Chapter 71
The girl approaching the bench of Ventuccio runners was an enigma. She was definitely money. Her hair and clothes said that. If she hadn’t been here, in the working part of the Ventuccio warehouse, Benito would have said she was Case Vecchie. There was something vaguely familiar about her. Benito chewed his thumbnail and wondered what brought her to Ventuccio.
She walked up to Ambrosino Ventuccio’s desk like she owned him, the desk, and all of Ventuccio, and didn’t need to flaunt the fact. The saturnine Ventuccio cousin sat up sharp when he saw her, and put what he was doing aside. She spoke quietly to him for a moment, too quietly for Benito to hear what she was saying, although he strained his ears unashamedly. But then she turned away from Ambrosino towards the bench and crooked her finger, beckoning. Beckoning Benito.
He jumped up and bounced over to her. Ambrosino Ventuccio looked him up and down, speculation in his no-color eyes, then cleared his throat. “Milady Montescue needs a runner—for something special,” he said, slowly. “She wants somebody as knows where Marco Felluci went. I told her that he’s not here any more, that he got proper leave to go, so he’s not in any trouble with us. Then she wanted to speak to you, about him.”
“Yes, milady,” Benito said quickly. “Milady, I—” He gulped. He recognized the hairdo now. This was the woman who had brought Maria home. She smiled at him. His mouth must have fallen open in response. Only one person had that wide a smile . . . And standing as she was, only he could see her put a finger to her lips.
Digesting this one was going to take more than a few seconds. He wasn’t quite sure what to say about Marco, and looked at Ambrosino for some clue. It was no secret—at least, he’d not been told it was—that Marco Valdosta was now openly under Dorma protection and sponsorship. But it wasn’t something that too many people knew yet, either, outside the Case Vecchie circles. Ambrosino knew, but that didn’t mean he wanted the other runners to know.
“Why don’t you and the milady take a walk, kid,” Ambrosino said. “Make this the last run of the day. The Montescue are still a great house.”
Lord and Saints—That “Montescue?” The ones that owned the huge palace and shipyard down on the landward side of Cannaregio? It wasn’t in the best of repair maybe, but still. They were Case Vecchie. Case Vecchie longi!
“—and it can’t hurt to tell her what she wants to know.”
“Yes, milord.” Benito replied faintly. “Milady?”
She led him out, into the late-afternoon bustle and clamor on the shadowed walkway, maintaining a strained and complete silence. They moved with the flow of the crowd all the way down to the bridge, without her saying a word.
Finally, she stopped in the little alcove where the bridge met the walkway, a nook built in the side of the building so that people with long burdens to maneuver off the bridge onto the walkway could do so. She finally faced him there, and cleared her throat awkwardly. “Maria said I must talk to you.”
Benito shook his head, still unbelieving. “Kat . . . Montescue?”
She grimaced. “Katerina Montescue, when I’m wearing these clothes. Kat the Spook when I’m . . . like you know me.”
Benito swallowed. “But why? How . . .”
She shrugged. “Some things family have to do. And the Montescue are . . . few. There is nobody else. And I grew up playing around the boatyard. Playing in the boats. My mama wasn’t Case Vecchie. The Negri aren’t even curti. They’re new money. Grandpapa Negri still rowed his own boat. I think Mama encouraged me to be a tomboy because . . . because it upset the Montescue cousins.” She pulled a rueful face. “Back when there were some.”
That left an awkward silence. “Um. Seeing as old Ambrosino said I could take off now . . . shall we go and have a glass of wine. Er. I gotta explain to you . . . ‘Marco Felluci’ is really . . .”