Fires of the Faithful Read Online Free Page B

your list yet?” he asked. It was a lame attempt to change the subject. The Lord was known for handling the little things, the small requests that the Lady was too important to bother with. Making a list wasn’t part of official church rites, but since the Lord was leaving on His journey, everyone tried to get in requests before He left.
    “Sure,” I said, continuing to glare at the floor.
    Finally Domenico sighed and said, “Certain heresies hold that the use of magery is a sin.”
    “You think she’s a
heretic
?” Trouble with the Fedeli would certainly explain Mira’s departure from Cuore. “Although, you know, she doesn’t know the first thing about getting by
without
magery, either. When I first saw her, she was trying to light a candle cold with flint and steel.”
    “That wouldn’t be it, then,” Domenico said. “I’ve heard of musicians who stop using magery because they say their music is
their
gift from the Lady—they want to use that power in their playing rather than to make lights to read by. That particular school of thought has been out of fashion for a few hundred years, but maybe Mira read something that mentioned the idea and adopted it.”
    “That fits,” I said. “Well, at least it fits better than anything else.”
    Domenico nodded, still reflective. I leaned forward. “I heard you had a visitor yourself, this week.”
    Domenico’s eyebrows shot up. “Who did you hear that from?”
    “Bella saw someone on a horse stop in at your cottage,” I said. “She thinks he’s the man who brought the Wicked Stepmother song.”
    “Bella was watching?” Domenico shook his head. “I shouldn’t tell you anything; you’ll only repeat it to that gaggle of goslings you call your friends.”
    I shook my head. “Not if you’d rather I didn’t.”
    “It hardly matters. I take my meals with Nolasco, Bella’s teacher, and I’m sure she’ll worm everything I’ve said out of him.” Domenico raked back his hair again. “Bella was right. That was the man who brought the song. It was a very young nobleman, handsomer than anyone has a right to be but with a manner that could curdle milk. He invited himself in, sang me the song enough times for me to learn it by heart, then went on his way. No explanation, not even an apology for interrupting my meal. He acted like he wasdoing
me
a favor by singing it for me.” Domenico shook his head. “But the song is a puzzle. I passed it on hoping that someone would be able to explain it to me, but so far no one has.” He leaned forward. “Have you and the goslings had any ideas?”
    “Flavia thinks that the ‘poisoned honey’ is some sort of heresy, and that the song might have been written by the Fedeli,” I said.
    “Interesting thought.”
    “Celia thinks it’s literal—well, mostly literal. About some stupid feud between noble families. That was Bella’s theory, too, till Celia picked it up.”
    “I’m dubious on that one. And not just because Celia likes it.”
    “But with the young nobleman bringing the song—”
    Domenico shook his head. “No. If it were a feud, they’d have hired professional musicians to spread it. The man who sang it for me could barely carry the tune.”
    “Do you have a theory?” I asked.
    Domenico shrugged. “Not yet,” he said.
    •  •  •
    Viaggio fell on a perfect autumn day, sunny and cool. It was a shame to waste most of the day indoors, but we were required to go to church in the morning. I refused to drag myself out of bed before dawn to primp for the boys, like Giula or Celia—but I did make sure I had a clean robe to wear as we’d be playing publicly that afternoon. As a fourth-year student, I was allowed to wear my hair long enough that I could pin it neatly back. Mira combed my hair for me, so that it could be parted straight. Her hands were gentle as she eased out the tangles; she focused as completely on my hair as she did on her music.
    One sunny morning when I was eight years old,