The Monastery of San Nicola sat like a jagged crown upon the highest peak of the Madonie range. It was a place where the wind didn't just blow; it screamed through the ancient bell towers, sounding like the voices of the thousands who had sought sanctuary here and failed.
The shepherd, whose name Seraphina now knew was Elio, led them through a sequence of tunnels that smelled of frankincense and cold rot. Seraphina’s feet were raw, her grey silk dress now nothing more than a shroud of salt and dirt, but she didn't slow down. The Moretti signet ring was clutched so tightly in her palm that the crest had began to bruise her skin.
"The Crows will not enter the hallowed ground yet," Elio whispered, sliding a heavy iron bolt into place behind them. "Valentina fears the Church almost as much a
