But the Goddess had charged him with watching over them—and Aldanto was only one man; he couldn’t be everywhere at once, and he couldn’t spend all his time awake. So. That meant Harrow should return to the city—
* * *
Luciano was pleased with his convert’s plans. Secretly. The man responded well to manipulation. It was necessary to rant at Harrow about the folly of them until he was hoarse—but Harrow simply held his peace until Luciano ran out of words and then repeated his intentions.
“I’m going back in,” he said simply. “The Goddess put it on me, the job’s not done till She says so. She said to watch the boys, so I’m watching the boys.”
Luciano sighed, “Can’t argue with Her, or you,” he said glumly, concealing his triumph. “But you got any notion where you’re going?”
Harrow nodded, slowly. “Know where Aldanto lives; know lots of watchin’ holes around Castello—”
“You just go to the boy’s friends if you run into trouble, hear me? Claudia—that’s th’ main one. Singer—”
“—works out of Barducci’s tavern, lives second floor. You told me that already.” Harrow did not add what he was thinking—that he probably could teach this Strega more than a few things about covert work. He had little respect for female agents; most of them were damned little use out of bed. He was itching to get out and get moving—Luciano had given him some other drug that cleared his mind and fired his feeling of purpose to a near-obsession, and every moment spent dallying only made the urge to get into place stronger.
“All right, get moving,” Luciano growled. “I can see you’ve no more interest nor purpose out here.”
Harrow did not wait to hear anything more.
Chapter 40
Petro Dorma refolded the letter. And bestowed it and the bundle of poems . . . in his own desk. He ignored his sister’s gasp of outrage. He’d had years of practice.
“You . . . you give that back to me!” yelled Angelina, her face red. “I brought it here so you could deal with the little upstart. If you won’t, I’ll get someone who will!”
Petro took a deep breath. “Angelina, you have been carrying on a clandestine correspondence with this . . . love-starved puppy. You know as well as I do that half the Case Vecchie would send an unmarried virgin off to a nunnery for that. Your fury seems to be entirely directed at this unfortunate and obviously besotted young Marco Felluci not because he wrote you some very inaccurate if flattering poems, but because you thought the poems came from someone else. Would you care to tell me who this ‘Caesare’ your young swain refers to is?”
Angelina Dorma looked sullen. “Give me back my letters.”
“No.” Petro looked at his sister. Almost twenty years younger than he and still a child when their father had died, she’d been pampered. His mother had needed someone to turn to and spoil and—well, so had he. She could be very taking, very sweet, even now. When she’d been younger he’d never had the heart to refuse her anything. He’d seen giving her whatever she’d desired as a way of making up for her missing out on having Papa. He’d always felt guilty about that. He’d been twenty-five, already making his own way in the world, marked and shaped by Ernesto Dorma’s hand. She’d been six. Now he was beginning to realize that he and his mother had been the ones who’d missed Ernesto. Angelina had hardly known him. He’d been his father’s shadow. Angelina, of course, had not been allowed to go to the dockyards and timberyards.
“Angelina. That is Caesare Aldanto, isn’t it?”
Her out-thrust lower lip confirmed it.
“He’s a bad man, Angelina,” Petro said gently. “An adventurer of the worst sort, not some kind of hero. The Signori di Notte have suspicions about at least two of those duels he’s fought. Only Ricardo Brunelli’s personal intervention has kept him out in the taverns. Keep away from him, little sister.”
She flounced out, angrily.
Sighing, Petro sat back in his chair and looked at the stack of papers on his desk. These magical murders were generating more paperwork than answers. He still felt they were no closer to knowing just who was behind them. Problems generated by Angelina’s wild behavior were something he didn’t need on top of it. He knew she was—along with a crowd of the wealthy and spoiled of Venice—slipping off to various taverns. He’d done it himself once upon a time. There had always been a couple of Case Vecchie girls who were no better than they should be among the crowd. Looking for thrills, looking for excitement. Enjoying being the “wild ones” able to retreat under the family mantle when real trouble came around. It was something of a shock to realize that was what his sister had become. He’d have to do something about it. Perhaps her aunt . . . he sighed. Better to deal with the immediate problems she would be causing. He rang a bell. A footman came hastily. “Tell Bruno and Giampaulo I want to see them. Now.”