Page 128 of Fiorenzo

Fiore’s mutilated hand throbbed. He buried his good hand in the thick ruff around Vittorio’s collar. The hound had sat down when he’d halted. His tail still wagged but did not strike the hidden instrument again.

Fiore fancied he could both hear and feel the rusted cogs creak together in his anodyne-addled mind as he tried to think. “Giovanna gave it to you so you might occupy yourself with learning to play.”

Enzo’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Yes.”

“And you did learn,” Fiore ventured.

Enzo looked no less confused. “Yes.”

“Will you play for me?”

Enzo balked. A tempest of mixed emotions—surprise, sadness, concern—whirled over his scarred features. “I don’t play so well as you.”

Before he could think better of it, Fiore replied, “You certainly play better than I could now.”

The agony in Enzo’s eyes echoed the ache in Fiore’s wounded hand. He glanced away quickly—toward the tapestry and presumably the lute that lay beneath it. A sharp inhale through his long nose left him in a sigh.

“If you’d like.”

Enzo had spoken so quietly and moved his scarred lips so little that at first Fiore thought he’d imagined his reply. But after Enzo tucked him back into bed, he returned to the tapestry and drew back just enough to retrieve his lute from beneath its folds.

Vittorio, meanwhile, had settled his head on the bed beneath Fiore’s good hand. He looked as though he wanted to leap onto the bed outright, but yet awaited his master’s permission to do so and until he received it would remain obedient where he sat.

Enzo sat beside Fiore and laid the lute in his lap. He took a few moments to tune it. He had a good ear for it, Fiore observed, and soon made it fit for music.

As much as Fiore wished to hear Enzo play, his expectations were not particularly high. An aristocrat learning to play for his own amusement was worlds away from an artist honing their craft. Certainly nothing like the musicians of the conservatorio.

Then Enzo began.

It was a bourrée. Though performed at a far slower tempo than Nascimbene would’ve tolerated, it kept time with itself and became a sweet if simple tune. Within mere measures Vittorio drifted off to sleep like Cerberus before him. Fiore remained awake, but nonetheless felt the release of tensions he hadn’t even realized he still carried. And while it may not have moved the opera’s audience to tears, the soft and gentle sound nonetheless touched Fiore’s heart.

Enzo ceased playing.

“What’s wrong?” Fiore asked.

Enzo reached for him—then hesitated, and only after Fiore’s confused nod did he gently wipe a scalding tear from Fiore’s unwounded cheek with the pad of his thumb.

Fiore wished his face would stop leaking without his permission. He swallowed down the lump in his throat. “You play rather well.”

Enzo shrugged. “Giovanna was kind enough to give it to me. An honest effort to learn is the least I could give her in return.”

“But you had other matters to attend,” Fiore continued, determined to make his meaning plain. “Fencing. Hunting. Medicine.” He hesitated, realizing all of a sudden just how little he knew of aristocratic education. “Other… things…”

Enzo’s wan smile sent a flickering warmth through Fiore’s heart. “A hundred trifles and distractions.”

Fiore idly wondered which one he was—a trifle or a distraction.

“Neither,” said Enzo, at which point Fiore realized he’d wondered aloud.

Fiore’s face went up in flames.

Enzo set the lute aside. He leaned in toward Fiore. A glance to Fiore’s mouth and back again begged silent permission. Fiore granted it with a nod. And, at long last, Enzo bent to kiss him.

“You,” Enzo murmured against Fiore’s lips as they broke off for breath, “are a devotion.”

Against all his better sense, Fiore almost believed him.

~

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