Tosca

“He is in the well of the Teatro’s courtyard,” she lied. “But first, sign the safe-conduct for Luca.”

She took the safe-conduct and fled.

“Signora Flavia,” he said, pouring two glasses of dark wine. “Your Tosca is sublime. The jealousy in Act Two—where she believes Cavaradossi has betrayed her—it comes so naturally. I wonder why.” “He is in the well of the Teatro’s

Scarpia laughed, signed, and reached for her. “Now you are mine.”

“Why?” Flavia asked.

The next evening, the performance went on. Flavia sang “Vissi d’arte”—“I lived for art, I lived for love”—with such raw anguish that the audience wept. But in the wings, she had hidden a guard’s knife.

Flavia smiled—the cold, bright smile of Tosca in Act Three, when she thinks she has won. “No,” she said. “Now you are dead.” “Your Tosca is sublime

That night, Flavia did not sleep. She walked to the church of Sant’Andrea della Valle, where Luca often prayed. The moon cast blue shadows across the marble floor.