Marco wanted to be alone, but Benito obviously had no intention of letting him be. “At least my dream girl is not like that,” he said quietly.
Benito muttered something. Marco didn’t quite catch it, and didn’t want to ask him to repeat it. But it could have been “In your dreams, brother.” Instead he swung out of the window heading for the ornamental casement Benito always said was like a ladder. A slippery ladder that the city’s pigeons used for other purposes, in Marco’s opinion. Once they were away up on a roof, overlooking the canal, Benito leaned back against the chimney stack. “Right, brother. What am I looking for again? Let’s hear the lyrical description.”
Marco panted. “Stop teasing me.”
Benito grinned impishly. “Oh, that’s right. I remember now. Amazing what even I can remember when I’ve only heard it three thousand times. ‘She has curly red-carroty hair. She has a generous mouth, a tip-tilted nose—merry eyes, wonderful hazel eyes.’ And she’s your soul mate. You knew the minute your eyes met.”
“You’re a cynic, little brother.”
“At least I’m not a fool.”
Benito regretted it the moment he’d said it. He found that look of Marco’s one of the hardest things to deal with. That clear look that seemed to see right into you. He squirmed slightly under the gaze. Marco didn’t even seem to be aware that he was doing it. After a while, as if from a distance, Marco said: “It’s good to be a fool sometimes, Benito. And you will be too, one day.”
“Yeah. When hell freezes over, Marco,” said Benito, feeling uncomfortable. “Come on, let’s go down. I got a tip today and my pocket’ll run to a couple of toresani. Or maybe some Muset and beans.”
Marco sighed, but stood up. “Do you ever think of anything but food, brother?”
“Do you ever think of anything but girls?” It was an unfair comment, and Benito knew it. He was starting to think quite a lot about girls himself, nowadays. And Marco thought, if anything, about too much. He cared for the whole world, especially sick canal-brats. Benito . . . well he cared for his brother Marco. And . . . well . . . Maria. He’d like to earn her respect sometime. And Caesare. He owed them.
Chapter 44
Katerina Montescue was in a foul mood. It was all very well forming an instant rapport with someone across a crowded canal. But . . .
She’d always thought that if she ever married, she’d have to marry money. Then she’d seen him. Establishing who he was had proved easy enough. At least three people had asked her if she’d seen him, when they’d been looking for him. She’d been rather frightened to discover just how many of the canal boatmen knew her.
So: his name was Marco Felluci. A few casual questions began to paint a broader canvas. A clerk for Ventuccio. And something of a healer. Respected by the bargees and canalers—people who didn’t give respect or liking easily. And a boy with friends. Friends prepared to spend money to find him when he went missing. She hadn’t needed that information to tell her he was a good man. She knew that the moment she saw him.
So . . . he was only a clerk. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that being Case Vecchie was less important to her than being happy.
So. She’d be poor, then. Why not? She was practiced at it by now, wasn’t she? They’d have a little house and she’d wash, and clean and cook. Easier work—less dangerous, too—than what she’d been doing, after all. And if they needed more money than he could make as a clerk, Katerina could always take Francesca up on her offer to work as a special gondolier for Casa Louise.
She must learn more about cooking. . . . How to make cheap meals. They’d have children and his work would bring him promotion and . . .
Insane. She couldn’t do it! Not that she cared herself about remaining Case Vecchie—well, not much, anyway—but if she abandoned her family Casa Montescue would collapse. Without her dealing in the gray goods coming in with Captain Della Tomasso, the Casa would fall apart. Be bankrupt before the summer. Her grandfather—who had borne so much, with such Montescue pride and fortitude—would die if the Casa were sold. And it wasn’t just him. All the servants and family retainers, many of whom had spent their lives in service to Montescue—for generations, some of them—would be cast adrift also.