He sighed. He’d have left it on the instant to see Kat. But the head of Casa Montescue had made it absolutely clear. Never again. Petro Dorma had said the same, if less directly.
* * *
Petro Dorma was facing Katerina Montescue at that moment. He had in fact been about to step out when he had overheard the doorman saying: “No, Milady Montescue. Milord Marco Valdosta is not at home. Neither is Milord Benito.”
“We’ll see Petro Dorma then,” said a young woman, decisively.
“Milord Petro is not available, signorinas.”
Better to deal with it, he decided. Montescue was only one vote, but once that Casa had been a real bastion against the Montagnards. The daughter of the house was plainly still besotted with Marco. The old man could become an enemy if this was handled wrongly. And even one vote in the Grand Council could be of huge value.
He stepped out. “I’ll see them, Paolo. Escort them to the Blue Salon.”
“We just need to find Marco . . .” said the other woman, nervously, in far from refined tones. She sounded like a canaler.
Petro turned his back. “I’ll speak to you in the Blue Salon.”
* * *
Kat thought it was a terrible shade of blue. She wanted, desperately, to see Marco again. Even if she couldn’t have him. She was also afraid that she might see Angelina Dorma. Her hands crooked into claws at the thought. She might not be able to restrain herself.
But only Petro was there. “You must understand,” he said gently, “that I cannot allow you to see Marco. Your grandfather would not permit it.”
Kat handed him the letter that Lodovico had written. “It’s addressed to Marco, but my grandfather said we could show it to you, if need be.”
Petro took the letter doubtfully. It carried the Montescue seal. He cracked it open and read the brief, polite letter Lodovico had scrawled.
“Well.” He bit his lip. “This puts something of a different complexion on the matter, but . . .”
“I’m not going to run off with him,” snapped Kat. Even though I would like to. “My grandfather has discovered that he was entirely mistaken about the Valdosta involvement in our House’s loss. He wants to apologize to the Casa Valdosta.”
Her voice quavered slightly. “He is an old man and he, and they, may not live through this war. And we have someone who is injured we would like Marco to see. That’s all. Word of a Montescue.”
Petro nodded. “He’s over at his apartment near the Accademia, packing up. He should be back soon, if you’d care to wait.”
The other woman stood up, giving Petro a glimpse of her bare feet. The unexpected sight—the dress was very fine—startled him.
“We’ll get him there,” she said. “Come, Kat. I know where it is. You—Dorma—tell Benito that Maria says he’s to come to the Casa Montescue. And don’t you tell that stinking Caesare Aldanto.”
Petro was plainly unused to being addressed like this. But he’d picked up on the name. “Maria?”
Maria nodded defiantly. “Yep. That’s me. Come, Kat. We’d better move, or that woman’ll likely die on us. I should have thought to stop at the Accademia on the way over.”
* * *
Marco took a last look around. “Time for leaving.” He started to pick up his bags. There were more of them than could be easily carried. Dorma could send someone over for the bulk of them in the morning, he decided.
Rafael nodded. “I’ll walk with you as far as the Traghetto.”
Laden with the things that he felt he couldn’t leave behind—his books and instruments—Marco walked in awkward silence down the stairs and out into the narrow calle. The first inkling he had of trouble was the boom of an arquebus, followed immediately by what felt like a bull hammering into his chest. The sheer force of it winded him, knocking him down. It sprayed the precious books it had struck into the street.
“Finish him!” yelled someone. “Make sure he’s dead!” A group of dark-clad figures stood up from the cover where they’d been lurking in wait.
“Help!” yelled Rafael. “A rescue!”