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Fiore had never yet worn such garments, donning a cloak or cape rather than a coat and with his own waistcoat not running half so long as Enzo’s or boasting near so many buttons. Nor did he own breeches or hose in silk or satin, as indicated by the sheen in the illustration created by the skillful absence of color in a slashing streak across the fabric on the pale page. Like a true artist, the master tailor evidently knew when the negative space would speak more than any mark he could make.
One of the proposed suits appeared in the soft warm fade of a pink-and-orange sunset. Another in black, presumably to match Enzo’s own garb. But the one which arrested Fiore’s attention was the seafoam green the precise shade of the lagoon in full sunlight, with gilding unfurling at the hems like golden fern fronds.
“Which do you prefer?”
Fiore blinked, Enzo’s sotto voce enquiry interrupting his mesmerized admiration. He threw a shroud over his heart’s desires with a hard swallow. Enzo was the one bringing him to the ball and paying for his garb. The final decision rested with him. Fiore turned to him with a smile. “Which do you like best?”
Throughout their acquaintance Fiore had learnt how to read Enzo’s expressions in his eyes even beneath the mask. And at present, those eyes held a curious mixture of confusion and disappointment. Both vanished with a blink as Enzo turned from Fiore to the master tailor.
“May we see the fabrics?” Enzo asked.
“Of course,” the master tailor assured him. He laid the sketches out on the table beside the coffee and zaletti.
The assistant, meanwhile, vanished deeper into the shop. He returned rapidly in the company of some half-dozen of his fellows. While they did carry yards upon yards of fabric between them, Fiore nevertheless had the impression more of them had volunteered for the task than were strictly necessary. He didn’t wonder at it; anyone would leap for a first-hand glimpse of the legendary dueling duke and his courtesan. Even with the mask there could be no doubt of Enzo’s identity amongst the shop staff, for he must have made the appointment under his full title.
The vibrant colors and variety of the cloth brought out for inspection put any box of oil pastels to shame. Even the master tailor’s admittedly beautiful sketches had not quite done them justice. Plush purple velvet silk, a shimmering peach satin fading into plum in imitation of a sunset, another in saffron gold like butter made of sunshine, still another in peacock blue that somehow attained the same iridescence as the natural feather. A veritable feast for the eyes; Fiore devoured them with his gaze accordingly.
Yet the one that compelled Fiore to touch it was not velvet, silk, or satin, but a seafoam green wool of so fine a weave as to rival the satin in its smoothness—“a cool hand,” as his erstwhile tailor friend would’ve called it. It perfectly echoed the delicious color of the lagoon with the sun at its zenith. Fiore had oft admired the color, and when he could afford the pigments he poured it into his art, but he’d never had the chance to garb himself in it. His own waistcoats and breeches were a perpetual shade of chestnut; partly because it was an affordable fabric, partly because it helped disguise the red chalk smudges from his drawing, and partly because it went well with the one color the law demanded he wear.
Fiore withheld a wistful sigh as he let the seafoam wool fall from his fingertips. “It’ll clash with the scarlet.”
“You needn’t wear the scarlet.”
Both Fiore and all the tailors turned startled glances upon Enzo.
Enzo appeared unmoved—though who could tell beneath the mask. “It’s a private entertainment. You may wear whatever you like.”
His words rang with the confidence of one who knew no one would dare to contradict him. A confidence such as Fiore had never heard from him before. He wondered at it long enough that a marked silence fell over the parlor, and he realized far too late that all—the master tailor, the assistants, the apprentices, and Enzo—were awaiting his answer with bated breath.
“Well,” said Fiore, slipping a smile over his fluttering pulse. “If that is so, then I simply must have the green.”
Never before had a proclamation from Fiore’s lips spurred so many bodies into action at once. The fabric bolts were whisked away. Amidst the chaos the master tailor drew in again for closer conference with Fiore and Enzo, making small enquiries as to the particulars of the design and dashing off notes and adjustments on his sketches in reply. These were passed along to his assistants who scurried to bring them deeper into the shop where work might begin in earnest. The hat and shoes would be the purview of the cobbler and haberdasher rather than the tailor, but from how Enzo and the master tailor spoke of the matter between them, Fiore received the distinct impression that Enzo had his own favorites amongst those professions as well, and the tailor had collaborated with them on similar projects before. Not a word was said as to the cost. Fiore felt some relief at that. He didn’t think he could keep up his aloof pretense if he knew exactly how many zecchini would tumble from Enzo’s coffers in his name.
As the tailor’s shop bustled around them, Fiore also noted how Enzo retained his command over the controlled chaos. He made all the necessary arrangements with an absolute ease. Not at all the bashful fellow Fiore had come to know these past few months. Fiore wondered what had granted him this sudden confidence. Perhaps it was the return to the familiar ground of the tailor’s shop, which he had evidently patronized many times before.
Or perhaps, Fiore realized, it was not that Enzo had suddenly become a more confident and commanding figure, but rather that Fiore himself put Enzo on his hind foot.
A realization which seemed confirmed by how, when Enzo had concluded their business with the master tailor himself, he turned to Fiore with a familiar shy smile lighting up his eyes.
Then Enzo arose from the sofa and turned to proffer his arm to Fiore. “Shall we be off?”
Unlike his conversation with the tailor, the deep bass of Enzo’s natural voice emerged in a soft and earnest tone that hardly dared to enquire and awaited the answer with bated breath. Fiore knew it well. He could perfectly picture Enzo biting his scarred lip beneath his mask.
Fiore accepted his arm with a grin. “Let’s.”
~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On the following day, Enzo had Fiore meet him at the haberdashery.
Much like the tailor, it resided in a beautiful old edifice done up in fresh trim. And much like the tailor, Fiore didn’t feel altogether welcome entering without Enzo.
This time, however, Fiore arrived to find Enzo already awaiting him at the entrance—despite the hovering presence of those employed within the shop, visible through the gilded front windows and very obviously nervous to leave an aristocrat waiting outside rather than serving him within.
If Enzo took any notice of them, it vanished when his eyes met Fiore’s. His arm shot up in a cheerful wave, evidently before he realized what he was doing, for it halted halfway over his head and withered into something shy that nonetheless struck a chord in Fiore’s heart.
Fiore trotted to meet him with a grin.
