Malta, 1240

Renata POV

My cousins carried their shrieking chase around toward the eastern wing of the main house. They trampled the herb garden, earning an ineffectual scolding from the head cook, Amelia, who had just come out to gather something. She scowled over her shoulder, watching the retreating mass of giggles and tumbles and shouts, but turned back to look around in concern.

"Renata?"

I drew deeper into the shadow under the biggest hydrangea. I had one of my headaches today; if Mother found out she would make me drink another of those awful teas and fuss over me all day. I scrunched smaller in my hiding place and watched as Amelia searched for me. Her feet wandered closer. I rubbed my temples, wishing her away.

Leave me alone.

She retreated to the herb garden, shaking her head. I watched as she ran her fingers through the parsley and dill and made her selections. She finally returned to the kitchens, and I rose to go my own way, but the sun came out again. I squinted and moved deeper into the dark coolness of the forest instead, looking back to make sure I could still see the gardens. I touched the familiar trees as I passed them, finally deciding on a twisty old grandfather of an oak with an inviting hole carved in its base. I curled up inside, watching as the insects went about the important business of gathering bits of dinner. I wondered what the ants gave to their children when they had headaches. I chose one ant to follow and named him Bartolomeo. I watched him as he worked, envying his ordered, quiet life. I was sure he looked up at me once or twice, clicking his antennae in disapproval of the giant who was curled up in his favorite tree. But he soon grew used to me, busily poking along in the dirt for his morsels.

My eyes drifted closed, and I soon awoke to the gentle shush of a breeze. It would begin to grow dark soon; I should return home. But I tarried, soaking in the quiet sounds of the forest. The air smelled sweet today. My headache was somewhat better, but I knew the jumbled, happy chaos of the dinner hour would soon bring it back. I wished I could have a picnic here in the woods, by myself, or just skip dinner altogether. My stomach growled in treacherous protest, sending the insects scurrying away.

I sighed and crawled out of my tree. But before I returned to the main house, I knelt again in the dirt, carefully folding my hands the way Mother did when she prayed her rosary.

"Dear Uncle Luca, I should very much like a pony. Amen."

I made the same prayer every time. I wasn't supposed to know about Uncle Luca; children were not to be trusted with such secrets. But children have a way of overhearing things not meant for their ears... especially me. When I sat very quietly grown-ups often forgot I was even there, and I knew all the best hiding places.

"Renata! Renata!"

I sighed, standing and swiping at my skirts to get the dirt off to no avail. "Coming, Mother."

Mother met me at the edge of the woods, instantly frowning and swiping harder at my skirts, also to no avail. She opened her mouth to scold me, but let out her breath again, catching my chin and tilting my head up to peer into my eyes.

"You've another of your headaches, darling?"

"It's getting better."

I followed her back to the house, not bothering to interrupt her usual list of reasons why I shouldn't play in the woods, especially not alone. But it turned out all right; I was excused from dinner and ordered to bed, though I paid for it by having to drink a foul-smelling tea.

I woke the next morning feeling much better. And a surprise awaited me soon afterward outside by the gardens, tied to the marble wrist of one of the statues: a pony!

"Where could this have come from?" Mother wondered.

"It's mine!" I laughed, running up and reaching for its bridle. The pony nickered and nuzzled my hand, licking off the berry stains from my breakfast. I giggled, nuzzling it back before beaming up at Mother. "I prayed to Uncle Luca and he gave it to me!"

How strange; she suddenly appeared to have forgotten all about the pony. She only stared at the statue itself, her lips pressed together in the center of her pale face. Her eyes fell to its base, to the ancient lettering: LVCAS PATRONIVS. The edges of the letters were soft with age and moss.

"Then we must be thankful," she announced in a bright, loud voice, slipping the reins off the marble hand. "Come, darling, let's take your new pet to the stables." She clawed blindly at my arm, only looking back toward the woods once we were well away. Her hand was trembling.

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Mother did not speak of it again. She opened her mouth once or twice the day the pony came, but no sound ever came out. She only touched my hair, trying to smile. Father came home from Sicily that day, and that meant the subject must be dropped: Father was a dear, but he was not a Patronius. He did not understand.

