She saw Metropolitan Michael's eyes widen and his jaw sag. Actually, at that point, there were many jaws dropping, especially among the priests. The only one who didn't seem surprised was Marco, who squeezed her hand encouragingly. No one interrupted her, though, and she continued doggedly, through the point of Lucrezia's transformation, the seizing of the Bible, and the aftermath.
"And then the voice said, Let Evil beware the weight of the Word of God, and then--I suppose it was gone, because the warmth went away," she concluded. She prudently omitted the other outrageous puns that the voice had made, as well as the remarks that had prefaced and followed the aphorism she'd been told to use.
Heads nodded wisely all over the room--
--except for Metropolitan Michael's. He appeared to be choking for a moment, but quickly composed himself.
Did he get the joke? A moment later, a glance from his dancing eyes confirmed her suspicion that he had.
Oh, dearest Dottore Marina, now I understand what you meant about history becoming somewhat cleaned up and simplified. Who, except perhaps for this single cleric, would ever understand the full version? Who would ever appreciate it for what it meant? Yes, there was terrible evil in the world, and yes, they must fight grimly to defeat it--but there was also peace, love, and joy . . .and to forget that, would be to forget there was a God.
"I have no questions, but I would like to examine the young lady's medal," Michael said gravely. She pulled the chain over her head and handed it to the page who came for it, feeling uncomfortable and naked without it. Michael and his group of priests each examined the Saint Hypatia medal closely, and they put their heads together and muttered for a moment.
Then the Metropolitan handed it back to the page, who brought it back to her. She put it back on, with relief.
"I would like to place into the record of these proceedings that we have found the original protections placed upon this talisman by the Order of Hypatia. As well as a very recent reinforcing spell, placed on it within the last three months or so, by some other magician. Whom I believe to have been Dottore Marina." He paused significantly. "All of which bear the completely unmistakable aura of sanctity. This medal has been used within the last day as a vehicle for one of God's own spirits. We are not prepared to state which spirit, but I believe we can assume it was, at the least, one of the angelic order of the cherubim." Michael raised one eyebrow. "Possibly higher. Possibly the saint herself. But without having a Christian mage as a witness, we cannot state that this was a bona fide Hypatian miracle, and therefore we will confine ourselves to pronouncing it a genuine case of divine intercession."
Well, that caused as much of a buzz as Marco's revelations, and Rafael got off with doing no more than providing confirmation for her story and Marco's with no questioning. And very shortly after that, they were all three dismissed and followed their page--stumbling, as Dorma had predicted--to their rooms.
Kat found attentive maids waiting, who stripped her with the same terrible efficiency as shown by Petro Dorma, popped a nightdress over her head, and eased her into a bed she didn't even see. After that--she didn't even dream.
* * *
But the next day . . .
All of the peace of mind which had come to her came crashing down the moment she stepped out into the public corridors. Two pages were waiting for her, and whisked her off to join Marco, chattering at her the entire time.
She and Marco, it seemed, were the Saviors of Venice. Father Lopez, still covered with dust from his hurried return to the city, explained it all to them.
Never mind Petro Dorma, or the Arsenalotti. Forget the brilliant tactics of Dell'este. Ignore the subtle intervention of the Emperor. Completely discount the actions of the Knights under confrere Manfred and his friend Eric Hakkonsen. Pretend that Father Lopez never battled Sachs and Ursula and the horrible thing they had brought in on behest of the dread Grand Duke of Lithuania. She and Marco were the Saviors of Venice.
Dorma was with Marco, and Senor Lopez joined them a moment later. "You must make an appearance," Dorma told them firmly, before they could make any objections. Lopez nodded, even more firmly. Kat discovered that, when sandwiched between two such forceful personalities, no becomes a word that does not effectively exist.
Dorma and Lopez took them both to the very, very public Scala di Giganti, where the new Doges were always inaugurated, and as they all stepped out onto the top step, a roar went up from the Piazza San Marco. As she stood there, once again clutching at Marco's hand, half-blinded by the sun and deafened by the noise, she realized to her horror that the piazza was packed solid.
"Smile," Dorma shouted into her ear. "Wave."
She did; the crowd roared again.
"Now come this way." Dorma took her arm and steered her along the second-floor balcony to the side that faced the lagoon as Lopez did the same for Marco. The piazza was too densely packed for anyone to follow, but that hardly mattered, since the wave of sound propagated along as they passed. And when they got to the seaward side of the balcony, it seemed that every floating object in Venice began parading past.
At least here, facing the Doge's palace and the lagoon, where not so many people could crowd up against the building, it was easier to hear.
"Keep smiling and waving," Lopez said gravely, doing the same. Then he and Dorma explained to them how and why it was that they were suddenly the Saviors.
"Dell'este is not one of us," Dorma said, bowing as one of the House racing-boats passed with every scion of nobility the House possessed manning an oar. "The Knights--well, so far as the average Venetian is concerned, they have only just redeemed themselves for the actions of Sachs and the Sots. And, besides, they aren't our people either."
"Nor are we, the foreign clerics, and never mind who sent us here," Lopez agreed wryly. "And Petro Dorma--" His lips twisted in an attempt to suppress a smile. "Petro Dorma is a fine example of the best of the Casa Vecchie, and he will surely make a great Doge. But he is balding, middle-aged, and has an undistinguished nose. Not the fine figure of which legends are made."
Dorma chuckled. "True enough. Not"--here, a bit smugly--"that my humble nose is going to stop any of the single ladies of the Casa Vecchie from seeking out my company with an eye to matrimony. But, yes, I will be the first to admit that I do not make an appropriate figure for the future statues which will commemorate this triumph."
He gazed at Marco and Kat. "You, on the other hand--you are both handsome, young, and--well. That problem still has to be dealt with, but the rumor of your little romance is already sweeping the city. Not so little, actually. You have ended a feud between your families to rival that of the Capuletti and Montague in Verona. You have served as the vessels for the oldest of Venice's magical protectors, and of a bona fide angelic power. So, I can hardly blame the people for deciding that we old men only sat and twiddled our fingers while you two saved the city. Smile," he added, as Kat began to object. "And wave. This is what is meant by noblesse oblige, as our Aquitaine friends would say."
The two youngsters did as they were instructed. But Kat had the sinking realization--sinking like a stone anchor at sea--that the "rumor sweeping Venice" was going to make her life a lot more complicated than it already was. The ugly term adulteress crept into her mind, making her wince. She wasn't sure if she should keep holding Marco's hand. But--