It began with whispers—always whispers in Venice. Rumours that the respected Councillor had grown soft, that his judgments had become too lenient, that he could no longer be trusted with the Republic's darkest secrets. His rivals on the Council, men who had always resented his influence and his popularity with the common people, saw their opportunity.

  I remember the night it came to a head. We were in his private chambers, the fire crackling low, when his servant burst in without knocking—something that had never happened before.

  "Excellency," the man gasped, his face ashen. "They are coming. A dozen of them, from the Council. They know about the lady. They know she is different and is accusing you for using her witch craft to do your own bidding and that you are the one who cause the pox."

  He was on his feet in an instant, pulling me from the bed, shoving clothes into my arms. "Dress. Quickly."

  "What? No—" I struggled against his grip. "I can face them. I have faced worse than a pack of jealous politicians—"

  "You do not understand." His voice was steel wrapped in desperation. "This is not about politics. This is about destroying me, and they will use anything—anyone—to do it. If they find you here, you will disappear into the Pozzi tomorrow morning. You will rot in those underwater prisons until you forget the shape of the sun, and I will be forced to watch, or sign the order myself, or—"

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  "I can protect myself—"

  "You are a woman in Venice," he said flatly, and the truth of it was like a slap. "You are no one. You have no family here, no name, no protection. I am your only protection, and if they take me, they take you too. Is that what you want?"

  I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him that I had survived empires, that I was older than his precious Republic, that a dozen mortal men could not hold me. But I saw his face—the terror in his eyes, the desperate love—and I knew he would not believe me. He could not. In this life, he was a man of reason and secrets, and my truth would sound like madness.

  "Go to my cousin in Mestre," he instructed, helping me lace my dress with trembling fingers. "He will hide you until this pass. I will send word when it is safe."

  "And if it is not safe?" I asked, my voice breaking. "If they—"

  He silenced me with a kiss—fierce, desperate, tasting of salt and unspoken promises. "Then I will find you in the next life," he whispered against my lips. "I have always found you. I will always find you."

  I wanted to tell him that I was the one who did the finding, that he simply appeared, cycle after cycle, drawn by something he could never name. But there was no time. Shouts echoed from the canal below. Torchlight flickered through the window.

  "Go," he commanded, pushing me toward the servant. "Go now."

  I went. I fled through a secret passage he had shown me once, laughing about the paranoia of his predecessors. I emerged in a narrow calle, the servant guiding me toward a gondola that would take me across the lagoon to Mestre. I looked back once—just once—and saw the palazzo's windows blazing with light, shadows moving within, and I felt the first true crack in my immortal heart.

  I waited in Mestre for three weeks.

  On the tenth day, the servant found me. He looked ten years older, his face drawn with grief and fear.