Mother had been the oldest of three sisters, following the death of her only brother in childhood. The estate had been held in trust by the Count until her marriage to Father. The Patronii tended to stay near home, however they married. And though we children were not supposed to know the secret at all, we did know it, and we also knew that the secret must be kept from the husbands and wives that came from outside the extended family. I didn't see what was so terrible about the secret; they all prayed to so many saints as it was. What was one more, just because we called him Uncle?

I named my pony Diana, and she became my truest friend. I spent many a happy day riding and exploring with her, whispering my made-up stories in her feathery ear and burying my face against her warm neck when my headaches came. She always seemed to understand; she would kneel and lie down in the grass, offering her quiet comfort. Mother still did not like me going in the woods, but she felt better when Diana was with me. She only made me promise that if Diana grew upset that I would bring her back to the stables and spend the rest of the day indoors. Animals knew when danger was near, she said, and it was best to obey their instincts.

But Diana was a very brave pony. Sometimes in the woods she would grow upset indeed, shivering and prancing in an uncomfortable dance, but I never saw any wolves or any other reason to go inside. I would pet her and sing to her until she calmed.

I spoke to Uncle Luca many times as I grew, though I no longer prayed. If he was indeed my Uncle, saint or not, I thought it must be very lonely to only have people pray to you and not talk to you. So I talked instead. I told him my stories, too. I wondered aloud what kind of stories he liked, and one day I found a book lying in the thicket where Diana and I often rested: De gestis Britonum, by Geoffrey of Monmouth. I read it aloud, learning about faraway kings and their courts. From that day on I would sometimes find other treasures in the woods: more adventures to be read aloud, ribbons for Diana, little trinkets for me. Uncle Luca never spoke, though he never had in the stories, either. But I bore him no less love for his silence. Quite the opposite; most people seemed to talk far too much.

Sometimes he seemed to have gone away. Sometimes I wondered whether it had only been my imagination all along. Months would pass without a present or any sign of his existing... but then one day the breeze would grow sweet again. Diana, now a sturdy matron with a pony of her own, would grow solemn once more, though she never startled as she used to. And I would often find a new present waiting for me: an exotic comb of jade, or a delicious fruit that looked strange, or a new book or poem that no one in my family had heard of before.

As I grew I began to notice that the servants' children did not have quite so much as I did. I began to talk about that, too, and one day shyly asked for a present on their behalf. Two days afterward I discovered a crate full of clever little toys; another time, a nice fat goose honking angrily in a wooden crate. I happily shared the gifts as they came, though I craved most the books for myself. It was not pretty for a girl to read, my father had said when I was small, but he had quite given up; sometimes it was he who would bring home a new adventure for me to read. On winter days, when the weather was poor, I would sit inside by the fire and read to my cousins. They were jealous of Uncle Luca's favor upon me, though they hadn't the patience to sit in the woods like I did. They talked of him as a trickster spirit, disbelieving his kindness even when I showed them his gifts. Sometimes I thought they did not believe in him at all. But I believed, and not only because of the books and the trinkets.

One cloudy day, when I was in the woods having a picnic with my dolls and had left Diana at home with her baby, I was greeted not by a sweet breeze but by a low growl. It was a wolf, its yellow eyes gleaming in the shadows as it slunk towards me.

"Uncle!" I cried out, throwing my food at the wolf because I did not know what else to do. The beast caught the sausage neatly in its mouth, but it only seemed to make him hungrier. He crouched down to spring. But there was a flash of blue and the wolf vanished into thin air. I cried for a moment, but strangely, I had never felt so safe before.

But Uncle Luca could not protect us from everything. Father died suddenly when I was fourteen; he complained of a pain in his arm and a weight on his chest one evening, and then he was gone. The Count soon presented Mother with a new husband: a younger man of noble blood but an empty purse. He was kind at first, but he resented the marriage to an older widow; he spent more time looking at me than at my mother. Now she quietly encouraged me to spend as much time in the woods as I liked. She grew even more pale, and ugly bruises began to bloom across her beautiful skin.

