The wind that ruffled the trees was heavy with the promise of rain. From the crest of the hill it was possible to see all of Fiorenza laid out far below them, like a huge toy. The dark clouds had robbed the buildings of color, which made it seem more unreal, like the images in a dream.

Demetrice reined in first, her dark green cloak flying behind her. She had hiked up her wool skirt and was riding astride as Laurenzo had taught her when they had gone to his hunting lodge. Her high boots were better suited to a boy, as was the embroidered three-cornered cap that held her rosy-blond hair in place.

There was the sound of hooves and Ragoczy pulled in his gray beside her roan mare. Today he was wholly in black: no red or white or silver marred the perfect ebony of his clothes. From Russian heeled boots to French gloves to soft Spanish hat, he wore black. It may have been for that reason his face appeared more pale than usual.

The clouds, purple-bellied, pushed through the sky, blotting out the last of the sunlight. Demetrice shivered and pulled her cloak around her.

"Are you cold, amica?" Ragoczy asked as he leaned in his saddle to catch the end of her cloak for her.

Her face had been wind-buffed to a rosy shine, but she said, "No, Francesco. It doesn't matter." At last she looked down at the city. "It's so small."

"It's the distance," he said in a strange tone. "Distance is deceptive."

She heard the odd note in his voice and turned to him. "What is it, Francesco?"

He looked away then, saying, "Nothing, amica. It's nothing."

"That's not so," she said gently. "But I won't press you." With a tap of her heels she set her mare trotting, and did not wait to see if Ragoczy followed her.

In a few moments he had caught up with her, and there was a certain firmness in his expression. "It's not safe for you to ride off that way," he told her when he was near enough to be heard.

"Why do you say that?" She was still watching Fiorenza far ahead. She shuddered as the city darkened.

"Because it isn't safe for anyone to ride alone. The brigands are raiding much nearer Fiorenza than they used to. Some of them apparently used to be part of the Visconti household, for their victims say that they have seen the badge, silver with a blue serpent devouring a red child. That means they are very likely organized much as they were when they were part of the Visconti household. For that reason alone they're dangerous. And renegade soldiers are not... kind... to women." He held Ms horse near hers, and watched her face.

"You say that, and you're not even armed." She scoffed to disguise her sudden fright.

"Am I not?" He dropped his reins and crossed his hands to his sleeve cuffs, drawing two poignards into view. "I'm not quite that innocent."

"No, you're not," she admitted. She looked away as he restored the long knives to the sheaths in his sleeves. "Fiorenza isn't the same anymore." It was hard for her to speak of Laurenzo's death, but Ragoczy knew what she meant.

"Yes, it's changed." He studied the city through narrowed eyes. "It isn't just that, amica. Look at it. It's stopping. The crops have been poor for three years, there isn't as much foreign trade in textiles as there used to be. The English market is almost gone, now, and the Arte della Lana is feeling it. And nothing new is happening. See, there, on the east side of the city? There are two new buildings that are unfinished and have been unfinished for almost a year. There are many like that. Fiorenza should be a running stream, not a stagnant pond. Or," he added as he thought of the religious fervor that was spreading through the city, "a floodtide. Well, that's for the future."

Demetrice looked up at the clouds. "It's starting to rain. Look at the hills there. We'll be soaked."

Ragoczy nodded. "Demetrice, I promise you, you have nothing to fear from me."

Until he spoke the words, she had not known he sensed her disquiet. "I'm not sure I understand."

He sighed. "Yes, we will be wet before we get home." Then he relented. "I don't know how much Laurenzo guessed about me, or what he told you. But I told him, and I tell you now, that you are in no danger from me. Or at least, I myself am not dangerous to you." He saw a loosening in her expression and it was enough for him. "Come, Donna mia, we'd better race now or we might as well look for soap."

Demetrice almost smiled as she jabbed her heels into her mare's flanks and followed Ragoczy down the road toward San Miniato al Monte.

Rain was falling heavily by the time they rattled over il Ponte Vecchio, and as they made their way through the heart of the city they were already starting to shiver as their clothes soaked through.

In the stableyard at the rear of Palazzo San Germano, Ragoczy drew in his horse and came out of his odd lightweight saddle in time to help Demetrice dismount. As he reached up for her, she smiled down at him. Her cloak dragged at her shoulders and her clothes were pasted to her body by the rain. From under her neat wilted cap, her soft hair straggled over her face like seaweed.

"Come," he said to her, and took her by the waist. Although she was almost as tall as he and burdened with soaked clothes, he lifted her easily and set her on the flagging beside him.

Her eyes met his for an instant, and there was inquiry in hers, and a startled pleasure. Ragoczy's dark, enigmatic eyes warmed to her, but he moved away quickly, and taking her hand, led her toward his palazzo. "You're cold, amica. I will tell Ruggiero to heat the bath for you. I don't want you to take a chill."

"And you?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"When you are done, I'll bathe." He glanced at her and the beginnings of amusement lurked in his wry smile.

"But you're as cold as I am."

He held the door for her to pass through. "It doesn't matter, Demetrice."

