Page 43 of Fiorenzo
The knock on his door in the early afternoon didn’t strike Fiore as unusual.
The sight of a woman on the threshold when he opened it, however, was rather unusual indeed.
After an astonished blink, he realized he recognized her. He’d had but a glimpse of her before, a mere shadow through a sliver of a cracked-open door, but her black woolen livery, severe countenance, and long hair tied back in a simple queue struck his memory nonetheless. This, then, was Enzo’s manservant.
Unfortunately, Fiore could not recall her name. But before he could apologies or even greet her, she spoke.
“A missive from my mistress,” she said briskly, proffering a sealed letter as she did so.
Fiore, no less bewildered, accepted it from her. The black wax bore a noble coat of arms depicting a dragon segreant. He broke it and unfolded the letter to read.
Fiore of the Kingfisher in Halcyon is hereby summoned to appear at Wolf’s Head at his earliest convenience by order of the Duke of Bluecliffe.
Fiore blinked at the parchment. “And why am I thus summoned?”
“You have some familiarity with my master.”
Fiore recalled no familiarity with any person of ducal rank. However, as Enzo had named her as his manservant… “Is this to do with Enzo?”
The manservant blinked at him. “There are some who call him that, yes.”
Fiore counted himself among a lucky few. “And where is Wolf’s Head? Not in the city, surely.”
“I’d advise packing whatever personal effects you may require for at least a fortnight.” She paused. “I know not how long his grace may require you.”
His grace. Whether she meant the Duke of Bluecliffe or Enzo or one and the same, Fiore knew not. He knew whom he considered his own grace.
Fiore owned little. His personal effects—zibaldone and pencils, shaving kit, spare shirts, his only other pair of breeches—fit easily into his leather satchel. He left the manservant waiting in the hall for a mere five minutes at most whilst he packed. She expressed no surprise, nor any other emotion, as he announced himself ready.
“Where’re you off to?” asked Corelli when he emerged on deck with the manservant in tow.
“Wolf’s Head,” Fiore replied with confidence, as though he hadn’t just heard the name for the first time not a quarter-hour past. “On the mainland.”
Corelli raised her brows. “For how long?”
“A fortnight, perhaps.” Fiore grinned. “Ciào!”
And with that, he went over the side and down the rope-ladder to the narrow fondamenta between the ship’s hull and the canal.
A private gondola awaited them there—all in black, much like Enzo’s own garb, his manservant’s livery, and that of the gondolier. The gondolier drew himself upright at the sight of the manservant and served Fiore a brisk nod, which he returned. The manservant opened the door for Fiore to enter the hooded felze and followed him in afterward. The moment Fiore had settled himself against the black leather seat within, she gave a brisk knock to the wooden ribs overhead, and the gondola slid smoothly on its way. Fiore had a fair a view of the city outside through the elaborate black caning over the windows. But truth told, he found matters within the felze far more interesting.
The manservant did not make much conversation. Fiore hadn’t expected her to. She was a respectable and trusted member of an aristocratic household. What could she possibly have to say to a mere courtesan? Or perhaps, if he gave her a more generous motive for her silence, she considered it her duty to interfere as little as possible—ideally, not at all—in either the conversation or quiet contemplation of her charge.
Which made it all the more astonishing when she broke her silence to enquire, “Do you ride?”
Fiore blinked. He’d dwelled in Halcyon for most of his life, and the city had banned horses centuries ago to keep the streets and canals clean. Even those slaughtered for meat were relegated to the butcher boats. As such, he could return her no answer other than, “I do not.” He paused, then added, “Will that be a problem?”
“No,” she replied. “I ask because the overland part of the journey would go faster by horseback than by carriage. But a carriage will go fast enough for our purposes.”
“Speed is a necessity, then?” Fiore concluded.
The manservant shot him a sidelong glance. “To a point.”
“Very well.” Perhaps Enzo wanted him for a certain event, then, like a hunt or a ball. Or perhaps Enzo simply couldn’t bear to remain parted with him for so long as he’d promised. Either way, Fiore supposed he’d find out when he arrived. He hesitated, not wanting to irritate the manservant when they still had a journey together ahead of them. “Forgive me—I wasn’t quite myself when last we met—what ought I to call you?”
She arched an eyebrow. “You may call me Carlotta.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Carlotta.” He knew better than to offer her his hand. “I’m called Fiore, though you probably already knew that.”