Bonfires burned across the plaza. Musicians led the processional, as if I were truly a bride on her way to meet her groom. Again and again I searched for an escape route but saw none. There were simply too many people, people acting as if they were celebrating me but who were truly celebrating my public humiliation. “The She-Wolf of Siena, conquered!” “How could a bride so pretty be so fierce with the sword?” “Where is your intended now, Bride of Siena?” “Will your bride price be met?” They taunted and laughed. But at least now no one threw spoiled fruit or stones. I walked beside Lord Greco, my arm atop his, drawing strength from him, visualizing the tattoo beneath his shirt, wondering what it meant. It comforted me that he was somehow inexplicably tied to Marcello—even if he laughed along with those in the crowd. Marcello. Has word yet reached you? Do you know what they intend? Even if I tried, I could not imagine the Forellis without their castle, living anywhere but that precious corner of the republic.
