But she had; and she had come to her own conclusions about them. She’d caught Marco delivering a third love-poem. She’d got him so twisted around with the way she’d acted towards him that all he could think about was that she’d guessed about his own passion and she was being Case Vecchie and coy. He’d been so bemused he hadn’t left her until long after dark . . .
Caesare—still recovering from the fever—Maria and Benito had all been in a fine case over him by then, worrying that he’d been caught by Montagnards, caught and maybe been tortured or killed.
But he was so full of Angelina and how she’d guessed at the identity of the author of the poems, and sought him out, that all he could feel was resentment that they were hovering over him so much.
It was only after he’d read her note—then reread it and reread it—that he realized that she’d guessed wrong. She’d figured that the author was Caesare, and he was the errand-boy. And she’d set him such a tempting little trap, too—offered to have Dorma sponsor and fund him into the Accademia, and make his dream of becoming a doctor come true, so that he could be conveniently close to deliver more such messages. So tempting; he could at least see and talk to her, any time he wanted. He could also have his other dream—all he needed to do was to keep up the lie, to keep writing those poems and pretending Caesare was sending them. That was all. Just as simple as Original Sin and just as seductive.
And now he was afraid to tell Caesare, because he’d been such a fool, and worse, got them tangled up with a romantic Case Vecchie girl, one with power and connections. He was afraid to tell Maria because—because she was Maria. She was capable and clever and she’d laugh him into a little puddle of mortification and then she’d kill him, if Caesare didn’t beat her to it. And he couldn’t tell Benito. Benito was put out enough over the notion of his brother taking a sudden interest in girls—”going stupid on him” was what Benito had said.
Hell, he’d gone stupid all right. So stupid he couldn’t see his way straight anymore. And that was dangerous for him, and for all of them, with the town in a dither over the magical killings.
Marco himself was sure that the killings were Montagnard work, not “magical” in the least. Sure as death and taxes; and Caesare was ex-Montagnard and knew too damned many Montagnard secrets. For that matter so did Marco.
And the city was simmering with suspicions. He, Marco, might be sure the wicked Viscontis were moving again. But if you got three people together you got eight opinions. Strega or Jews were the most common suspects, of course, but the Council of Ten and the agents of Rome were accused too. Of course there was no certainty who might or might not be in one of the factions, so opinions were voiced very carefully.
Complications were not what Caesare needed right now. Yet “complications” were exactly what Marco knew he’d gotten them into. And this left him unable to tell the truth. Because the truth hurt so damn much, and he couldn’t force it past the lump in his throat and the ache in his gut.
But he had to tell somebody; had to get some good advice before what was already worse became disastrous. He could reason out that much. Somebody older, but not too much older; somebody with experience with nobility. Somebody who knew how girls thought, wild and romantic Case Vecchie girls in particular.
A face swam into his mind, surrounded with a faint shimmer of hope, almost like a halo.
Rafael—Rafael might help him to think straight again. Rafael de Tomaso was a student. He was, Lord knew, smarter than Marco was—and a little older, more experienced. He dealt with Case Vecchie families all the time in the form of his fellow students. And he was old enough to know how to handle girls. Maybe even how to handle angry girls.
Yes. He’d be willing to give advice. He was the right person to see.