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“However you like,” Enzo replied with a shrug, wincing again. He ought to have learnt by now not to do that. Still, the gesture twinged his wound less and less every day, which marked some improvement.
Fiore’s hand alighted on his shoulder gentle as a moth’s wing and a hundredfold more soothing. Though his smile remained, concern shadowed his gaze. “Something restful, perhaps?”
Enzo marveled at how attentive Fiore was to his comfort—particularly when Fiore himself was still a convalescent, though his wounds were of an elder vintage. “I’m supposed to get up and about as much as I can well stand. Keep my lungs breathing deep and my blood flowing. Chirurgeon’s orders.”
Fiore didn’t look altogether convinced but relented with a shrug. “You’d know better than I.”
“Perhaps,” Enzo ventured, a spark of inspiration striking his brain, “I might give you a tour of the lodge?”
Fiore raised his brows with a grin. “You might very well, indeed.”
~
Fiore would’ve gladly doted on Enzo in his convalescence.
If only Enzo would let him.
Even in the midst of his infirmity, Enzo remained self-sufficient—or as much so as anyone of his rank could be. He didn’t require a flock of servants to dress or to dine. Fiore’s own proffered assistance in the former had proved a courtesy rather than a necessity. And his attendance at the breakfast table was that of a guest rather than a nursemaid, Enzo being more than capable of raising his own coffee cup to his lips and consuming his share of the brioche. Fiore ignored the wretched little voice in the back of his mind telling him his presence here was, at best, superfluous and focused instead on remaining alert to any need of Enzo’s which might arise.
When Enzo stood, Fiore leapt up and rounded the table to reach his side. Enzo raised his brows at this but smiled as Fiore entwined their arms together. Fiore found even more satisfaction in the weight of Enzo leaning upon him, however slightly, as they returned to the bedchamber.
Fiore would’ve gladly helped Enzo shave. But the intermittent coughing fits precluded any attempt, however benevolent, to press a blade to his throat. And so the admittedly handsome shadow of a beard must remain on his features. Fiore settled for kneeling before Enzo to fasten his garters and hose. Breeches and shirt required no assistance; Enzo precluded Fiore’s offering by merely slipping them on swift and sure as if he hadn’t almost had his heart gored out by a wild beast not a fortnight past. The merest wince told upon him. Fiore leapt up to kiss it from his lips and restore his smile. Then Fiore mounted the chair again to slip the wrapping-gown back up over Enzo’s shoulders—an unnecessary gesture, perhaps, but one which brought another smile equal parts amusement and gratitude to Enzo’s face, and for that Fiore would’ve done anything.
And with the both of them washed and dressed at last, nothing remained to prevent them from sauntering forth arm-in-arm into the as-of-yet unexplored corners of the hunting lodge, with Vittorio trotting along at their heels.
On his initial entrance to the lodge, Fiore had felt far too exhausted from his journey and far too nervous about the somber state of its halls to properly notice his surroundings. They felt far less sepulchral now with his arm entwined with Enzo’s and his warm weight staggering along beside him. It remained dark; both in the ancient hardwoods forming its pillars and beams and in the tall slender windows coming to pointed arches, designed to keep out the cold whilst allowing slivers of sunlight to penetrate the interior. Enzo led him down a particular hallway with walls covered in antlers from centuries of successful hunts. Then, as they continued on, the antlers gave way to full heads—some stags, others wolves or boars or bears—and then the hallway met with a circular chamber where whatever adorned the walls paled in comparison to the entire beasts mounted in lifelike scenes against actual trees. Against the gnarled trunk of one particular oak, a wolf braced its fore-paws and howled at the leopard snarling from the branches, whilst squirrels and ermines raced up and down in serpentine configuration to match the walnut columns that appeared throughout the lodge.
Fiore would’ve gladly remained there for some time, if only for the opportunity to sketch all the animals. To have them preserved in stillness made for far more cooperative models than living specimens. His own hasty scribbles of the city’s alley cats and wandering dogs proved that all too well.
But as Fiore peered in wonder at the sculptural bestiary laid out before him, he noticed something darting into shadow down the hall. Too short for a servant, he thought. Even a page must come above his waist. But undeniably human in shape.
“My sister’s children,” Enzo murmured.
His voice drew Fiore’s notice away from the shadows and towards his face, which appeared distinctly ill at ease.
Enzo cleared his throat. “Would you care to see the garden? It’s rather small but includes some interesting specimens.”
Fiore put on his most reassuring smile and allowed Enzo to lead him out of the chamber, pretending to forget the dancing shadows behind him. He didn’t need to ask why no introduction would be forthcoming. A common courtesan could hardly expect to be presented, formally or otherwise, to any noble family, much less that of the reigning prince. His encounter with the Duke of Bluecliffe could only have happened by mere chance—as it had.
Still, it stung more than Fiore wanted to admit.
Enzo’s discomfort remained writ on his scarred face even as they passed from the sepulchral darkness of the hunting lodge into the dappled sunlight of its enclosed garden. Fiore began to worry it stemmed from his injury and illness rather than a mere awkward almost-encounter. Enzo said nothing of it but merely led Fiore deeper into the greenery until it obscured all hint of the household.
“Forgive my retreat,” Enzo said, startling Fiore out of his concerns. “The children’s curiosity is at odds with their fear of me. Any approach on our part would only send them scattering.”
Fiore blinked up at him. If this was a mere excuse to spare his feelings, it had taken a bizarre form. “Why should they fear their uncle?”
Enzo grimaced. “Because their uncle departed for university before they were old enough to know him.”
“Their parents don’t encourage this fear, surely.”
“No,” Enzo admitted. “But I think it a cruelty to force children into an acquaintance with a stranger they’re already frightened of.”
Fiore found he quite agreed. “So you avoid them as much as they avoid you.”
Enzo nodded, looking no less abashed for his confession.
In the interest of turning the poor fellow’s mind towards something more pleasant, Fiore glanced about them. Enzo had led him into a grove of gnarled trees whose greenery grew together overhead to enclose them in verdant shadow. Despite the darkness it felt not even half so sepulchral as the interior of the lodge. From this vantage point one could easily forget the surrounding edifice existed. If Enzo considered this garden “small,” Fiore wondered at what he compared it to.
