Page 60 of Fiorenzo

“It’s a stitch I learnt at university,” Enzo explained when he caught Fiore staring in disbelief. “For closing wounds, though it works as well for cloth as for skin.”

Fiore supposed he ought to feel disturbed. Instead he found his eye admiring the thread’s pattern. Before he could think better of it, he heard himself say, “Looks a bit like sailor’s fancywork.”

To his great relief, Enzo didn’t appear offended. If anything he looked pleased, judging by the bashful smile that graced his scarred lips. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it? Perhaps I’ve found a hobby Mother might approve of at last.”

“She doesn’t approve of fencing?” Fiore wished he could cut out his traitorous tongue.

The reminder of his dueling folly dimmed Enzo’s beatific aspect. “She admires swordplay, but I don’t think she’ll like the use I’ve put it to.”

“She hasn’t heard, then.”

“She went to sea concurrent with my enrollment at university. Perhaps some word of it has reached her—though I shudder to think my infamy has flown so far beyond the realm of Halcyon.”

And, to hear Enzo tell it, she hadn’t approved of chirurgy, either. Fiore tried to give the conversation a lighter turn. “But she enjoys fancywork?”

“She doesn’t disapprove of embroidery,” Enzo admitted. “She’s fond of any sailor’s craft—so,” he added, hoisting his completed darning aloft, “if this resembles an artful repair of a sail, so much the better.”

Fiore wasted no time in assuring him it did. He ought to know, having received several such examples as keepsake tokens from certain sailors and ship- captains who bid him remember them when next they came ashore. Too late he recalled perhaps he oughtn’t remind Enzo of his other admirers. But Enzo didn’t appear in the least bit jealous. On the contrary—he simply looked happy to hear Fiore was appreciated.

“You’re not bored, are you?” asked Enzo, the question’s earnest nature surprising Fiore just as much as the non sequitur. “I know you have your drawing and reading and the lute and all, but… I’m not the best company of late.”

Fiore protested vehemently.

Enzo only smiled. “Even when I spend the daylight hours sleeping? It’s bad enough I’m trapped in here. It’s not fair to imprison you as well.”

Fiore hardly felt imprisoned. He wondered what had provoked all this. He had the disturbing notion that something of his discontent at not proving more useful to Enzo had leaked out, and Enzo, not knowing its cause, had perceived only Fiore’s unhappiness and sought to repair it.

“What about the hunting trophies?” Enzo suggested, oblivious to Fiore’s conjecture. “You said you’d like to draw them.”

Fiore had to admit the notion appealed to him. But, “I don’t want to go poking about where I don’t belong.”

Enzo appeared far more bewildered than Fiore thought his words warranted. “There’s nowhere you don’t belong.”

Fiore raised his brows.

“Well—barring the private apartments,” Enzo admitted. “But beyond that, you’re free to roam the halls as you wilt.”

Fiore considered the matter. “You’ll be all right without me?”

“Vittorio will look after me. Your return will give me something to look forward to. That and the drawings.”

If it would give Enzo gladness, Fiore felt most willing to do so.

Enzo returned to bed. Fiore waited until his chest rose and fell with the steadiness of sleep. Then he crept out with his zibaldone to the trophy hall.

A hundred beasts frozen in death snarled around him. He chose a stag with a wildcat leaping onto its back and began to sketch. The familiarity of drawing dispelled his lingering concerns over his own worth and whatever nerves he’d picked up along the way wandering down long dark corridors whose every shadow proclaimed him a stranger.

Until he became aware of a particular shadow by his side.

Fiore turned to find a boy standing at his elbow and staring at his zibaldone with mouth agape. What age, Fiore couldn’t tell—anywhere between five and ten, so far as he knew. He hadn’t lived amongst children since his flight from the conservatorio. The boy’s gold-trimmed blue velvet doublet looked far too fine to belong to a page or any other servant. Fiore concluded this must be Enzo’s nephew. Or one of them. He realized he wasn’t entirely sure how many children Enzo’s sister had.

“Did you draw that?” the boy asked.

Fiore, jolted out of his rapid calculations, replied, “Yes.”

“How?”

“Practice.”

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