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He wakes to the sound of soft knocking startling the quiet of the pre-dawn darkness. With half-closed eyes, he lies still a moment, fighting through the tricks of dreams that cloud his mind still.

The knocking comes again, a little louder now, and he catches the sound of gentle breathing and impatient feet tapping at the flagstone. His heart stops, clouds with dread and delight, and he rises swiftly from his bed, cursing at the chill of early morning and the scratch of the robe he throws about his shoulders. His hand snatches at the door and as he opens it his eyes catch the trailing skirts of the figure running from his room and turning the corner of the gallery. Crezia, he thinks, he knows, and he can barely stop from shouting out for her. Instead he follows swiftly in her wake, his footfall unsure in its silence.

He turns the corner and closes his eyes to the sudden flickering light of the torches along the walls. Again the skirts disappear just as he catches sight of them, and again he follows. Round and round the papal rooms, his thoughts curse, she leads me on a merry chase. He breaks into a run now as he rounds corner after corner, traipses through galleries filled with Roman busts and papal portraits. Always he follows the white skirts and glint of golden hair drifting far ahead of him like some eternal spirit. A ghost, he muses, a ghost of white and gold that runs from me.

Finally the turns stop and ahead there is only a wall covered by a tapestry, red and gold thread picking out the faces of Christ and his disciples. For a moment he stands, lost and confused, before he sees the tapestry begin to tremble, and a pale, slender hand emerges quickly at one corner. He steps forward to grasp it and is pulled quickly in.

"It took you a while to find me, brother," comes that sweet voice, strained from lack of sleep and something deeper.

"I know every hidden tunnel, every passageway and hollow in the walls," murmurs Cesare, a smile touching the corners of his lips. "You have done well to keep this place a secret to me." He turns her hand in his and glances at her palm before meeting her eyes once more. "Sorceress."

Her mouth flickers with humour, briefly, before her tired frown resumes. He watches her warily as she paces about the narrow, candlelit alcove, as she trails her fingers along the jagged brick walls and then whispers across the tapestry hiding them from the world of the court. At last she stops her pacing and, with her back to the wall, she slides down to the floor, her eyes dead and dull, her fingers knotted together, and her mouth turned down.

"You look older than your years, sat there like that," whispers Cesare, coming to sit beside her. He traces a thumb down from her temple to her cheek. "Where is that golden smile I am greeted with every morning?"

"Gone," she whispers, her voice softly cracking. "Fallen and trampled to dust beneath these little feet." Her eyes are alive with tears.

They sit there for a while in silence. Lucrezia hugs her knees to her chest and rests her forehead upon them. He watches, fascinated, as the little transparent hairs begin to rise at the nape of her neck and become limned with the gold glow of the candles. Soon her shoulders begin to shake from the chill. He opens his arms to her and at that sound of his robe shifting, she sags immediately against him as he gathers her to him. His lips find her forehead.

"Yesterday, I felt the eyes of the world upon me," she whispers, her fingers playing with the stitching of his robe. "Every cardinal, every courtier, every envious wife and mistress. I had never felt more beautiful than I did in that moment, stepping down the aisle of St Peter's in my gown of gold and my gems and veil." He feels her sigh. "I felt ready to faint as the words were intoned and incense burned, and yet as the ring was slipped onto my finger I saw only coldness in my husband's eyes, only hate. The ring felt cold as well, so cold it burned my skin, and I wanted only to snatch my hand away. I tried to, but he held me fast and wouldn't let me go."

Cesare's heart sinks to his stomach, but he sees the look in her eyes as she glances up at him, and he knows she seeks comfort, and not the truth. So he draws her up further into his arms and leans his forehead to her own.

"How could any man hate a wife as beautiful as you?" says Cesare, bumping his nose against hers. "The angels were jealous of you yesterday, Crezia, and God walked with you, made your steps as light as air – "

"No," she interrupts, softly, her eyes puzzled. "God was not with me yesterday, Cesare." She places her hand onto his chest, and spans the space above his heart with her fingers. "God is with me now, Cesare, God is with me always when we are together." Her eyes fill his for a moment before she drops her gaze again. "Am I to be without God's touch for the rest of my life now?"

"Lucrezia – "

"He cannot follow me to Pesaro," she says mournfully. "He will stay here with you in the glorious rooms of the Vatican whilst I fade to a ghost that haunts the walls and lookouts of my husband's crumbling city."

"What shall you be looking for?" whispers Cesare, before he can stop his tongue.

"You," she murmurs, her hand rising to cup the back of his head, her fingers feathering the obsidian curls. "Always you." She smiles gently then. "Will you look for me once I have ridden away this afternoon? Will your eyes haunt me as I climb the paths from Rome?"

"Always," whispers Cesare, his voice fierce as his heart. He touches his lips to her cheek and breathes in the scent of her. "Always."

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