AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Maestra,” Enzo said when he got his breath back at last. “Have you ever been in love?”
Maestra Rovigatti, in the midst of reaching for the silver goblets and ewer of water laid out for them beforehand on the garden-bench, raised her brows. “Why d’you ask?”
“I think I may have fallen for someone.”
Maestra Rovigatti’s eyes widened. It was the most surprise or alarm Enzo had ever seen her express and far more than he thought his words warranted.
As she recovered her poise, she replied, “I’m flattered, my lord, but my heart is already spoken for.”
“Oh!” Enzo hastened to explain himself. “No, it’s not you—not that you’re not very—but rather—”
Maestra Rovigatti continued to watch him flounder with mixed astonishment and amusement writ on her features.
Enzo cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve taken up with someone and found myself rather more attached to him than I’ve felt for anyone in some time.”
“Ah.” Maestra Rovigatti relaxed her shoulders. “Then I am happy for you.”
Enzo wished he could feel the same. “He is, I fear, not so attached to me.”
Maestra Rovigatti gave a sage murmur. “Is he at all interested?”
“Very, I should think. We have been intimate—many times—and he is always happy to see me, but whenever I try to offer him anything more, he denies me.”
“Define ‘anything more.’”
“Gifts,” Enzo explained. “He will take food and drink, if I consume the same, but clothing, jewelry, books, art, ornament—he spurns it all.”
“Does he have other lovers?”
“Yes.” Enzo hesitated. “It is rather his profession.”
“Ah,” Maestra Rovigatti said again. “So he does take something from you.”
“As much as he takes from any other. He will accept no more.”
“You have offered more?”
“Of course.”
“How much more?”
“Enough so he need never work again.”
Maestra Rovigatti blinked. “And he has refused this.”
“Yes.”
“Then it would seem he desires something more from you than what money may buy.”
Enzo knew not what else he had to offer.
“He may have money, and whatever money may procure, from anyone,” Maestra Rovigatti continued. “Consider giving him something which could come from you alone.”
The things that had come from Enzo thus far in his life—death, dishonor, disappointment, disgrace—were nothing he thought anyone else would want. Certainly nothing good enough for Fiore. Beyond wealth he had little to offer. A bizarre gangling figure and an unremarkable face. Half a medical degree and a disturbing interest in alchemy. He could play the lute well enough, but none so well that he’d dare play before others or assume his playing would prove a blessing rather than a curse to their ears. He could sketch, but none so well as Fiore, and a gift of any art from his own fingertips could only be an embarrassment to them both. What skill he had in embroidery produced nothing worth admiring. Certainly nothing anyone would want to trim their garments with—although he’d oft fancied hemming his own garments with the same chirurgical stitches that would tie together skin and sinew. But he couldn’t imagine anyone else, or Fiore in particular, shared his peculiar tastes.
Enzo wanted to give him everything. Yet Fiore would accept nothing.
All told, he remained at a loss.
