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“Too bad we cannot melt it down,” Nazira said thoughtfully, looking at the heavy gold frame. Radu searched for silver. There were a few small pieces, and he pocketed them. Nazira stayed where she was, staring at the icon.
“I think that is Constantinople’s problem,” she said. “They look to a painting to save them, instead of to each other. They argue and debate over the state of their souls for the afterlife, while letting the needy in this life go hungry. No wonder this city is dying.”
Radu put a hand on her shoulder. “I have what we came for.”
Nazira did not move. Her eyes shone heavy with tears in the candlelight. “I hate them. I hate everyone in this city. I walk among them, I talk to them, and it is like conversing with ghosts. I want to wear mourning clothes every day.” She was crying now. Reaching into one of the jars in the bucket, she pulled out a glopping handful of grease.
Radu grasped her hand before she could fling the grease at the icon. “No,” he said softly.
“We should burn it. We should punish them.”
“They are being punished enough.”
“Your sister would burn it to demoralize them.”
“My sister would do much more than that.” He smiled, imagining what Lada would do if she were here in his place. Nothing in the city would be safe. “But Cyprian is outside. He would know.”
Sniffling, Nazira nodded. She rubbed her hands along the pallet handles, trying to wipe off the grease. “I am sorry. I miss Fatima so much it feels like ice has entered my soul. And it is hard remembering not to care about these people. I was so sure when we came that it would not be a problem. I wanted— I wanted them to suffer. I wanted to watch them fall.”
Radu had never heard her talk like that. “To protect Islam?”
“For revenge,” she whispered. “For Fatima. Her family was killed by crusaders when she was very young. They did horrible things. Things she cannot talk about even now. I wanted Constantinople to be ours to prevent more crusades, yes. But also to punish them.” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her shawl. “I know it is not rational. None of the people here were responsible for what happened to Fatima. But their mindless hatred of us, their demonizing of Islam, is what let those men do what they did. It was wicked of me to come here with so much hatred in my heart. Hatred makes monsters of us all.”
Radu pulled her close, hugging her tightly. “You could never be a monster,” he said, as the Virgin Mary pointed solemnly at her son. Her face betrayed no emotion, no hint of judgment or mercy.
“I still think we are doing the right thing.” Nazira fixed her shawl. “And I am trying to set my heart in line with God.”
Radu nodded, taking her hand. Together, they left the monastery.
Cyprian met them outside. “The foundry is not far. No one will be there.”
When they got to the foundry, the forge’s fires were cold. It would take a while for them to be hot enough to melt down the metal. Nazira excused herself to go home and sleep.
Radu saw now that she wore her sadness like a cloak. She smiled so brightly, it was too easy to miss the sorrow swirling around her. Radu wished he could take it from her. But he knew that leaving this city and being reunited with Fatima would be what began her healing.
As they started the furnace, Cyprian found the molds for c
oins. “My father told me I would never make any money for the family. I wish he could see me now.”
“My father did not even think about me enough to wonder whether I was worth anything.”
“He sounds like more of a bastard than I am.”
Radu laughed, and was rewarded with one of Cyprian’s precious genuine smiles. They took turns stoking the fire. Cyprian leaned close, looking over Radu’s shoulder to watch the flames. He had washed, and did not smell like the walls anymore. He smelled like clothing dried in the sun, with a hint of the breeze blowing off the sea. Radu found himself breathing in so deeply he was dizzy.
“You are very good at this,” Cyprian said, his breath tickling Radu’s ear.
Radu would have blushed at the praise—after his broken childhood, he devoured praise like a starving man took bread—but it was so warm he was already flushed. Soon the room was stifling. Cyprian peeled off his outer layers, finally taking off even his undershirt.
It really is uncomfortably hot, Radu thought, looking everywhere but at the other man.
When the fire was bright enough, they fed the silver pieces to it one by one, collecting the molten metal. The coins they cast were rough, obviously inferior to genuine money. But no one would examine them too closely right now.
Cyprian sprawled out on the floor, arms behind his head. Radu did not look.
Until he did.
Cyprian was lean and tall, with broad shoulders. Radu’s eyes lingered on the space where his torso dipped from his ribs toward the line of his trousers.
