The last thing Dr. Aris Thorne remembered was the scent of old paper and the sharp, shattering sound of reinforced glass. A chaotic symphony of screams, the screech of tires, and then a profound, echoing silence. She had been in the Renaissance wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her fingers hovering just inches from the display case of the famed “Medici Amber.” It was a piece she had written her doctoral thesis on, a locket rumored to hold a lock of Lucrezia de’ Medici’s hair. A reckless driver, a city bus, and a cruel twist of fate had turned her academic pilgrimage into a final, crushing darkness.
Then, light. Not the harsh, fluorescent glare of a hospital, but a soft, golden radiance filtering through what felt like heavy velvet. A dull, rhythmic throbbing pulsed at the base of her skull. Aris’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead. The world swam into focus, a dizzying tapestry of impossible sensations. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax and something floral, like jasmine. A heavy weight lay across her body, and when she looked down, she saw not a sterile hospital gown, but a cascade of deep crimson silk, intricately embroidered with gold thread. Her hands, when she raised them, were pale and slender, her nails impeccably manicured, free of the ink stains that usually adorned her fingertips. They were not her hands.
A gasp escaped her lips, but the sound was wrong—higher, softer. Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog in her mind. She sat bolt upright, the heavy fabric rustling around her. She was in a bed, a massive four-poster monstrosity draped in velvet curtains. The room was vast, with frescoed walls depicting pastoral scenes and a high, beamed ceiling. A stone fireplace, large enough to stand in, dominated one wall, its embers glowing faintly. This wasn’t a hospital. It wasn’t New York. It looked like a meticulously crafted film set.
“Leonora? Are you awake?” The voice was gentle, laced with a musical Italian accent.
Aris turned her head, a sharp pain shooting through her neck. A young woman, no older than sixteen, with wide, concerned eyes and dressed in the simple garb of a servant, scurried to her bedside.
“You took a nasty fall, my lady,” the girl said, her brow furrowed with worry. “Signora de’ Medici was terribly concerned.”
My lady? Leonora? Signora de’ Medici? The names echoed in the cavernous space of Aris’s mind, foreign yet disturbingly familiar. She tried to speak, to ask where she was, who this girl was, but her tongue felt thick and uncooperative. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and with it came a flood of fragmented images—a sun-drenched Florentine courtyard, the feel of a horse’s reins in her hands, the sound of a lute playing a mournful tune, and a man’s face, handsome and intense, his dark eyes filled with a teasing warmth. They were memories, but not her own. They belonged to this body, to a girl named Leonora Vivari.
The servant girl, oblivious to the existential crisis unfolding before her, pressed a cool cloth to Aris’s forehead. “The physician said you must rest. There is a grand feast tonight. Lorenzo himself has requested your presence. He was asking after you.”
Lorenzo. The name struck her like a physical blow. Not just any Lorenzo. The context, the setting, the name “Medici”—it could only mean one person. Lorenzo de’ Medici. Il Magnifico. The Magnificent. The great patron of the Renaissance, the de facto ruler of Florence. A man who had been dead for over five hundred years.
Aris swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cold stone floor. She stumbled towards a large, polished silver mirror hanging on the opposite wall. The reflection that stared back was that of a stranger. A young woman of about nineteen, with a heart-shaped face, wide, almond-shaped eyes the color of warm honey, and a cascade of auburn hair that fell in soft waves to her waist. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t Aris Thorne.
The historian in her mind screamed in denial, a frantic, desperate litany of logic and reason. But the reflection did not change. The scent of jasmine, the weight of the silk, the chillingly authentic room—it was all real. The accident… it hadn’t just killed her. It had sent her somewhere else. Somewhere impossible.
She had died in the 21st century and woken up in the heart of the Italian Renaissance. And somehow, in this terrifying, vibrant new reality, her fate was already intertwined with the most powerful man in Florence. The servant, whose name Leonora’s memories supplied as ‘Caterina,’ helped her dress for the evening feast. The process was a strange duality. Aris’s mind reeled at the layers of chemise, gown, and corset, yet Leonora’s body moved with an ingrained familiarity, her hands knowing just how to tie the silken ribbons. With every movement, more of Leonora’s life bled into Aris’s consciousness. She was an orphan, the daughter of a minor Florentine nobleman who had been a loyal friend to Lorenzo’s father, Piero de’ Medici. Upon his death, Leonora had become a ward of the Medici family, a lady-in-waiting and companion to Lorenzo’s wife, Clarice Orsini.
As Caterina artfully braided her hair, weaving in thin gold ribbons, Aris pieced together the immediate past. Leonora had been riding in the countryside when her horse was spooked. The fall had been the cause of her “illness.” But was that all? A flicker of another memory surfaced—a man’s gruff voice, the glint of steel. Had it truly been an accident?
