Tell me, Rambaldi. What is the size of her heart?
Is it large enough to send her back to her father, time and again, rejection after dismissal after outright lie? To prompt her to risk her life and her mission for him when she believes it necessary?
Is it large enough for her to care for her friends even when she's too tired to care for herself, when she carries secrets that could bury them all? I see it daily, with Francie and Will, Dixon and Marshall. Even her father. Even me.
Is it large enough to love a man forever? Maybe your prophecies don't mention him, Signor, but I can tell you down to the day when she stopped wearing the ring he gave her. The number of times a week she visits his grave. Did you know she would take on the forces of evil for him--because that's exactly what she's doing, no matter what your damned prophecy implies. Did you?
Is it large enough that she can still laugh, make faces, dance with abandon after everything that's been done to her, after everything she's done?
You sixteenth-century bastard! Tell me!
Is it large enough for her to do dangerous, secret, filthy work with the professionalism of a bank teller counting out change? To think on her feet in a half-dozen languages? To banter with me about basketball and restaurants while we were--God!--while we were in the middle of breaking into the Vatican?
Is it large enough that she can still look at me with trust while I watch men put her in chains? Is it large enough to help her survive this? Because I swear to God, I think it's killing me.
You're the expert, Rambaldi. Tell us. Tell me. What is the size of Sydney's heart?