“Good boy.” The doctor clapped him on the shoulder and he staggered a little. “I’ll go see what needs to be done.”
That left him alone in the corridor with Angelina.
Now she wouldn’t look at him.
“You’ve heard enough that you might as well know all of it,” she said bitterly, staring at the polished wooden floor, twisting the hem of her shawl in white hands. “When Father died she took it badly—she’d been in love with him, really in love, and she couldn’t bear to be without him. She started taking lotos so she could see him.” Angelina looked up finally and gestured her helplessness.
“Where was she getting it?” Marco asked.
Angelina’s eyes blazed. “Caesare Aldanto,” she spat—and burst into tears.
* * *
Once again Marco wound up sitting on the floor of the corridor with a lady of Dorma in his arms—this one crying into his shoulder all the things she did not dare tell mother or brother. About how she still loved Aldanto—and hated him. About how her mother’s manservant, Paulo, had been the go-between. About how she’d put two and two together when she realized that Paulo had known exactly where to take her the first time she’d met with Caesare—which could only mean he’d been there many times before.
And that she was pregnant with Caesare’s baby.
None of this—except for the business with Rosanna and the lotos—was any surprise to Marco. It was pretty obvious from her intermittent hysterics that Angelina was “not herself” and adding those frequent visits to Caesare gave anybody good cause.
But that she thought the man was the source of the drug—
Lord and Saints.
He didn’t know quite what to say or do, so he just let her cry herself out—something she evidently needed—then helped her to tidy herself and helped her to her feet.
“Thank you, Marco,” she said, shyly, a little ashamed. “I didn’t mean—”
“That’s what friends are for,” he told her. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
“I’d hoped so—but after—”
He shrugged. “I learned things from that whole mess—and it got me here, didn’t it?” He delicately declined to mention how much that fiasco had placed him in Aldanto’s debt.
“Then we are friends.” She offered him her hand with a sweet smile that could still make his heart jump a little, even if he wasn’t in love with her anymore. He took it, squeezed it—and they parted.
* * *
The dancing lessons were worse than ever. Even if his mind hadn’t been elsewhere, Marco would have found the intricate precision of the steps hard to remember and follow. It was odd, in a way, given that his memory was normally so perfect. Why should he have so much difficulty with this, when he didn’t with herbal remedies and cargo lists?
In the end, listening to the dance master’s shrill and humorless criticisms, Marco decided his memory was being sabotaged by itself. He and Chiano used to dance little jigs sometimes, in the marshes, without ever worrying about whether the “steps” were proper and correct. Remembering the cheerful and raucous jibes of Sophia which accompanied those moments of gaiety, he smiled.
“Marco!” shrilled the dance-master. “You’re not supposed to smile during this dance! This dance is a very solemn—”
Marco sighed. There are ways in which my old life was a lot easier . . .
Chapter 65
When Marco was summoned to Petro Dorma’s office at sunset, he assumed it was due to the near-disaster with Rosanna in the private corridor the day before. This time Marco followed the servant to the top of his house with only a little trepidation. He had, he thought, handled the whole mess fairly well.
The east windows framed a sky that was indigo blue, spangled with tiny crystal star-beads. The west held the sun dying a bloody death. Petro was a dark silhouette against the red.
Marco cleared his throat. “You sent for me, Milord Dorma?”
Petro did not turn around. “It seems,” he said dryly, “that you have fallen into the muck-pit of Dorma secrets. Doctor Rigannio told me a bit—’Gelina told me more.” He sighed. “It seems to me the older and more honorable the House, the deeper and darker its closet. Almost as if our ‘honor’ were a reaction to this.”