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“Thank you, Maestra,” Enzo told her.
Maestra Rovigatti bowed. Belatedly, Fiore echoed the sentiment.
“Now,” Enzo said to him with a smile. “Perhaps a bath?”
“Yes, please,” Fiore groaned.
Enzo softly chuckled and, despite Fiore’s stiffness and no doubt his own aches, drew him upright and led him off.
Soaking in the hot bath felt as glorious as Fiore had predicted. The view proved better still, as he had the perfect vantage point to watch Enzo ply oil and strigil to his sinewy limbs. Enzo had just finished when a servant arrived with a well-laden tray of lardo and porchetta crostini, which left him free to bring it with him to join ravenous Fiore in the bath.
When Fiore’s fingertips began to wrinkle, Enzo drew him out of the bath. He could hardly have arisen under his own power. The weight of his own body without water to buoy it felt like an anchor’s chains draped over him. He leant heavily on Enzo as he staggered upright.
“How pathetic,” Fiore muttered.
Enzo balked. “What?”
“Me, not you,” Fiore hastened to explain.
“Hardly,” Enzo protested.
Fiore raised his brows. “Of the two of us, who cannot stand under his own power?”
“That’s not pathetic,” Enzo insisted. “It’s perfectly reasonable. You’ve leapt head-first into rigorous exercise after a lengthy convalescence. Considering the circumstances you’re doing remarkably well.”
Fiore remained unconvinced. “That’s all very sweet, but I doubt Maestra Rovigatti shares your opinion.”
“She praised your form.”
Fiore scoffed. “Mere flattery, I’m sure.”
But Enzo held his gaze. “She doesn’t flatter.”
“Oh.” Upon reflection, Fiore supposed she didn’t seem the type.
Enzo smiled and bid him lie down on the marble bench. There his strong hands and clever fingers worked out all the knots softened by the hot bath. Fiore melted beneath his touch. He knew he ought to return the favor—or, as he truly desired, drag Enzo down into a more intimate embrace—but his body begged for slumber, and he could hardly move, much less initiate. He couldn’t even shrug on Enzo’s wrapping-gown afterward; Enzo had to swathe him in it.
“Shall we retire to the library?” Enzo asked.
Fiore’s mind assented. His body protested. Fortunately, Enzo had no objection to half-carrying him from the baths up to the library. There he curled up in a corner of the sofa with his feet in Enzo’s lap whilst Enzo read to him. The shadows grew long. His eyelids grew heavy.
“Fiore?”
“I’m listening,” Fiore insisted, though his eyes refused to open. “The pirate captain just revealed himself as the lost prince and enlisted the swordsman’s aid.”
He heard rather than saw Enzo’s smile. “You might be more comfortable abed at this hour.”
Fiore forced his eyes open. The sun had set. The library sparkled with candlelight. Enzo had set downThe Pirate Kingand taken up another volume in its stead, evidently to pass the hours whilst Fiore slept.
“Fair enough,” Fiore sighed.
Enzo softly laughed.
~
Fiore had never arisen so early for so many days in a row.
He didn’t complain—although his body certainly did—because Enzo did this every day, and furthermore, with the duel’s hour set for dawn, he wanted to acclimate himself to it, lest he oversleep on the day itself.
