Marco made up his mind to go and find Rafael right then and there, before he got faint-hearted again.
He jumped up out of the chair and padded across the soft carpet to the bottom of the stairway, listening carefully at the foot of the stair for the faint sounds of Aldanto dozing in the bedroom above. Caesare had been sleeping a lot the past couple of weeks, since Brunelli wasn’t using him much lately . . . although Marco was beginning to realize that Caesare Aldanto had plenty of other irons in the fire.
Poor Caesare. Damn near everyone’s hand was against him now—or would be if they knew what he was. And now one of the kids he’d taken in had gone and messed up his life even more, and he didn’t even guess the danger that kid had put him in. Marco felt like a total traitor.
Benito was in the spare bedroom downstairs, sprawled on his back half-draped across the foot of the bed and upside down, trying to puzzle his way through one of Marco’s books and making heavy work of it. This one had illustrations, though, which was probably what was keeping Benito’s attention.
He writhed around at Marco’s soft footfall.
“I’ve got to go out; an hour maybe. I’ll be back by dark, si?”
“Why?” Benito’s dark face looked sullen; rebellious. Not only was he mad about Marco getting mixed up with girls, but Marco had had it out with him over obeying Caesare and treating him with respect. Benito had been smart-mouthed and Marco had finally backed the boy up against the wall and threatened honest-to-God serious mayhem if Benito didn’t shape up. Benito was still smoldering with resentment, and Marco still wasn’t sure the lecture had taken.
“I’ve got to see Rafael. I’ve got to take some of Sophia’s herbs for him. One she says will give him a deeper red than madder root. I promised him some and I’ve never taken them.”
Benito’s expression cleared. He nodded and his brown eyes got friendly again, because it wasn’t a girl that was taking Marco out, and it wasn’t one of Aldanto’s errands. “Si. Reckon he can make something off them?”
“Probably, what with all the painters at the Accademia. He isn’t much better off than we are, you know? He deserves a break.”
“Just you best be back by dark,” Benito admonished, shaking a tangle of brown hair out of his eyes only to have it fall back in again. “Or Maria’ll have the skin off you.”
Talk about pot calling kettle! Marco bit back a retort. He dug a bundle of herbs out of the box under the bed, noting wryly that Benito was far more respectful of Maria than Caesare, even now, after all Marco had told him. One of these days Benito was going to push Caesare Aldanto too far, and his awakening would be abrupt and rude. And probably involve any number of bruises.
“I’ll be back,” he promised, shoving the packets into his pack, huddling on his cotte and shrugging the pack strap over his shoulder. “And probably before Maria is in.”
He slipped into the dark hallway, walking quietly out of habit, and eased the front door open so as not to wake Caesare. The last rays of the evening sun were not quite able to penetrate the clouds, and Venice of the bridges and waterways looked bleak, shabby and ill-used. There was snow coming to the Alps. Marco could smell it in the air and shivered inside his woolen shirt and canvas cloak. The grayed-out gloomy bleakness suited Marco down to his toenails and it was just dark enough that if he kept his head down and muffled in his scarf, it was unlikely he would be recognized. Foot traffic was light; what with the bitter wind blowing, anybody with cash was hiring gondolas even this early in the evening. That suited him too.
He’d almost made it down the water-stairs when somebody called his name. Recognizing the voice, he swore to himself, but stopped on the steps above the landing. Rowing to his night tie-up was Tonio della Sendoro—and clinging to Tonio’s prow was a kid.