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“He’s afraid of chirurgeons,” said Enzo, returning to Dr Venier. “The masks in particular.”
“Would he object to paper?” asked Dr Venier.
The paper masks, unlike the leather beaks, covered only the nose and mouth. The sight of these at least would not remind Fiore of his worst memories. Or so Enzo hoped. “Paper might suit.”
Dr Venier took hold of her beak and pulled the leather mask from her head. Dr Malvestio took the hint and did the same. Dr Venier then delved into her leather case and withdrew three masks. One she kept for herself. Another she handed off to Dr Malvestio. The third she began to hand over to Enzo, but paused with her arm half-outstretched, her attention arrested by something over his shoulder.
“Enzo.”
The voice was not unfamiliar to him. And, given his brief exchange with the maid, he supposed he ought to have expected it.
This did nothing to quell his increasing ire as he turned to behold his eldest sister in the kitchen doorway.
Prince Lucrezia Scaevola, Serenissima of Halcyon, stood just a half-head shorter than Enzo. She wore shirt, waistcoat, breeches, and hose similar to his own—or rather, he wore clothes similar to hers, for she’d established her customary garb long before he’d ever dressed himself. They both had the same long dark hair tied back with the same simple black ribbon. And they both had the same striking Scaevola features.
And those features in her face at this particular moment had formed an expression as arch as it was cold.
“I would have words with you,” said the prince.
“In a moment,” Enzo snapped.
“Now.”
Enzo’s fists clenched at his sides. At any other moment, he’d go at once wherever she bid. Indeed, in many other moments, he had. At present, he wished he had sword in hand to make his point. His dagger would not suffice.
Before he could retort with words, however, a third voice entered the conversation.
“Your grace,” said Dr Venier. “We don’t have time to wait for you to argue.”
Enzo stared at her.
She jerked her chin at Fiore’s pale body laid out on the table. “Hehasn’t time to wait for you to argue.”
All the more reason for Lucrezia to relent, Enzo thought. But as his gaze slid across the room to fall again on Fiore’s helpless form—eyes fallen shut, lips barely parted, dark curls cascading across a brow beaded with sweat, shivers trembling across flesh as cold and pale as his marble twin—he lost all will to parry words with his sister. The sooner he and the prince departed, the sooner the chirurgeons could begin their vital work.
And so, with one last reluctant glance backward from the threshold—foolish Orpheus condemning Eurydice—he followed Lucrezia out of the kitchen.
Lucrezia’s bootheels clicked sharp against the marble floor of the corridor. Shadows scuttled off into dark doorways ahead of them as curious servants ducked out of sight. Enzo paid them little heed. All his attention fixated on the back of his sister’s head whilst she led on in stony silence. The spiral staircase at the end of the hall would take them upstairs to piano nobile. Fresh dread seized his heart as they neared it; he dared not go so far from Fiore, not now. If Lucrezia pressed the issue he would fight her on it tooth and nail.
But instead, she turned and laid her hand on the unassuming latch of the larder door. It opened to reveal a mere strip of floor left free of jars, baskets, or sacks, for a person to stand upon. More than enough for what Enzo had determined to make a very brief conversation.
Lucrezia, still holding the door open, gestured him within with an impatient toss of her hand. Enzo stepped inside. She followed and shut the door, plunging them both into darkness. He could feel her disapproving gaze burning into him regardless.
“Why do we have guards, Enzo?” she asked. Keeping her voice down did nothing to disguise the cold rage dripping from every word.
“To protect our household,” Enzo replied. He didn’t think the question deserved any more thought. It was irrelevant in the face of Fiore’s suffering.
“Good,” said Lucrezia. “You know that we have guards, and you understand their purpose. Tell me, then, why you didn’t send them out to retrieve your courtesan and instead went gallivanting around the catacombs yourself?”
“He’d be dead before they found him.” Even considering the possibility long enough to force the words from his lips threatened to shatter what little resolve kept Enzo here in the larder and not by his Fiore’s side where he belonged.
Lucrezia spoke on regardless. “If you believe our guards incompetent, you might have told me so before tonight. Yet I believe the fault lies not in our guards but in your patience. Or lack thereof.”
“Patience,” Enzo echoed in disbelief. As if he didn’t demonstrate infinite patience now by suffering through this dressing-down instead of returning to the kitchen-turned-chirurgical-theatre. Fiore’s ghastly form loomed before his mind’s eye in the darkness. Slashes and gashes would’ve been bad enough. But punctures—
“Likewise,” Lucrezia continued, “this is why we have chirurgeons.”
How she always seemed to know where his thoughts had flown, Enzo couldn’t fathom. Still, anger brought a retort. “I would be a chirurgeon myself, if you hadn’t—!”
