Benito closed his eyes briefly. The smuggling scheme . . . now he wondered if it had really been a smuggling scheme, and not just Caesare’s way of sabotaging Venice’s commerce. Whichever it had been: Caesare’s own mischief had come back to sink him.
* * *
After Dorma left, Benito wandered through the huge throng aimlessly. He was trying to decide how he felt about Aldanto’s death. On the one hand, he’d planned to kill him anyway, if he could. On the other . . .
He sighed, remembering all the little ways in which Caesare Aldanto had helped him. For his own purposes, to be sure. But . . . not always, perhaps. And even if it had all been done for nothing but mercenary reasons, the help itself remained.
Benito had long known that life couldn’t be separated into neat blacks and whites. Now, he was discovering that gray is also a much more confusing color than it looks at first glance.
Out of that welter of confusion, one thought came clearly. I want to see Maria.
* * *
The piazza was redolent with the smells of feasting. Not a few of the Arsenalotti had already been dipping deep in the casks of good Veneto red that Petro Dorma had caused to be set among the tables. Benito found laughter, smiles, and winks from pretty girls and even snatches of song amid the laden trestles. What he didn’t find was Maria Garavelli. It worried him. He’d been looking for her for quite a while.
The afternoon was rich and golden. Everybody was full of happiness. Everybody except Benito Valdosta, it seemed. And Maria, maybe. He thought there’d been a tear in her eye when she left him earlier. Or maybe . . . he just hoped so.
Only, where the hell had she got to? Ah. A familiar face. “Hey Tonio. You seen Maria?”
The bargee nodded. “Yeah. Saw her heading for the moorings down by the side of the Marciana.”
“Thanks!” Benito quickened his pace and walked off towards the moorings beside the library.
* * *
She was sitting on a bollard, staring out across the gently bobbing rows of gondolas and the forests of masts in Bacino San Marco. A lonely figure—sheltered from the noise and laughter of the piazza. Here only the occasional gull shrieked and squabbled overhead.
“So what’s wrong now?” He knelt down next to her and put an arm over her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
“I just want to be alone,” she snapped. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She lifted that square jaw. “It’s not a Casa Vecchie problem. Now go away.”
“What’s this Casa Vecchie stuff? I’m Benito!” He stood up and backed away a pace, raising his hands in protest.
She looked him up and down. Benito was acutely aware of his velvet and lace. “It’s a poncy outfit,” he muttered. “But Dorma insisted.”
Maria stood up and turned to face him, hands on her hips, her dark eyes fulminating. “Oh. The next Doge insisted. You poor thing.”
Benito flushed, acutely aware that she was slightly taller than he was. “So?”
“I am a canaler, Benito. You, on the other hand. You’re behaving like an absolute copy of Caesare, strutting about.”
Benito felt that was unfair. All right, so he’d been enjoying the victory. Enjoying the waves and . . . yeah, enjoying the kisses some of the girls had given him. Maybe that was it. “What’s wrong with you? Why are you biting my head off?”
“I’m not. I just asked you to leave me alone . . . seeing as you only seem to want to see me when it suits you.”
Benito felt his mouth drop open. “Give me a break! I’ve had to spend time with Marco and my grandfather and Dorma. And there just hasn’t been much time. And I’ve been to see you . . . twice. And you were with Kat. Or out.”
“Twice!” said Maria. “Oh, I am sorry. I should have stayed in just in case you came to call. I’m a canaler, Benito Valdosta. I have to work, you know.”
Benito took a deep breath. “Well. That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. I thought—”