She was about to object, but realized that he wasn't listening to her. He opened a second door and they were in the courtyard. "Stay under the upper gallery. You shouldn't get much wetter." He had followed his own advice, and moved under the overhang of the second floor. His boots rapped sharply on the mosaic tiles, a counterpoint against the sound of the rain. He moved quickly, like a shadow in the forest, only the sound of his voice and the crisp report of his heels revealing him. "I will have to go out tonight for a time. Don't be concerned. Amadeo will see you have prandium soon. If you like, I will have him prepare a soup as well as a pie. In this weather, you may want it. After that, use the time as you wish. You're welcome to any book in my library. Don't be concerned if I am not in until quite late."

Demetrice had followed him, but interrupted him. "San Germano!"

The urgency of her call brought him to a halt, and he came back toward her, frowning. "What is it, amica? What's wrong?"

Now that she had decided to talk to him, her throat was suddenly quite dry and the words came out almost cracked. "I would... I would like to learn from you."

"Learn what?" He was truly baffled.

"Whatever it is you study in those hidden rooms of yours." The words were out. She waited, trying to hide her apprehension, not daring to look at his face.

"And what do you know of hidden rooms, Demetrice?"

"I... I have seen you. I have watched." She might as well confess the whole, she thought, and said in a rush, "I knew that there was some secret to this place. I knew you had secrets you didn't share with anyone. So I decided to find out. I stayed up late at night. I followed you in the halls. I have seen you enter those hidden rooms. There is a door upstairs and one behind the landing of the grand staircase. I think that there is one on the upper gallery somewhere, but I haven't found it."

Ragoczy did not look angry. His expression was neutral, but his compelling eyes measured her. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes." She said this in a small voice and absentmindedly began to twist the thongs of her wallet that was tied to her belt.

He came nearer, and there was a great deal of gentleness in his face now. "What is it, amica mia? Don't be afraid of me, I beg you." He did not touch her, and there was a sense of dread cold in him as he watched her.

The dark under the gallery hid the worry in her face, but she still did not dare to look at him. "I have watched you at other times."

"Yes?" He was certain now of what she would say, but he knew he could not stop her, and he knew that he didn't want to stop her. He waited, resigned, for what Demetrice found so difficult to tell him.

"You went out a few days ago. I remember that you left a lantern lit in your bedchamber. I kept in my chamber, but I listened for you. It was less than an hour to dawn when you came back. I saw you walk along the gallery. The light from the lantern..."-here she finally dared to look at him-"I saw you in the light, San Germano. There was blood on your lips."

"Ah." It was an effort of will not to turn away from her, but he sensed that if he did, he would lose her trust and might never again recover it.

"Before he died... Laurenzo told me about you, about what he guessed."

"He didn't guess: he was sure," Ragoczy said, remembering the evening of his Twelfth Night festa, which had ended so disastrously.

"Yes." Demetrice looked at him apprehensively. "Was he right, San Germano?"

Why was it always so difficult? Ragoczy wondered. Was it that he hated to be feared? Was it that admitting the truth would set the final seal on his loneliness? "What did Laurenzo tell you?"

"He said you were more than an alchemist. He said that you were immortal..."

"Not immortal. Not quite." The words were quick, harsh.

"He said you were... are... a vampire." When he gave her no answer, she went on recklessly, "He said that the Church was wrong, and that your kind are not demons or cursed of God, that you are not like Satan. He said that you are something else entirely."

"He was right," Ragoczy said softly. He stood still a moment and listened to the rain. "Demetrice," he said almost dreamily, "I told you before and I tell you now that you stand in no danger from me. No danger whatever. No one and nothing in Fiorenza is endangered by me." He stopped and considered. "Or if there is harm, it is not my intention."

Before she could stop herself, she said, "But I saw blood..."

"I had it from one who was willing to give it. Beyond the Porta San Frediano."

"Not Donna Estasia, then?"

"No."

Demetrice was surprised by the jealousy she felt as she spoke Estasia's name. She stopped thinking of Botticelli's cousin as she gathered her courage again. "What happens? When you... drink?"

He desperately wanted this conversation to end. "Most of the time, very little. There is a pleasant dream, a sweet satisfaction, and in the morning some lassitude because a little blood is gone." He recognized the skepticism in her face. "No, amica mia, I am not the ravenous thing you think me. You could fill the ruby cup I gave Laurenzo with what I take from the living. But just the blood is not enough. It will keep me... alive... but it is not enough. So when it is possible, I have intimacy as well. It is not only the blood that nourishes me. It is nearness, pleasure, all intense emotions. Only those who come to me knowingly are... tainted by me. Only those who accept me as I am will be like me." He turned away from Demetrice.

"San Germano, if someone comes to you, can you give them your life?" Her voice was very small and filled with anguish.

"Yes, most of the time." He knew what question would follow, and braced himself to answer it.

"Then why didn't you save Laurenzo? Why did you let him die? He was your friend, San Germano."

"I know." He moved away from her, his eyes closed as the pain of loss welled up in him afresh. "I didn't save him because I couldn't. There was nothing I could do."

