Ibarra’s head took flight from his shoulders and rolled across the floor. It came to rest at Aoibhe’s feet.

She sighed as she looked down into her recent lover’s eyes.

The Prince lifted his bloody sword, so that all could see it, and drove it deep into the stone at his feet.

“Let this be a sign to traitors.”

He returned to the platform and retrieved his robe, wiping his hands with it before tossing it away in contempt.

“Lorenzo, take the traitor’s head and display it on a spike next to the sword. Parade the citizens in to look at it. Maximilian, you and Pierre take the body outside the city and burn it.”

The Prince made eye contact with each of the remaining council members.

“The next one who betrays me will not receive so swift a death.”

Chapter Eighteen

Raven believed in science, the testimony of the senses, the power of human reason, and the veracity of her own perceptions. She did not believe in religion, sacred texts, the supernatural, or the afterlife.

And that was why she believed the intruder was a member of an organized crime faction and that the so-called feral was someone who was in mental distress and in need of help.

Three days after she gashed her forehead, the wound had healed, leaving only a pale, shiny scar. She was still struggling to formulate an adequate, scientific explanation for that fact, and for the piece of metal that was stuck in her bedroom wall like a dart in a dartboard.

She knew enough Newtonian physics to conclude that the intruder must have incredible strength if he could hurl the cane at so great a force it would pierce the plaster and stone. But to have the cane embedded several inches into the stone . . .

(Perhaps he took steroids.)

And what of his words to her, in Latin?

I am innocent of the blood.

She had no idea what he meant, but it certainly frightened her. As did her reaction to the gentle way he’d touched her face.

As she swung her legs over the side of her bed, she shivered, realizing she needed to develop a social life. If she was lonely enough to enjoy the touch of a stranger, then she must be in desperate need of human contact.

Yet, there was something about him. There was something sincere in his distress over her injury. If he was worried she’d be upset about what she’d seen in the piazza, so much so that he would come to see if she was all right, and if he was upset when she injured herself, surely he couldn’t be a completely coldhearted criminal.

He praised my eyes.

Raven had been paid few compliments about her physical appearance in her life. She knew she ran the risk of attaching more importance than was prudent to the one the intruder had paid her.

Thankfully, she had a date that evening.

Bruno was Lidia DiFabio’s grandson. He was about Raven’s height, with dark, wavy hair and large brown eyes. He was athletic and intelligent, and Raven had nursed a secret crush on him almost from the moment they met, which was why her sister teased her.

He visited his grandmother regularly, usually for a short breakfast before work. Until the day before, he’d always been polite but detached with Raven, despite his grandmother’s repeated matchmaking efforts.

When he saw Raven exit her apartment Thursday morning, he hadn’t recognized her. She’d introduced herself (again) and he’d stared, open-mouthed, his dark eyes raking up and down her new yellow sundress.

He’d liked what he’d seen and said so.

Moments later, she was promising to go out with him for sushi Friday night and he was kissing her cheeks, murmuring how glad he was to have finally seen her.

Raven e-mailed her sister about the surprising turn of events and had been pleased by her sister’s enthusiastic response. Of course, she didn’t tell Cara that Bruno’s change in demeanor had been precipitated by a marked change in her own physical appearance. She didn’t want to portray Bruno as shallow.

Even if he only wants to go out with me because I’m pretty now, I don’t care. I deserve a little happiness.

She placed her legs on the floor and found herself cringing. Pain shot through her right foot and up her leg.

She sat back on the bed and the pain lessened to a dull ache. She was able to move her leg, even though it felt a bit stiff. Leaning over, she started massaging the tense muscles, moving down to gently manipulate her ankle.

As she took a closer look at the exposed skin of her right leg, she noticed something.

The scar that she’d had for years, ever since the accident, had returned. Oh, it was less visible than it had been before, the mark pale and shiny. But she was pretty sure it hadn’t been visible the day before, or any day since she’d woken up Monday morning without it.

The realization made her stomach flip, especially when she compared the appearance with the scar on her forehead.

She wasn’t delusional. She pinched her arm to prove that point.

She reached for her cell phone and quickly scrolled through the photos she’d taken of herself that week. Comparing the photos with her leg, the changes were noticeable. The scar had reappeared and her foot had begun to turn out slightly. Still, it was a far cry from what her injured leg and foot had been before.

Putting her phone aside, she placed both feet on the floor and stood. She found that she could walk without limping, but the pain flared during her first few steps.

When she looked in the mirror in the bathroom, she was surprised at what she saw. Her face was a little fuller, her hair not quite as shiny, and dark circles lay beneath her eyes.

She looked, she thought, as if she hadn’t been taking care of herself. Once again, the changes from her appearance the day before were dramatic, but not so much as to return her to her previous appearance.

It was as if the physical transformation had been undone, but not completely.

She readied herself for work, showering with her favorite rose-scented soap and washing and drying her hair. She struggled into her new green sundress, finding that the linen fabric pulled across her now slightly protruding abdomen and softly padded hips.

She wondered how the dress had shrunk in her closet. She wondered how, in the space of a few hours, she’d gained enough weight to have a rounded belly.

If someone is trying to make me think I’m crazy, they’re doing a hell of a good job.

At least the photographs didn’t lie. She had pictures of what she looked like before she’d lost her memory, a few self-photos of what she looked like afterward, and now she took pictures of the most recent changes.