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When he arrived at the second floor he found the corridor abandoned.
He followed the Emersons’ scents to the Botticelli room. Peering through the door, he saw them entangled in a passionate embrace.
With scant reflection, he decided to enter the room and admire the artwork, but to do so unseen. It had been some time since he’d viewed the works of the Uffizi in person. The affairs of state kept him busy, as did his other pursuits.
He scaled one of the interior walls and suspended himself from the ceiling, taking care to be silent in his movements. This was an old trick of his kind when they wished to observe human behavior unseen. It was amazing how few human beings ever bothered to look up.
While the Emersons kissed and whispered to each other, the Prince took a moment to appreciate The Birth of Venus and the copy of Botticelli’s original Primavera, an immense feeling of superiority and satisfaction swelling his chest.
With respect to Primavera, he knew what no one else in the world knew. He held his secret knowledge tightly, like a precious jewel.
His self-congratulatory thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Emerson, who grabbed her husband suddenly and pulled him to the corridor.
The Prince was about to follow them when he noticed a new addition to the room, near where the Emersons had been kissing.
Dropping soundlessly from the ceiling to the floor, he strode toward the work. A few feet away he stopped.
On the wall opposite The Birth of Venus was a large black-and-white photograph of Mrs. Emerson. She was in profile, eyes closed and smiling. Her long dark hair was being lifted by a pair of hands.
It was an extraordinary image, even to his cold and cynical gray eyes. Its beauty was made poignant by the knowledge she was ill.
His eyes traveled to the words that had been posted below the photograph. It was a quotation from Dante,
«Deh, bella donna, che a’ raggi d’amore
ti scaldi, s’i’ vo’ credere a’ sembianti
che soglion esser testimon del core,
vegnati in voglia di trarreti avanti»,
diss’io a lei, «verso questa rivera,
tanto ch’io possa intender che tu canti.
Tu mi fai rimembrar dove e qual era
Proserpina nel tempo che perdette
la madre lei, ed ella primavera».
—Dante, Purgatorio 28.045–051.
“Ah, beauteous lady, who in rays of love
Dost warm thyself, if I may trust to looks,
Which the heart’s witnesses are wont to be,
May the desire come unto thee to draw
Near to this river’s bank,” I said to her,
“So much that I might hear what thou art singing.
Thou makest me remember where and what
Proserpina that moment was when lost
Her mother her, and she herself the Spring.”
The Prince scoffed and turned on his heel. He hadn’t liked Dante in life and he liked him even less in death.
Beatrice was a different case. . . .
Let the Emersons view themselves as modern incarnations of Dante and Beatrice. It mattered not. Mercy was not part of the Prince’s nature and not all the romantic love in the world would change that fact.
The professor would pay for his thievery, and his wife would mourn him. In those events, justice would be served.
Anxious that perhaps the Emersons had fled the building, he entered the hall, following their scent down the corridor.
In the distance, he could hear voices and muffled sounds.
He approached silently, almost floating across the floor.
Desperate groans and the rustling of fabric filled his ears, along with the twin sounds of rapidly beating hearts. He could smell their scents, the aromas heightened due to their sexual arousal.
He growled in reaction, baring his teeth.
The corridor was shrouded in darkness but the Prince could see that the professor had his wife up against a window between two statues, her legs wrapped around his waist.
Her voice was breathy as she spoke, but the Prince tuned out her words, moving closer so he could catch a glimpse of her lovely face.
At the sight of it, flushed with passion, his old heart quickened and he felt the stirrings of arousal.
It was not his custom to observe rather than participate. But on this occasion, he decided to make an exception. Careful to remain in the darkness, he moved to the wall opposite the couple.
The woman squirmed in her lover’s arms, her high heels catching on his tuxedo jacket. Her fingers flew to his neck, undoing his bow tie and tossing it carelessly to the floor.
She unbuttoned his shirt, and her mouth moved to his chest, as murmurs of pleasure escaped his lips.
The Prince felt more than desire as he watched the woman’s eager movements. He caught a glimpse of her exquisite mouth and the toss of her long hair that would no doubt feel like silk between his fingers.
She lifted her head to smile at the man who held her close and he could see love in her eyes.
It had been many, many years since someone smiled at him like that. As if he, himself, were the prize.
The Prince felt the sharpness of loss in that instance and the heaviness of an emerging envy.
The second floor was not air-conditioned and was warm, very warm. The air clung, growing thick with the scent of the lovers—a mixture of blood and sex that teased the Prince’s nostrils.
The professor’s hand disappeared between his wife’s legs and he began to touch her, whispering sensual words of appreciation.
The Prince craned his neck for a better view but of course his line of sight was obscured by the professor’s body.
He cursed, remembering once again how the professor seemed to stand between him and what he wanted.
He followed the movement of the man’s arm, watching as the rhythm was matched by the shifting of the woman’s hips and the sounds emanating from her throat. Breathy groans and panting tempted him to push the professor aside and take her himself.
He indulged himself in a momentary fantasy. The young woman warm and willing in his arms, her eager mouth pressed to his as he entered her. He’d be careful, of course, because humans were breakable.
But she would be warm and pliable, and when she cried out in his arms he’d bend his lips to her neck and . . .
“Don’t make me wait,” the woman spoke, her tone urgent.
The Prince awoke from his reverie to see her hands covering her lover’s backside as she tried to urge him closer.
Low murmurings were exchanged and gentle laughter as the professor reached into his pocket and withdrew a foil packet.
The joy between the couple surprised the voyeur, as if it were out of place. He was used to hard, angry coupling, absent joy, absent affection.
He fornicated as he fed—with a goal to pleasure and satisfaction, to filling a void and sating a hunger.
What he was witnessing was something else entirely.
The sound of trousers being unzipped echoed in the corridor. The woman exhaled in satisfaction as her lover pushed inside her.
The pair moved in concert, hands tugging and pulling, grunts of delight filling the air.
The woman’s back thudded against the windowpanes as her lover thrust more forcefully.
Her eyes were open, heated, until they fluttered closed and her ruby lips parted.
“I’m close,” she moaned, a series of inchoate sounds escaping her mouth as she climaxed.
The man said her name as he quickened his movements, his hips rolling and pushing. Then he, too, was overcome.
The scent of sex filled the air as the lovers clung to each other.
The Prince gritted his teeth, his arousal both painful and obvious beneath his black trousers.
He steeled himself against the sensation, shamelessly staring at the couple as they gently caressed each other. He could hear their lungs expand and contract and their heart rates begin to slow.
&
nbsp; The professor lifted a hand to his wife’s face, caressing her cheekbone. She leaned into his touch, pressing her lips to the edge of his palm.
The Prince averted his eyes, as if he’d trespassed on an intimacy.
“Can you walk?” The professor placed his wife on her feet and bent to straighten her dress.
She laughed, the sound light and happy. “I think so. I might be a little wobbly.”
“Then allow me.” He lifted her in his arms and carried her down the corridor.
The Prince followed discreetly, peering around the corner as they disappeared into a bathroom.
He refused to entertain any of the conflicting thoughts he was having after having witnessed the passionate but tender scene. Instead, he adjusted his trousers, willing himself to calm down.
His thoughts wandered to the photograph that was hanging in the Botticelli room, but only for a moment.
His idea of justice and his plans for achieving it easily blotted out the possibility of sentiment.
He focused his attention on his people, his principality, and the lengths he would go to maintain his control of them. Then he waited for his prey to emerge from their hiding place.
