“You’re not ugly.” She stated it like any other fact. The sky is blue. He laughed at her bluntness.
“No, truly,” she pressed on. “In fact, you’re quite handsome, at the right angle. A bit of gray creeping in…but other than that, you’d do nicely. Why haven’t you got a girl—may I ask that? Between us?” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts as comfortably as if she were clothed, the small pearls in her ears sheening as she cocked her head to one side.
“You may.” He focused on lining the chalks up neatly in their box, carefully fitting the lid down over them. Memories threatened again at the margins, eager and bright. “The truth is that I’ve tried. But my wife was…different. She read everything, she challenged me. She was smart and curious, and—”
“And that’s hard to find again,” she finished for him.
He nodded.
“She could read? She had a tutor?”
“No tutor; she wasn’t wealthy. Her father enjoyed reading and he taught her. That’s all.”
“I can read.” Chiara lifted her chin.
He smiled at her pride. “And so can your servant girl, I noticed.”
“Cecilia? I’m teaching her myself.”
“Really. And who taught you, may I ask?”
The tendons in her neck tightened, flicking the skin. Her gaze drifted down to her wine. “I—I come from a higher station than the one I now find myself in, let me assure you.” Her voice faltered and she gave a half smile, just enough for one dimple to surface momentarily. “You can understand…a series of poor business calculations on the part of my father in Rome, and, well…” She raised a delicate hand in the air, communicating with a single twist of her wrist the arcing history of a fortune ruined. “I’d prefer not to speak of it, if you don’t mind.” The eyes she lifted to stare out the window were glossy, capturing the waning light in velvet pools.
“And that story worked on Venier, I take it?” Gio only partially tried to bury his smirk.
The girl blinked at him, hard.
“Oh, Chiara, come now.” He continued before she could interject. “I’m an artist—I make my living from men like Venier just as much as you do. Do you think in all my years of painting I’ve never had a courtesan tell me the best tricks? Conjuring a respectable family line to improve clientele is not a new idea, my dear. However, I must say, few are as successful at it as you seem to be.” He leaned to grab his cup, raising it in her direction for a mock cheer before draining the last of the wine.
“My aunt taught me how to read. Domenico taught me what to read.” She answered his original question abruptly, cutting off any further discussion of her past. Gio took the cue.
“Ah, so you’ve been to his salons, then.” There was only one Domenico she could be referring to. A former senator, the man was most known for hosting gatherings that connected the brightest lights in Venice, from courtesans to foreign dignitaries. You create art, I create conversations! he liked to exclaim to Gio whenever he saw him.
“Domenico liked my looks. He’s been…very kind to me.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“I owe everything to him.” She said it sharply, as though he’d contradicted her. “He gave me all the right books; he even encouraged my study of music. Though now I’m the one who’s overlearned and bored in conversations.” She brushed a wisp of blond back from her face and took another sip of wine.
“Well, there are worse problems to have than an abundance of education.” Gio began to unfasten the sketch from his drawing board. “Perhaps the next time I visit, we can have a lively debate. I promise I’ll try not to bore you—or ask too many questions.” He shot a look at her while he fussed with the parchment, trying to gauge whether she was still upset that he’d ruined her charade.
“Perhaps.” She set her glass down on the cupboard and in three strides was at his side, putting one hand over his own to halt him. Her skin was warm and dry. Taking the board away, she inspected the sketch.
He held his breath, waiting.
“It’s true. You have a gift.” She handed the board back. At such close range, her violet eyes were arresting. She leveled her stare at him, any last pretense of the coquette abandoned. “I’m so sorry it’s leaving you.”
Heat tore across his skin.
She raised herself up onto her toes then, draping one arm over his shoulder, placing the other palm flat to his chest. As she leaned to whisper, her mouth nearly touched his ear—a strange, feminine echo of Venier’s earlier gesture. His heart quickened. Could she feel it under her hand? “It can be our secret. Just don’t squint so much when Corvino’s nearby.” He closed his eyes when she pressed her lips to the hollow just below his jaw. Then she turned and walked barefoot out the half-open door.
He found himself alone in the room, her dress a bundle of brassed gold on the floor beside him.
* * *
In the dove tones of early dusk, the sound of Gio’s heels striking cobblestone rang out through the empty avenues. He was headed for the alchemist’s house; Aurelio could always lift his spirits. Soon he reached the address: a nondescript door midway down an alley, with red paint peeling off the wood and no knocker. Knowing it’d be unbolted, he pushed the door open and slipped inside, pausing at the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the dim.
Aurelio’s studio was a disorienting mix of the mystic and mundane. Drying plants hung from the rafters in clumps of fading, fragrant green, and shelves ran the length of every wall—crammed with clay jugs, books in foreign languages, boxes, and tools that Gio knew no use for. Large worktables occupied the room’s central space. These were covered entirely by rock shards, minerals, mortar and pestle, charts of stars, and scraps of parchment lined with Aurelio’s indecipherable scribbling. To keep out the prying eyes of neighbors, the alchemist had the habit of leaving his shutters closed at all hours of the day. For light, he set out candles and kept a low fire burning on the hearth. The haphazard glow cast weird shadows that sparred with any sun creeping through the cracks in the shutters.
Gio knew he’d find Aurelio in his usual position: standing before a large pot suspended over the fire, absentmindedly stirring with one hand while reading from a book held open in the other. The glow from the flames made his plump face seem even rounder than it was, illuminating the white curls that ringed his bald crown, so that he looked like an aging cherub. Over the years, Gio had learned that what cooked in the burnished pots was just as likely to be alcoholic in nature as some alchemical experiment. Though he wasn’t a betting man, Gio would wager that Aurelio was operating a full distillery in his back chamber. He couldn’t be completely certain, however, as the alchemist had never confirmed his suspicions, and Gio knew better than to ask: between the two men hung an unspoken agreement that privacy was an essential condition of friendship.