Benito sighed. “All right. I’ll clean the damn fireplace.”
“And the lamp.”
“Slaver. And the lamp. What are you seeing Caesare about?”
“Dunno. Got a note from him at work yesterday. Just asked me to meet him at Giaccomo’s, because he was calling in favors and had something for me to do.”
“Hey, can I come along?” Benito never missed the opportunity to go to Giaccomo’s or Barducci’s if he could manage it. Unlike Marco, he loved crowds and noise.
Marco thought about it; then, shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Caesare didn’t say ‘alone,’ and he usually does if that’s the way he wants it. Why?”
“Gotta keep you safe from Maria, don’t I?”
Marco blushed hotly. He’d had a brief crush on Maria Garavelli; very brief. It hadn’t lasted past her dumping him headfirst in the canal. Benito still wasn’t letting him live it down.
The memory of that embarrassing episode led Marco to thoughts of his current “romantic predicament.” He rose abruptly, turning away from Benito enough to hide the deepening flush on his cheeks.
He hoped profoundly that Benito never found out about Angelina—he’d rather die than have Benito rib him about her. He much preferred to worship her quietly, from afar—without having half the urchins Benito ran with knowing about it, too. He still didn’t know too much about his idol—the only reason he even knew her name was because he had overheard one of her companions using it.
Oh, Angelina . . .
Enough of daydreaming. “Get a move on, we’re going to be late,” he replied, while Benito was still chuckling evilly.
* * *
There had been plenty of gossip among the other clerks today, and because of it Marco made a detour down to the Calle del Vin on the way home—to the Casa Dorma. He felt drawn there as if by some overwhelming force. What was really at work was the powerful, almost frantic, “romantic urges” that come suddenly upon any sixteen-year-old boy—which they are incapable of analyzing clearly. And Marco’s years in the marsh had made him even less capable of understanding himself, at least in this respect, than almost any other boy his age. There had been no girls his age in the marsh with whom to gain any experience at all.
So there he was at Dorma’s gatehouse, facing the ancient doorkeeper through its grate. Half of him feeling he was in a state of sublime bliss; the other half feeling like a complete idiot. He was glad it was nearly dusk; glad his dark cotte and breeches were so anonymous, glad beyond telling that the shortsighted doorkeeper of House of Dorma couldn’t see his face. It took all his courage to pretend to be a runner with a message to be left “for Milady Angelina.” He moved off as fast as was prudent, eager to get himself deep into the shadows, once the folded and sealed paper was in the doorman’s hands. His heart was pounding with combined anxiety, embarrassment, and excitement. Maybe—well, probably—Angelina would get it, if only when the head of the household demanded to know “what this is all about.”
And—Jesu!—they’d want to know what it was about, all right. Because it was a love poem. The first love poem Marco had ever written.
Anonymous, of course, so Angelina would be able to protest honestly that she had no idea where it had come from, and why. And Marco’s identity was safe. He’d written and erased it twenty or thirty times before it seemed right. Then with a carefully new-cut quill and some of the fine ink from Master Ambrosino Ventuccio’s desk, he had copied it out on the best vellum. And the only reason he’d found the courage to deliver it was because today he’d finally found out who she was.
Milady Angelina of Dorma. The daughter of the house. Not above Marco Valdosta, even though she was at least two years older than he—but definitely above the touch of Marco Felluci. If Casa Dorma discovered some ragamuffin like Felluci had dared to send a love poem to Milady Angelina . . .
The best he could hope for was a beating at the hands of Dorma retainers. If young noblemen of the family got involved, “Marco Felluci” might very well find himself run through by a rapier—and these great old families usually had a baker’s dozen of brawling young cousins lounging around, all of them ready at an instant to defend their family’s honor.