The letter bore the seal of the Church.
That, in itself, was merely a matter of curiosity, though Angelo frowned as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.
His face went white when he read the contents, and it was all Jessica could do not to snatch the missive from his hand and read it herself.
"What's wrong?" she asked instead, her arms going around him.
"He's dead." Angelo's breath shuddered out of him. "Marcello's dead."
"What?" Now she did take the letter from his trembling grip, skimming swiftly over the neat, impersonal hand of some Church scribe.
How many times had she longed for this news? Selfishly, she realized; she had thought only of the relief, the certainty that Marcello's threat was gone. She had never considered Angelo's reaction, had never thought of him going white- faced and trembling, bowing his forehead against her shoulder, unsure how to release the sobs that were escaping, bit by bit, as choked, wounded fragments of sound.
Bitterly, she thought how very like Marcello it was, to hurt Angelo even in this.
"I'm sorry," she breathed, and pulled him close against her.
She grieved for him, even if she couldn't grieve with him.
