“This is the finest home I’ve seen a courtesan installed in. You must be pleased,” he said to the room at large.
“One advantage of knowing a statesman,” the redhead observed, before yawning. She had an aquiline nose and the habit of lolling her head back as she spoke, which lent her a snobbish air. Gio had already found her weakness, however: despite the careful application of powders and rouge, he could spot that she was older than the others.
“Venier appreciates having a place in the city to host his dinners.” Chiara’s tone was formal, a deflection of Gio’s actual meaning: Isn’t this cage a lovely one?
“Yes, they’re such fun, you must come to the next.” The brunette spoke now, in the sort of high, childlike voice certain women make their currency. She’d wandered to one of the side tables and stood, eyeing a bowl of grapes and twisting a strand of hair between two fingers. “Do you have a girl, Giovanni?” She looked up, her face as blank and perfect as a doll’s. He couldn’t see Chiara, sitting outside his field of view, but he felt her watching.
“Should we begin with introductions first? Then questions?” He flashed what he hoped was a friendly grin.
“Oh!” Her hands flew up to her chest. “Margherita. And that’s Veronica.” The redhead waggled her long fingers at him.
“So, do you have a girl or not?” Margherita popped a grape into her mouth, chewing slowly while she stared at him.
Gio cleared his throat. “I had a wife once, yes, if that’s what you mean.” He kept his eyes trained on the sketch, squinting to bring into focus the lines that were beginning to form the muscles of Chiara’s back.
“You had? Did she leave you for spending all your time with courtesans?” Veronica raised a hand to examine her nails.
“No, we were quite happy. She died several years ago.”
The women’s faces melted into the kind of expression reserved for the tragedies of strangers.
“It was a long time ago; there’s no need to be sad for me,” Gio reassured them with an equally well-rehearsed smile.
“Haven’t you found anyone since?” Margherita sucked another grape into her mouth.
“I haven’t.”
“Why not?” The girl spoke while chewing.
He paused to consider. How long had it been since he’d thought of her? An image flitted to life in the back of his mind, as though it’d been waiting for the slightest gesture of invitation: her silhouette against the window. Morning sun. The profile of her face, turning to look at him. The curve of her cheek as she smiled—in memories, she was always smiling. He could see the margins of her so sharply. His vision had still been perfect.
“I…I don’t know. She had my heart. She took it with her, I suppose.” He stared up at the ceiling; the apostles were a blur.
“As well she should have. And Giovanni doesn’t need us meddling in his affairs, does he? Surely we can speak of lighter things.” Chiara stared pointedly at Margherita, an edge cutting through her tone like vinegar in honey.
The brunette flushed, exchanging looks with Veronica. Gio thought he saw the redhead nod. Soon, the girls were filling the air with charming, empty words. He let them chatter on as the tightness in his chest resolved. Their sunny voices chased one another around the room as they recounted the more amusing habits of their lovers and tallied up the trinkets they’d recently received—the sounds drifted into the background as he began to focus on his work. Chiara seemed to have the stamina of an athlete, remaining still even as the light billowed and the girls grew restless, wandering in and out of the great rose-colored room. With the outline of her body finished, he began to layer in the shadows. He leaned closer to the page.
“I need to rest.” Her voice broke the protracted silence. With a start, he looked up. Judging by the angle of the sun stretching across the floor, they must have been alone for some time.
“Of course.”
She stood, twisting her back. Politely, he kept himself occupied adjusting the final lines of the sketch. Then she strode to refill her glass of wine, and he tracked the way the light attached itself to her body as she moved.
“Why do you think they call him ‘the Crow’?” She filled the cup to the brim.
“You mean Corvino?”
She nodded. Gio paused, reminding himself that anything he said might find its way back to Venier or to Corvino himself.
“Well, he is certainly dark-headed—”
“I heard he collects the heads of crows.” She interrupted him, spinning to lean one hip against the sideboard. He kept his eyes trained on her face. With a quick squint, he took note of her brows, drawn together; the downward arc of her mouth. Again, he was struck by the perfect symmetry of her features.
“I’ve heard the same.”
“Is it true?”
“I think so, yes.”
“It isn’t normal.” Her voice had hardened, shedding the round, dulcet tones she’d cultivated for clients. “And the servants tell me it’s known he’ll pay for information about their masters.”
“What sort of information?”
“Anything, really. Bastard children, private meetings, their comings and goings. Whose chambers they’re visiting and when.”
Their eyes met.
“Stay away from him as much as possible. That’s my wisdom for you.” Immediately, Gio regretted his words. If this had been a test, he’d failed miserably. Silence intruded on the space between them until she spoke again, quietly this time.
“Thank you. It’s nice to talk to someone from outside this house.”
“I am but your humble servant.” Gio bowed in jest, was pleased to see her smile when he straightened.
“Does everyone blabber to you when you visit? Do you know more secrets than Corvino by now?” Her tone was playful, but her stare was calculating as she took another sip of wine, surveying him over the edge of her cup.
“I don’t mind listening, and I don’t repeat what I hear, if that’s what you’re asking.” She made a small grunt at this that he couldn’t interpret. He took another look at the sketch. “Well, I think we’ve made enough progress for today.”
Returning the chalks and charcoals to their boxes, he began to pack his station in earnest. The light had matured into a comfortable peach hue, and his stomach was rumbling impatiently. As he worked, he felt her eyes on him. Finally, he raised his head. She was studying him with a detached air—the same look he must use when assessing his models. Suddenly, he felt exposed and defensive.