My stepfather touched me only once. He came into my rooms one evening, saying that he should like to borrow one of my books. As I turned to fetch it from the shelf, I felt his touch on my waist. I whirled around in a fright just in time to see him stumble away as though he had been struck. He looked at me with fear and crossed himself, fleeing from the room. I looked around and tasted the air, sure that Uncle Luca had intervened, but the room felt empty. My head was pounding as it had not in years.

I did not want to tell Mother what had happened; she already seemed unhappy. I simply told her that I did not like her new husband. She pressed her lips together in her quiet way and said that perhaps the Count had made a mistake, but there was little we could do but pray. It was winter, and I had not been spending time in the woods, but this could not wait for springtime. I went out in my shawl that night and cried my heart out to Uncle Luca, my teeth chattering as I told him everything. But I did not think he heard me, or if he did, he could do nothing. There was no trinket that would cure the disease that had fallen on our home.

I turned to other prayers, but they were answered in a strange way. On the first day of spring I awoke in the middle of the night, frightened to see a shadow looming over my bed. Fearing my stepfather, I opened my mouth to scream, but was silenced by my mother's gentle shush. She was clad in a dark cloak, a basket hooked on one arm. It was filled with white flowers, their perfume filling the room with a sweetness that reminded me of Uncle Luca's presence.

"Dress yourself, Renata, and come with me. You are old enough."

I followed her out through the orchards. The trees out in the western corner grew closer together, thickening until they blended with the little forest that lay between us and the farmland of the next estate. I had never been in these woods.

My mother, whom I had never once seen walk in the woods, moved through the trees like a ghost. We came upon an altar wrought of marble. It was overgrown with vines; a bird's nest adorned the corner. Mother moved in slow motion, cleaning off the altar with wooden movements. Her arms looked like marble themselves in the moonlight, but for the blotches that marred them.

She laid the flowers on the altar one by one. When the basket was empty she drew a small knife out of her cloak. She held out her hand over the flowers and made a little cut, letting her blood drip over the pure white of the flowers and the altar itself. She held the knife out to me. I did not know what we were doing, but the look in Mother's eyes- like she was awake for the first time since Father had gone- told me I should do as she said. I took the knife and pressed it into my palm. My fingers shook; I could not make myself break the skin. But then I remembered the feel of my stepfather's hand on me and I found the strength to let the blade bite me. Once the flowers had been dotted with our blood, she lifted her face to the moonlight.

"I call upon you, Great Uncle," she said in a whisper. "Hear my prayers. Your children have fallen into a great trial; the Count has given me a new husband." She drew a breath, clenching her fists on the altar. When she spoke again, her voice sounded like steel.

"And I want you to take him away."

The breeze swirled around us, stirring the blossoms with its sweetness.

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Nothing happened for a fortnight. Mother was as quiet as ever, but whenever we caught each other's eyes she seemed to say, It will be all right. In the meantime, I spent as much time with her as I could. My stepfather seemed, oddly enough, to be afraid of me. I still did not know what had happened, that night when he had come to my room, but I used it as well as I knew how. Whenever he began to pester Mother, or one of my cousins or even the servants, I drew near and stared at him until he retreated. I found it best not to speak; he seemed more intimidated by my silence. One night I peered into the polished silver mirror, afraid that I might see something new, but there was only a frightened half-woman whose hair would never stay quite where it was put. My headaches came back in force that week, but I pushed through them, determined to wield whatever silent power I had been graced with- whether it was an angel at my back or an invisible uncle who favored me.

Our wait ended just as the forsythias began to bloom. My stepfather was a shiftless creature, spending his time and our money on his own pleasures. But being the master of a great estate did endow him with certain duties. He was summoned to accompany the Count to an important meeting.

He never returned.

The men of the estate searched for two days until they found his body; his horse had misstepped on a bridge. It was a modest stream, hardly fitting for a great lord to drown in, but by an evil chance he had become tangled in the horse's reins and the two had perished together.

