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Usually, when he was with the Medici or speaking with noblewomen, he always seemed cheerful and composed.
But now, he had disheveled hair, his clothes stained with wine, and his sleeves splattered with either paint or some kind of sauce.
"Botticelli?" Hedy instinctively reached for a warm towel to wipe his face. "How long has it been since you've rested properly?"
The young man rubbed his eyes and let out a long, boozy burp, looking both disheveled and strangely endearing.
Hedy sighed, asking Dechio to bring some hot water, while she bent down to tidy up the scattered wine bottles.
It was actually a form of luck that a young man could feel this much pain for love.
She, too, had once been the type to love and hate passionately. Now, her heart felt more like an ancient well—if you threw a stone in, you wouldn’t even hear a sound.
Botticelli, half-awake, felt his cheeks and fingers being gently wiped with the warm towel. He slowly regained some clarity.
"Hedy?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I was worried you might choke on your vomit," Hedy said coolly. "You must have been drinking for two or three days, right?"
He instinctively stood up, stepping into an unknown liquid on the floor.
Compared to the graceful, charming artist in front of others, Botticelli now looked like a clumsy young man, struggling to find his footing.
"I—I—"
"Don’t worry about looking embarrassed or anything," she said, reaching over to pull back the curtains a little to let some sunlight in. "Everyone breaks down at some point."
Once it's over, it’s over.
Botticelli, still unsteady, looked pale as he recalled many things, his eyes drifting back to the painting next to him.
Hedy finally looked at the content of the painting—
Wait, this painting... could it be... hell?
CHAPTER 8
The scene was vast, filled with deep brown and russet tones, resembling layers upon layers of isolated islands overlapping each other, like a conical funnel.
Each layer was quite different, and none of it appeared to be from the current world.
The Underworld, Black Wind Valley, the burning tombs, and the Antilora ring—
"These are scenes from The Divine Comedy," Botticelli's voice was hoarse.
"I wish I could bring her back."
If there truly were a Death God and Hell, and if souls could be reborn—
Hedy paused, suddenly unsure how to respond to him.
If there were no souls after death, then what were these things she was now facing?
"Maybe she went to heaven?"
Botticelli lifted his head slowly, his eyes bloodshot.
