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The coffeehouse lay farther off from theKingfisherthan Fiore had yet ventured since his chirurgy. Despite his efforts not to dwell on Enzo’s absence, he nonetheless found himself wondering whether Enzo would approve. Enzo had asked him—begged him, more like—to send for the chirurgeon if anything went awry. And while Fiore felt extremely reluctant to do so, he thought he might be willing, for Enzo’s sake.
As if she could read his thoughts, Artemisia arched her brows and asked, “Should you walk so far?”
“Walking is good for me,” Fiore insisted—which was true, according to Enzo. “I’ve a prescription for it.”
This at last provoked a snort of laughter from her. She turned and led the way.
Between the crimson sash district and the coffeehouse she divulged more details of her commission in the countryside. She’d acquired the marble and her patron had arranged for its transport to his villa’s garden. However, her patron didn’t want his garden disheveled for the summer, so he put off any further work until autumn. Sensible enough, by Fiore’s reckoning, as he’d never heard of a statue on the proposed scale taking any less than seven months to carve. This postponement left Artemisia at leisure to return to Halcyon—whereupon she heard the rumors regarding her favorite model and hastened off to find out for herself.
“I’ve made good progress with his head gardener, at least,” she concluded just as the coffeehouse drew in sight. “Very sensible woman. She’s assured I’ll damage neither the flora nor the symmetry.”
Rain drew crowds to the Crooked Anchor. The collective heat of the artistic swarm meant one could keep warm even without huddling ‘round the hearth-fire or snuggling up in a wrapping-gown—not that this made Fiore any less jealous of those who swathed themselves in yards of bright silk velvet patterned with brilliant birds or radiant butterflies. By some miracle Artemisia found them a table with room enough for two tucked away into a corner.
“So,” she began, setting the coffee cups onto the table with decisive precision. “What actually became of you whilst I was away?”
“Appendicitis.” Fiore wondered if the word would mean anything to her. It’d meant nothing to him until he’d fallen ill with it, but then again he was less inclined to seek out knowledge in the medical vein than most.
Artemisia by contrast sought to know something of everything, and indeed when he pronounced the diagnosis now she paired her raised brows with a sage nod rather than a bewildered glance.
“Beyond that,” Fiore continued, “it resembles the rumors. I fall ill. I am visited by a masked figure and a chirurgeon. However, contrary to rumor, my condition improves under their care. And now I am well enough to sit before you and tell you all.”
“So it would seem,” Artemisia conceded. “Would this be the same masked figure you brought to my studio?”
“The very one.” Fiore smiled. “So you see, I’m hardly at the mercy of anunknownmasked figure.”
“What do you know of him?”
The question oughtn’t have set Fiore back on his heels quite so much as it did. And while he kept his smile on, he had the disconcerting feeling that Artemisia could see through it. Still his voice remained airy and unconcerned as he replied, “I know his face.”
She arched her left brow. “Do you, now.”
His smile grew into a sincere grin. “He’s very handsome. Distinguished dueling scars.”
Her right brow joined her left. “Do tell.”
So Fiore told. He’d already divulged a great deal to her in the course of his modelling sessions with her twice a week—how he’d met an intriguing stranger on the final night of Saturnalia; how said stranger had teased Fiore with glimpses of what lay beneath the bauta costume; and how, just after Fiore had slyly introduced him to his most constant friend in the whole city, said stranger had offered to keep him in ease and comfort for all his days. Now Fiore could add how, after he’d fallen ill, this same mysterious figure had not only come to his rescue by diagnosing his illness and bringing a chirurgeon to cure it, but also remained by his side throughout his frankly disgusting convalescence—and dropt the bauta mask at long last. The only details he omitted were those relating to his own past. He trusted Artemisia with his naked body and his sordid exploits, true enough, but self-preservation demanded he keep his conservatorio origins close to the vest.
“He only left me just yesterday,” Fiore concluded, having finished his first coffee and begun another in the course of his talk. “His family performs a ritual hunt for Diana each spring-tide. But he’s promised to return the moment he can slip away.”
Truth told, Fiore had expected as much. Most aristocratic families departed in the spring to enjoy summertime in the countryside.
Artemisia had remained almost completely silent throughout Fiore’s recounting. This by no means indicated disinterest on her part. Like Fiore, she knew one could glean a great deal more by listening than by talking. Still, it left Fiore in unbearable suspense as she traced the rims of her own empty coffee cups.
“So?” Fiore asked when he could stand her silence no longer—though it meant he lost the game of patience between them. “What do you think of him?”
A sly smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I hardly suppose it matters what I think of him. But,” she added as a huff of frustration escaped Fiore, “it seems he treats you well, at least.”
“And you’ve already formed a hundred suspicions as to his true identity,” Fiore concluded.
She shrugged. “I’ve narrowed it down to a few dozen. Assuming he’s truly an aristocrat. The dueling scars are certainly a strong hint in that vein.”
Fiore hesitated. As a rule he didn’t speculate on the identities of his anonymous gentlemen callers—though he let Artemisia draw whatever conclusions she pleased. But he found himself more interested in Enzo than in any of the others. And Enzo already knew all of him, with Fiore having divulged more to him than he had even to Artemisia.
And she, taking more interest in the inner workings of the city than himself, might have a better idea as to who his bauta paramour truly was.
Fiore didn’t concern himself with politics beyond keeping up in conversation with Artemisia—and even then just barely. From her he knew the city council was populated half by elected citizens and half by nobles who inherited and held their positions through their family name. Regardless of by what means they acquired their post, when a vote was called, all who cast their ballot were required to wear identical plain rough wool robes and blank paper masks. According to Artemisia, the election of Prince Lucrezia was controversial because at the time she was considered rather young for a lifetime appointment at only twenty-eight years of age. But that was some years hence now.
And now, Fiore wished to know something more than he ought.
