments."
"That isn't true. You always give to the Church. And the hospital's still talking about your last contribution. God rewards such kindness."
"But is that enough?" I whispered. I knew my tears gleamed like jewels upon my face because I'd crafted them that way. Perfect. An enhancement to my beauty. No red eyes or blotchy skin here.
"It's a start. If you truly wish to go further, you will give up your earthly excesses. That dress, for example, is far more...elaborate than a woman of your station truly requires."
I glanced down at my gown. It was a thing of beauty, emerald green brocade over gold-colored silk. A perk of having a 'brother' in the silk guild. When I'd been a mortal over a thousand years ago, the emperor himself had worn nothing so fine.
"This dress?" To make sure we all knew which dress he referred to, I ran my hands over my body, sliding them carefully down my breasts and hips. With a small flare of triumph, I saw him reluctantly drag his eyes away. "But I...I couldn't..."
This signaled a well-worn argument between us. It was always the same. I would come to him, in tears over the state of my soul, and he would tick off the luxuries and behaviors in my life I needed to expunge. I would listen, cry a little more, promise to take his words to heart, and then change nothing.
"Fra Savonarola is urging the entire city to give up its vanities, you know. He plans to gather up all sinful items and burn them on Shrove Tuesday. You should answer the call. It could be a rebirth for you. A purging by fire."
I smiled and muttered something conciliatory. I'd throw myself to the flames before donating to Savonarola's madness. Father Betto was a fervent believer in the zealous friar's cause, and lately, it seemed the rest of Florence was too. The city's residents had turned into a flock of frightened sheep.
"There is, of course, another matter...one, perhaps, better discussed with your brother..."