They probably couldn’t get a word in edgeways, thought Erik. “The chapel,” he said, hastily, pointing.
“Thank your honors,” she said, curtseying again. Then, peering at Manfred, “You’re awfully handsome, your honor. And so big, too.” Squeaking and giggling at her own temerity, she scuttled off towards the chapel.
* * *
“It’s not that funny.” Manfred shook his head at Erik, whose steel armor—proof against great dark magics—was in danger of being shaken apart internally.
Erik snorted, his shoulders still shaking. “You fancied her and she fancied you. I don’t see the problem. Just the girl for you to take home to your mother.”
Manfred raised his eyes to heaven. “Hah. Funny, funny. Icelander sense of humor. Cowpat in the face.”
“That’s Vinlanders’,” grinned Erik. In the aftermath of the terrible encounter, and with the grappa burning in his veins, he was feeling unusually silly. “Icelanders are more likely to put sheep droppings in your stew.”
“Huh. I’ll watch out for ‘olives’ in ragout while you’re arou—” Manfred stopped suddenly.
His face had gone serious. “Erik, that’s the third victim that we know of that had just lost a piece of clothing. Remember old Maggiore was complaining about his cassock. And that coiner’s housekeeper and his favorite cap. And now a nightshirt.”
Erik’s felt the blood drain from his face. “I’ve heard of this. Mammets with the victim’s hair and clothing . . . We better tell Sachs.”
Manfred pulled a wry face. “If we can persuade him to listen.”
Erik shrugged and began to walk on. “If not, we can perhaps get Calenti to give us a lead on who could have got hold of one of his nightshirts.”
“Do you think he’s going to live?” asked Manfred. “Those are major burns.”
Erik nodded. “He’ll live. Just as long as he is in the care of that priest. He’s a good healer, that man.”
Chapter 52
Maria stared at the two golden hairs in her work-calloused hand. She stared at them, not for the first time, or the third time, or the thirty-third time. It couldn’t be true.
Both hairs came from Caesare’s pillow. And they certainly weren’t his—or hers.
They didn’t even come from the same head! One was much coarser, yellower and had a dark root; the other finer and more wavy.
There had to be some other explanation. There had to be. Only . . . it was hard to work out what it was. Her heart and mind felt as if they were tearing each other apart. This wasn’t the first time she’d been suspicious. But this was the first time she’d had hard evidence.
“Whatcha starin’ at, Maria?” Benito had come in, unobserved. She had thought she had the place to herself. The little scamp had probably come in the third-story window. He’d have to give that up one day. He had turned fifteen over the winter and he wasn’t so little any more.
Hastily she thrust her hand into her skirt pocket before Benito could see. “None of your business!” she snapped.
Benito looked hurt. “Hey, come on, Maria. You can trust me. I carried that ‘cargo’ to Giaccomo’s for you, right? And I got a bloody nose from Jewel as well as my ribs nearly kicked in—and I still got it there for you. Not one lira missing.”
She felt herself floundering. He wasn’t a bad kid, really. She had to talk to someone. If she talked to one of the cousins . . . they’d try to kill Caesare. Benito—and Marco too—had proved themselves both trustworthy and honest. But Marco was so . . . so good, even if he was nearer her own age. Benito she could at least talk to, about this sort of thing. He was more worldly than Marco. Marco’s interest in girls was real but so—innocent. Sending them love poems! On the other hand, she’d seen Benito doing some experiments in heavy kissing with one of the Sarispelli girls. Those two girls were heading one way. . . .
She took a deep breath and rushed her fences. “Benito, do you think Caesare could be seeing some other woman?”
He looked as if she’d just smacked him in the face with a wet fish. But only for a moment. “Na! There ain’t no one in Venice as pretty as you.”