Page 114 of Fiorenzo
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Fiore didn’t recognize the room.
Above him loomed the brocaded canopy and curtains of a four-post bed, its deep peacock-blue folds adorned with seafoam scale embroidery. Beyond it lay a coffered ceiling in the same shade of ebony as the bedframe. Despite the darkness of decorations, broad beams of sunshine brightened the strange space from a wall of windows set in marble archways. Through them he could see the familiar canals, bridges, and edifices of Halcyon from an altogether unfamiliar angle.
The glint of sunlight off the vivid green waves stung his eyes. He lolled his head—which felt uncommonly heavy—away from it.
And found Enzo sitting beside him.
All the light in the room seemed to infuse his own heart at the sight of him. Likewise, Enzo’s features underwent a rapid transformation as their gazes met. The somber cast of the furrowed brow and tight-clenched mouth unknit as the soft, dark eyes widened in astonishment before settling with a gentle smile into quiet elation. In a blink he knelt by the bedside and laid his hand over Fiore’s—the left one, his dominant hand, still intact. Fiore turned it to interlace their fingers. He had strength enough for that, at least. Enzo’s other hand came up to cradle the side of his face that didn’t ache.
“How do you feel?” Enzo asked—softly, as if he still feared to wake Fiore, though Fiore had already awoken.
Fiore knew there existed a polite answer to this question. However, it had flown from his head along with all pretty language. Which left him able to say just, “My gut hurts.” He paused, for that was the largest pain, two distinct loci on either side of his navel that throbbed in time with his pulse to send out aching waves throughout his flesh. But loud as it was, it was not his only pain, and it didn’t quite drown out the others. “And my hand.” He’d hoped that one was just a nightmare. The burn at the knuckle and the lack of anything beyond it spoke otherwise. A glance down showed him a mitten of linen wrappings. He didn’t want to see more. “And my face.” His ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, and back didn’t feel much better, but having been through all this before, or something rather like it, he added, “I suppose I have to get up now.”
“Not just yet,” Enzo said, much to Fiore’s surprise. This surprise turned to dread as Enzo added, “The chirurgeon ought to have a look at you first.”
“Do they have to?” Fear forced the words from Fiore’s lips before he could think better of them. He hated the pitiful whine of his own voice.
But rather than give the inevitable “Yes,” that Fiore expected to hear in reply, Enzo paused. At length, he said, “I shall enquire.”
And then, to Fiore’s silent dismay, he withdrew.
Fiore restrained his instinctive plea before it could leave his tongue. Even though it sent his heart into his throat to watch Enzo stand and depart from his bedside to disappear behind the massive door leading he knew not where. The sunlight continued streaming through the wall of windows, and yet all brightness seemed to vanish from the chamber in Enzo’s wake, leaving Fiore alone in a room that loomed far too large all around him. He supposed he ought to give thanks that he was at least above ground in daylight.
The door swung inward. Enzo reappeared. But rather than the dreaded cold glass eyes and long beak, beside him stood a woman of middling age with close-cropped hair. For an instant Fiore wondered who she was and for what purpose Enzo had brought her to this room. Something about her eyes appeared uncannily familiar. Then his gaze fell from her face to her garb—black waxed-canvas robes.
“Good morning, Signor Fiore,” said the unmasked chirurgeon.
Fiore stared at her in silence. He knew it was rude. He still couldn’t help it.
“May we come in?” asked Enzo.
Fiore managed a nod amidst his continued bewilderment.
“I’m Dr Venier,” the chirurgeon told him as she approached, setting her leather case on the nightstand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you properly at last.”
Fiore knew he ought to reply in kind. He found he could not.
Dr Venier seemed to take no offense. She did however take his temperature and pulse and dispensed mold-tincture in return. Then to his bewilderment, she asked, “Please describe your pain.”
Fiore stared at her for a moment in disbelief before lolling his head to stare at Enzo.
Enzo gave the chirurgeon a brief recitation of what Fiore had told him moments earlier.
She nodded sagely. “About what we expected. Some anodyne should blunt its edge, but first—can you stand?”
This part was at least familiar. Fiore assented with a nod.
Enzo slipped his arm beneath Fiore’s shoulders to raise him to a sitting posture. Once Fiore had his own arms around Enzo’s shoulders to hold himself up, Enzo drew back the bedclothes to expose his legs and gently swing them off the side of the bed.
“Slowly,” Dr Venier instructed as Fiore, with the bulk of his weight supported by Enzo, attempted to stand.
His head went curiously light again as he arose. He shut his eyes, leaned his forehead into Enzo’s shoulder—easy enough, given the disparity between their heights—and dragged in shuddering breaths.
“Steady,” Enzo murmured into Fiore’s curls. Over his head he said to the chirurgeon, “Down again?”