When our time of mourning was drawing near its end, Mother received a courier from the Count. She read the message in silence and sent the courier to the kitchens.

"Who will he choose this time?" I asked her.

She smiled. "It seems an angel visited him in his dreams to tell him I have had enough of husbands. The estate will be held in trust again until your marriage."

"Will I stay, like you have?"

She touched my hair, smoothing it down and letting her hand come down to rest on her own waist. "We will soon know," she said mysteriously. "But whatever happens, Renata, your Uncle will watch over you. He has always loved you."

"Then I must stay," I said, wondering at her riddle. "If he will guard me, then I must stay so that you will be safe, as well. He cannot be everywhere."

But the mystery was soon revealed: Mother's body swelled with the child my stepfather had left behind. I prayed it would be a girl, but it was not. That Christmas, the choristers' chanting was joined by the lusty cries of my baby brother. It meant that instead of the estate being linked to me as an heiress, who would draw a poorer husband to join us here, the boy would inherit. I would be given away, still a rich heiress, but now worthless in terms of land. There were few families in Malta that were in need of such a bride these days; I would be leaving the island altogether.

It was no longer fitting for me to play in the woods like an urchin. I grew into womanhood under Mother's tutelage, preparing for my role as the wife of one of the minor lords in Italy. I had never met him; he was a second son of a duke, positioned to inherit a modest estate and its farms, and was in need of my money. We would have wed far sooner, but he was younger than I was. Mother assured me this was a blessing.

But I was unhappy. I had taken well to some of the quieter tasks required of a lady of means: embroidery, management of the larder and gardens, even the reckoning of the accounts since Father had gone. But I tired easily of the more gregarious duties. I disliked making decisions when the servants quarreled or required discipline. I hated the parties and the false manners and the complicated dresses and the busy days. And most of all, I hated the thought of leaving my home.

"I do not wish to go," I would sob to Uncle Luca in those few moments I was able to steal in the woods. Diana was too old now to join me, but I no longer feared for myself. These woods were safer than anything else, and more dear. I traced the lines on the ancient trees in farewell, memorizing the scent of the gardens and the fresh, live earth. Perhaps I would find happiness in my new life, but its woods would not smell like home.

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I went with Mother one last time to the altar to ask for a blessing on my upcoming marriage. I was twenty now, and my groom was seventeen; his parents were tired of our delays. We were fortunate that the autumnal equinox fell before the date of my departure. The tradition was that Uncle Luca watched over the family from time to time, but he was often away. We did not know what other duties he was called to, heavenly or otherwise. The equinoxes were the two days a year when our prayers were sure to be heard. I still did not know what he was, though I did not care. I knew in my heart that he was bound to this home... that I would be leaving him behind. It was a cold thought, one that left me walking in stiff silence beside Mother as we approached the altar.

Her steps were quick. Her baby son had brought new joy to her life, and she had high hopes that my marriage would prove a success, though she often touched my hair tenderly and said she would pray for me every day. She fussed over my headaches with doting love, for they had returned once again in these last weeks before my wedding. The thought of spending my nights with a stranger in my bed made me want to crawl inside myself and hide from the world. Mother had whispered some of the secrets of marriage, assuring me that they could be pleasurable, though these new mysteries only made me want to retreat further. Mother was sympathetic. But we each have our duties, she reminded me tenderly.

"And Uncle Luca often gives handsome gifts when we marry," she confided in me as we walked through the orchard. "Perhaps he will have left something to add to your dowry. He has always favored you."

There was indeed something on the altar waiting for us. But it was not a gift of gold coins, or jewels or plate; it was a folded parchment, sealed and weighted down by a plain rock.

Mother grew very quiet. She moved toward the altar alone, each step smaller than the last. She lifted the parchment and unfolded it slowly. It only took her a moment to read the message, which I also read over her shoulder, for it only contained one word.

~RENATA~

"What does it mean?" I asked.

Mother turned to face me, her fingers crushing the parchment in her hands. A tremulous smile shaped on her lips. "It means you are to be given a very great honor."