Stepping out into the grand hall of the Palazzo Medici was like walking into one of her own textbooks. Torches flickered in wrought-iron sconces, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The air buzzed with the chatter of poets, philosophers, and merchants dressed in velvets and brocades. It was overwhelming, a sensory assault of history come to life. Aris, now fully inhabiting the role of Leonora, kept her head down, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She felt like an imposter, a fraud waiting to be exposed.
“Leonora, my dear, it is a relief to see you well.” The voice was calm and authoritative. Clarice Orsini, a woman whose Roman piety was often at odds with the Florentine court’s humanistic fervor, approached her. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes were sharp, assessing.
“Thank you, Signora. The physician’s remedies have worked their wonders,” Aris replied, the Italian words flowing with Leonora’s natural ease, a linguistic miracle she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
“Lorenzo will be pleased. He has been most anxious,” Clarice said, guiding her towards the main table.
And there he was. Lorenzo de’ Medici sat at the head of the table, not as the stern, middle-aged statesman from the portraits she knew, but as a man in his prime, vibrant and radiating an almost palpable energy. He was not conventionally handsome—his features were too strong, his nose famously flattened from a youthful jousting accident—but he possessed a charisma that commanded the room. He was in a deep conversation with a young, ethereal-looking man Aris instantly recognized as Sandro Botticelli.
As if feeling her gaze, Lorenzo looked up. His dark eyes met hers across the room, and for a heart-stopping moment, the world seemed to fall away. It was the face from Leonora’s memories, the same intense gaze, the same teasing warmth. But for Aris, it was something more. A jolt, a shock of recognition so profound it felt like a memory from her own soul, a connection that stretched across centuries. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a small smile playing on his lips, before turning back to the artist.
The feast was a blur. Aris sat in a daze, picking at the rich food, her mind racing. This was her life now. These were the people she lived amongst. The Pazzi, the Medici’s bitter rivals, were seated just a few places down, their smiles thin and their eyes cold. Aris knew, with the chilling certainty of a historian, that in just a few years, they would attempt to assassinate Lorenzo and his brother, Giuliano, in the Duomo itself. The Pazzi Conspiracy. A bloody chapter in Florence’s history that she was now living on the precipice of.
Later, as the guests mingled, Aris sought refuge on a balcony overlooking the palazzo’s courtyard. The cool night air was a welcome relief.
“Hiding from the poets, my lady?”
She spun around. Lorenzo was leaning against the stone balustrade, a cup of wine in his hand, watching her with an unnerving intensity.
“Their verses are too rich for my simple mind tonight, my lord,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.
He chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. “I doubt anything about your mind is simple, Leonora. You have been quiet since your fall. It does not suit you.” He stepped closer, his presence filling the small space. “I was worried. When I heard your horse returned without you, I feared the worst.”
The genuine concern in his voice was disarming. This was the man who would one day be called “The Magnificent,” a master of diplomacy and statecraft, yet here he was, expressing his fear for her safety. It was a side of him the history books rarely showed.
“I am well, Lorenzo. Truly,” she said, using his first name as Leonora would have.
“Good,” he said softly. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing a stray curl from her cheek. The touch was electric, sending a shiver down her spine. His eyes searched hers, a question lingering in their depths. “But something is different. Your eyes… they hold a wisdom that was not there before.”
Panic flared in Aris’s chest. He could see it. He could see that she wasn’t the same girl. She lowered her gaze, her heart hammering. “Perhaps the fall knocked some sense into me, my lord.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Perhaps,” he murmured, his gaze falling to the simple amber locket she wore around her neck. It was a plain, unadorned piece, a stark contrast to the jewels dripping from the other ladies. It had been her mother’s, and it was the one thing Leonora treasured. “Or perhaps it knocked something loose.”
Before she could respond, his brother, the handsome and universally beloved Giuliano de’ Medici, appeared at the doorway. “Lorenzo, our friends from Venice grow impatient for a game of chess.”
Lorenzo’s attention was broken. He gave Aris a final, lingering look before turning to his brother. “Duty calls,” he said, his voice once again that of the ruler. “Do not be a stranger, Leonora. Your wit is a rare commodity in this court.”
As he walked away, Aris’s hand flew to the amber locket at her throat. It felt warm to the touch. The encounter had left her breathless and terrified. Lorenzo de’ Medici saw too much. And in a court built on secrets and shadows, being seen was the most dangerous thing of all. She had not just been reincarnated into the past. She had been dropped into the heart of a web, and its magnificent, charismatic spider had just taken notice of her.
