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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Were you ever a sailor?” asked Enzo.
Fiore served him a blank look. They stood on the waterfront, braced against a pile of crates freshly unloaded from one of the ships. Fiore had idly wondered as they’d set themselves up there whether they’d get scolded or crushed for interfering with the work. Enzo hadn’t seemed worried about it. Fiore had supposed he could do worse than follow his lead. Perhaps he or someone in his family line owned the cargo or the ship or both. Regardless, it gave Fiore a splendid view of the ships to sketch. And had doubtless inspired Enzo’s question.
“Never a sailor,” Fiore admitted. “And you?”
As ever, Enzo seemed bewildered to have his enquiries turned back upon him. “Alas, no. Much to Mother’s chagrin.”
Hence her sailing off with her own fleet the very minute her youngest child entered university, Fiore supposed.
“Was your sea-chest a gift, then?” Enzo ventured with the same bashful caution he used whenever he pried into Fiore’s past. “From another sailor?”
“From one of my nautical gentleman, you mean,” Fiore replied with a smile. “And yes—a gift from a captain upon his retirement.”
Which hadn’t been quite the offer Fiore had hoped for from a gentleman of Captain Scordato’s age and standing, but one he appreciated regardless. It was a splendid piece, worked over for some five decades, replete with intricate carvings of hippocampi and serpents and kraken tentacles curled tight around anchors and sailor’s knots, inlaid with seashells and mother-of-pearl. And practical, as well.
With every question asked, Enzo seemed to retreat further into himself. As such, his subsequent enquiry emerged almost too low for Fiore to catch.
“What do you keep in it?”
Fiore was only surprised Enzo hadn’t asked sooner. Particularly when he considered their cohabitation in his quarters during his convalescence.
“Slops and go-ashores,” Fiore replied. In response to Enzo’s bewildered glance, he added, “Clothes, mostly. Slops are for day-to-day. Go-ashores are for special occasions.”
Dawning comprehension lit up Enzo’s dark gaze beneath the mask. “Such as going ashore.”
Fiore grinned. “Precisely. And then, beneath the clothes…”
Just as Fiore had hoped, Enzo leaned in to the suspense.
Fiore closed the distance between them to whisper into Enzo’s ear. “Shall I show you when we return?”
A hard swallow travelled down Enzo’s throat. He nodded.
Fiore withdrew with a smile and returned to his drawing.
Enzo didn’t ask again. Not even when the minutes turned to hours and the light changed and Fiore moved them to another spot for different sketches. Not even over the moeche they devoured for dinner on their way back to theKingfisher.
How Enzo survived so many hours without an answer, Fiore couldn’t fathom. He already knew what he kept in his sea-chest and even he could hardly stand the suspense. Yet Enzo remained patient and demure. Obedient, even. It seemed he had absolute trust in Fiore to provide a satisfactory answer at the promised moment.
Which made Fiore think he would like the sea-chest’s contents more than otherwise.
They arrived at theKingfisherjust as the sun began to kiss the sea. Enzo’s patience continued as they withdrew belowdecks. His hat, hood, cloak, and mask were all cast aside without a word of enquiry regarding the sea-chest, though it sat in plain view as it always had. Only a wayward glance of those dark eyes belied his curiosity.
Fiore indulged in a self-satisfied smile. He caught Enzo’s gaze and gestured to the sea-chest with a careless flick of his wrist.
“Go on,” he said. “You may open it, if you like.”
It seemed a just reward for Enzo’s forbearance.
Enzo looked as though he could hardly believe his good fortune—but would accept the charge with gravity nonetheless. He knelt on the floorboards (as he had so many times before for Fiore) and eased the chest’s lid open with reverence. There lay the clothes Fiore had spoken of; Enzo didn’t seem disappointed to see them and furthermore removed them with even more care than if they were his own, setting them aside until he reached the apparent bottom of the chest—mere bare wooden boards, unspeakably plain. Only then did he look to Fiore again with a furrow of confusion between his brows.
Fiore suppressed a grin and bent to poke out the knot in one of the boards. Enzo’s eyes flew wide as it fell into darkness, for the chest ran deeper still. Fiore hooked his finger through the resulting hole and tugged. All the boards came up together, being nailed to each other to create a solid panel, and revealed the chest’s true depths. He took the false bottom with him as he withdrew to better let Enzo drink in the hidden treasures.
Enzo’s eyes had flown very wide. Fiore didn’t blame him. But nor, as Fiore carefully examined his face, did he appear in the least bit perturbed. With an enquiring glance, which Fiore answered in a nod, Enzo reached into the secret depths and withdrew a riding crop. Fiore felt rather proud of it. It’d been no mean feat to acquire one in a city bereft of horses. But a gentleman had asked it of him, and he’d risen to the occasion. And several other occasions since.
Enzo gave the crop an experimental swish and glanced to Fiore again. “Thought you said you didn’t ride?”
