What he wanted would not satisfy anything or anyone but himself. What he wanted was time—to turn time back. Time for himself, and Kat.
Benito had told him he’d seen her. Marco knew now that she’d written that letter believing that . . . well, he could understand how she must have felt.
Lord, Kat. If I’d had any choice—
But he hadn’t had a choice. And now it was too late. He couldn’t back out of this, not now. Not ever.
He still wanted to see her. Talk to her. But Benito had said that while she understood . . . she didn’t want to see him. Not now. Not ever. A clean break was best. He could understand and respect that. Chains of family and honor . . .
“I can’t say I blame you for staying roommates with that friend of yours over at the Accademia,” Petro continued, looking up with a wry twist to his mouth. “There are times lately when I wish I could move out of Venice entirely. By the way, those herbs you brought do seem to be helping Mother.”
It was an oblique sort of “thank you,” but neither of them particularly wanted to openly allude to Rosanna’s addiction to black lotos—and that the only thing that could help the addiction was the substitution of the less potent blue lotos. Hopefully, the addict could slowly be weaned off that.
“I’m glad Doctor Rigannio was willing to trust me,” Marco replied.
Petro smiled faintly. “He was rather dubious at first, but you’ve convinced him that you know what you’re talking about. In fact, he’s invented an ‘old herb-doctor’ to account for the things you brought him, and he’s been leaking the information over to the Accademia since the remedy seems effective.”
“I’m glad to hear it. That—stuff—it’s still a problem,” Marco said soberly. “Nothing seems to keep people away from it, once they start. You’d think people’d have learned by now.” He shrugged. Petro shook his head.
“People never seem to learn—”
By his face, unguarded for a moment, Marco could read the unspoken words—
Not even Mother.
Petro Dorma sighed. “But we’ve still got to try to help them.” He stood up and went to a nearby window, looking out over the Bacino San Marco. Instead of the usual forest of masts it stood near-empty.
Marco knew a dismissal when he saw one; he stood likewise, edged past Petro to the door, made the right noises, and took his leave.
* * *
The justices thanked him for rendering medical assistance to the injured, and dismissed him. It still left Marco shaking inside. Did they realize that he was the child of Lorendana Valdosta, who had planned to give their Venice to Milan? The world changed with one’s perspectives. He’d spent years dreading that court . . . those justices . . .
And now it was “thank you, Signor Valdosta.” Dorma’s influence was not small, and the Valdosta name itself seemed to be a good and popular one. Well, except with Filippo Recchia. And that woman at the soiree at Gian Cecchi’s palazzo. Signora Katerina Montescue, who had turned away rather than be introduced. Snooty. Even the Brunellis were more friendly. Lucrezia to the extent that he avoided her. What did the most courted and supposedly most beautiful woman in Venice find attractive about him? Or did she pursue all men like this? Maybe the stories weren’t exaggerated!
He and Rafael walked back to their rooms, in companionable silence.
Two bedrooms and a sitting room. And even if it isn’t Dorma, it’s a world away from anything I’ve ever had before. Yeah, and I’m earning my way. So, tonight I will be nice to Angelina. Still, Benito and I keep paying the rent for that little pit over in Cannaregio. We need some place nobody knows about. And these days, with the allowance we get, we can afford it.
He felt guilty about the money. Benito had paid last month. What spare he had, he’d actually spent on food that he’d given to Tonio for some of the children. The trade was thin. And canal-people were getting thinner. The kids were the first to suffer.