Flavia’s hand trembled. She thought of the stage, of the high parapet at the Castel Sant’Angelo where Tosca leaps to her death. But this was not opera. There was no orchestra to cue a last-minute rescue.
“You’re a monster,” she whispered. Flavia’s hand trembled
Flavia smiled—the cold, bright smile of Tosca in Act Three, when she thinks she has won. “No,” she said. “Now you are dead.” ” she whispered. Flavia smiled—the cold
His chambers in the Palazzo Farnese smelled of incense and old leather. He was not the ogre of legend; he was worse. He was reasonable. sat at her mirror
She did not leap from the Castel Sant’Angelo that night. She simply walked home, sat at her mirror, and began to remove her stage makeup.