"You didn't even try?" Her hands were fists now, and her clear amber eyes shone with anger and tears.

"Demetrice, Demetrice, believe me, if there had been the slightest chance, I would have risked anything to make him... live, even his eternal hatred."

"But why didn't you?" She was beseeching him. All her anger was gone.

He spun around on her. "Because I couldn't!" He steadied himself and went on with fearful intensity. "Understand that. I could not save him. And every day he suffered, I searched, hoped for a way. But it was his blood. To be... changed, the blood must be clean. Laurenzo's was so diseased that it killed him. Oh, I could have shared blood with him. It would not have hurt me. But it would have made no difference. None."

The rain was falling harder, making a sound like an army marching in the distance. The afternoon had grown much darker. In the courtyard the mosaics were no longer visible through the splashes.

When she could speak, Demetrice said, "I didn't realize." She faltered, finding the words too trivial. She came through the gloom toward Ragoczy. Silently she held out her hand.

He looked at her, his dark eyes questioning. Then he took her hand in his, wishing that he were not wearing gloves. He nodded. "Demetrice, amica, you are welcome to stay with me. But if you would rather not, I will provide you money or a dowry. If you stay here, I promise you I will not touch you, will not seek you out, even as a dream."

"I don't want money, and I don't want a dowry. But," she said, her interest kindling, "I would like to study with you. I want to learn what it is you do in those hidden rooms. Will you let me learn from you?"

"Very well." He pulled her nearer, his dark eyes compelling her as much as his insistent hands. "Be my student, then, and welcome. And be my friend, Demetrice. Not my lover, my friend."

She held back from him, still uncertain.

"Do I frighten you?" He had not intended the words to be so revealing, but his despair could not be disguised.

"No," she said quickly. "You have never frightened me." It was almost the truth.

"Not even now, knowing what I am?"

She could no longer read the expression in his eyes, but she knew they searched her face. "You've said you won't harm me, and I believe you, San Germane If you were to cast me out for imposing this confidence on you, I would not fear you. But I would certainly be angry," she added with a smile.

Kindly, gently he drew her into his arms and touched her cheeks with his. "Demetrice, do you know what it is not to be loathed?"

There was nothing she could say in answer, but she felt a deep sympathy for Ragoczy, and realized what his question must mean. She returned his embrace briefly.

But it was Ragoczy who stepped back first. "Come," he said in quite a different tone. "It's icy here. You must have a bath or you will take a fever."

Demetrice accepted this, and admitted to herself that she was chilled through the bone. She made no demur but followed him into the hall, glad to have the warmth of the palazzo around her, and the awakened comfort of the friendship of Francesco Ragoczy da San Germane.

Text of a letter from il Conte Giovanni Pico della Mirandola to Marsilio Ficino:

To his friend in Fiorenza, Marsilio, Pico sends greetings in Plato from Roma.

You must be the first to hear of my good news. The Pope has at last granted me an audience for my petition. Who would have thought that Rodrigo Borgia, of all men, would be willing to hear me? But it may be that I will have the infamous ban against my work lifted at last. Pray for me, Marsilio.

I have seen Cardinale Giovanni (and I must have heard a thousand times now the pun about Giovin' Giovann', and grown heartily sick of the witticism). Of course Giovanni is young, and of course it is obvious that the seven tassles on his hat have not aged him or given him an old man's wisdom. But he is very much a Medici, and a Fiorenzan to the marrow. If you think that the Orsinis look down on Fiorenza, it is nothing compared to the way our young Cardinale views Roma. But he is clever and he will learn. He is also ambitious and likes to lose even less than his father did. Laurenzo might not like what his son is doing here, but he would be proud of him, nonetheless.

There are some very disquieting rumors in Roma, however, about what Piero has done to Fiorenza. The ambassador from Genova has been hinting that Genova would be interested in acquiring Pisa and Livorno, which would be disastrous for la Repubblica Fiorenzena. Unless Piero takes control of the bank from his Tornabuoni uncle and stops leaving statecraft to that other Piero, Dovizio da Bibbiena. It's all very well to have a secretary to copy out letters and to organize appointments. But it is more than enough if they run the state. It would have been better if Piero had had a Fiorenzena to wive. Alfonsina is much worse than Clarice ever was. It's past help now. They've been married almost three years. Not even a Borgia Pope would annul that.

This was the first year we didn't gather on November 7 to honor the birthday of Socrates. I felt very empty on that day. It was not only that I am here in Roma, but it was the knowledge that no such meeting occurred in Fiorenza. I have very often missed Laurenzo, but never more than that day just a month ago.

I am sending a few poems with this, and since it will be carried by Cardinale Giovanni's messenger, I am confident that it will reach you in good time. Do, I ask you, read them and when you have had time to consider their merit-if any-send me word. Your criticism has always been of great use to me.

Be kind enough to greet all my friends in Fiorenza in my name. I hope to return as soon as Alessandro grants my petition. In the meantime I commend myself and all my work to you.

Giovanni Pico, Conte della Mirandola e Concordia

In Roma on the Feast of San Ambrosio di Milano, December 7, 1492