Page 129 of Fiorenzo

“Did you ever have to do this at university?” Fiore asked one afternoon as Enzo rewrapped his wounded knuckle. A se’en-night had passed since his rescue, and his doses of anodyne reduced to a point where his mind could connect several thoughts together in sequence, allowing him the luxury of asking slightly more intelligent questions than before.

Enzo paused in the midst of tying off the bandage. After a moment’s hesitation, he replied, “I did, yes.”

“Under different circumstances, I suppose,” Fiore supplied when Enzo fell silent again. He assumed most university students didn’t fall victim to kidnapping. But perhaps Enzo’s account would prove him wrong.

A weak chuckle escape Enzo, which Fiore took as a good sign. “Indeed. It’s a common injury amongst woodworkers and cabinet-makers. And sometimes particularly unfortunate sculptors if the chisel slips against the marble.”

“Then I’m in good company as well as good hands,” Fiore concluded.

A wan but no less handsome smile flickered across Enzo’s lips. Then they parted as if for speech, only to close again more firmly than before.

Fiore cocked his head at him. “Zecchino for your thoughts?”

After a moment, Enzo ventured, “You draw with your left hand, do you not?”

“Most of the time,” Fiore admitted. “The conservatorio tried to turn me right-handed. Most instruments are designed to be played so. But they didn’t want me drawing anyway, so I always drew with the left. And then when I started copying actual artists—Artemisia, mostly—I learnt to draw with the right hand for gestural sketches and put finer details in with the left. The dominant hand is better saved for precision.”

“Saved from what?”

Fiore shrugged. “Pain, mostly. The same small motion for so many hours will cramp you up, and you can either cease drawing until the pain passes—which may be days, if not weeks—or you can switch hands. Artemisia has practiced so long you can hardly tell her left from her right in her sketches, though to her the difference appears astronomical, and ware her wrath if you suggest her right is as good as her left.”

Fiore expected another chuckle in reply. Yet Enzo remained in pensive silence for another moment, a knot appearing between his brows, before he answered with solemnity.

“I’ve no wish to tell you how you ought to feel about it,” Enzo began. “But from a medical perspective, if one must lose a finger, the forefinger is the one to discard.”

Fiore stared at him. “Explain.”

Enzo couldn’t seem to look him in the eye. Yet the gaze he cast down on Fiore’s wounded hand held all the tenderness of Flora coaxing roses into bloom. “Most folk would choose to cast off the smallest finger. But it’s the smallest finger which contributes the most to the strength of the hand’s grip. And while the middle finger can pick up most of what the forefinger would do, the fore, middle, and leech finger combined can’t bear the weight of what the smallest finger would hold secure.”

Fiore absorbed all this with rapt attention. There seemed something to say in it about size and strength and expectations, but the opium-fog kept it just beyond his mind’s reach. Instead of anything literary, he heard himself reply, “And what of the lute?”

Enzo said nothing. A hard swallow travelled down his slender throat.

“Only jesting,” Fiore hastened to add. His smile wouldn’t stay on his lips.

Enzo’s own wan smile did much to balm Fiore’s heart as he glanced up to meet his gaze at last. His strong hands enclosed Fiore’s wounded one in a gentle shielding grasp. His thumb idly stroked the knuckle of Fiore’s. Fiore clasped his palm in turn, and indeed, it seemed as though his remaining fingers still held the strength to do so.

“Where is it now?” Fiore asked.

Enzo’s brow furrowed.

“The missing one, I mean,” Fiore explained. “They sent it to you, did they not?”

“They did,” Enzo admitted, after a silent moment wherein his countenance underwent a rapid transformation; alarm, despair, and anger chased each other across his features like storm clouds whirling through zephyrs above, until stoic resolution settled over all.

“Do you have it still?” Fiore asked, half-afraid of the answer. If Enzo had tossed it into the canal—or thrown it to his hounds—or cast it into the hearth-fire—

“I do,” Enzo replied.

Because of course he did, and Fiore felt foolish beyond words to have doubted him for even a moment.

With some hesitation, Enzo continued. “I ought to have told you earlier, but… I thought it might disturb you to hear of it.”

Fiore couldn’t honestly say the thought of his missing finger didn’t disturb him. But to know it remained safe in Enzo’s hands eased some of his concerns.

“It cannot be reattached,” Enzo said with no small amount of evident chagrin.

Fiore shrugged. “I’d figured as much. May I see it?”

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