Waterfall (24 page)

After that, small Cornish-like hens were distributed, a whole one on each plate, covered in a thick, brown sauce full of dried fruits. I sighed with relief that I saw forks here at each place setting. Ahh, a tiny bit of civilization. Maybe the city dwellers were early adopters. I tried not to gloat as I picked mine up and used it with ease in tandem with my knife, ignoring the admiration of those about me. Finally, something that was not foreign.

Plates of gnocchi were passed, but I only took one. I’d never been fond of the little dumplings. They always got stuck on the roof my mouth. After that, people took more fruit and sat back, enjoying their wine and conversation. That was the first time I glanced Marcello’s way and found him looking at me. Our eyes met, held, and then we both broke away. His intended was to his right. Her sister was to his left. I couldn’t risk looking his way again; but then, wasn’t that obvious in itself?

I looked to Romana. “M’lady,” I said. “I am so grateful to your father for his aid in searching for my sister.”

She wiped her mouth with the edge of the tablecloth and smiled at me. “It is his good pleasure.”

I understood her more in that moment. She wanted to help me; she truly was grateful. But I saw then that if she could reunite me with my beloved family, I would disappear from her life. Her worst nightmare was that I would decide to remain at Castello Forelli. Don’t worry, girl. I’ll be out of your territory soon.

But the thought of it sent a pang of grief through me. Everything in me wanted to look at Marcello in that moment, but I knew I could not. I might look at him and never look away.

I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly in relief when the music began upstairs and people began dispersing from the tables. As much as I wasn’t really excited about hitting the dance floor, it was bound to be less excruciating than sitting here, across the table from him. Lord Rossi still had more nobles to introduce me to, which might mean I could just do a few dances but spend most of my time talking. That was far safer.

Luca rose and pulled out my chair. Together, we took to the wide staircase that led up to the next level. Windows had been cast wide, letting the evening breeze flow through, perhaps so the music could flow out as well, to the locals below, eager to catch an echo of their nobles’ fine party. I drifted over to one and looked up to the top of the piazza, but saw no blonde women.

I turned as Lord Rossi approached, introducing me to a stern, tall gentleman, who checked me out like he didn’t trust me. Perhaps we were moving from friendliest to meanest in the crowd.

“Take care with this one,” Luca whispered in my ear, then reached for a goblet of wine from a passing servant and grinned at the new arrival, another tall, distinguished man with quick eyes. I had the immediate impression that he missed nothing. That he could take in a room and name everyone in it from memory. He looked me over like he was going to paint my portrait later, slowly moving over every inch of my face. My skin pricked, and goose bumps ran down my back. Why, exactly, had Luca warned me about this one?

Lord Rossi made the introductions, as he had with all the rest, but his tone was much more cool and aloof. Civil, but barely. What had this man, Lord Vannucci, done? I only became more alarmed when Marcello appeared, wine goblet in hand, to stand on my other side. He’d avoided me all evening. So was I in some physical danger with this Vannucci guy?

But the man merely listened to our story, told by Lord Rossi, and studied me the whole time. As if my face might portray some nuance that would give him insight. I fought the desire to squirm under his intense gaze.

“Normandi,” he said in French. How could a look be so… probing? It was as if he was slicing open my head and had access to all that was inside, like a computer programmer popping open a unit and sliding out the data panels. “Ou habitez-vous exactement en Normandie?’ Where is your home in Normandy?

I hesitated. It had been a month or so since my last French class, and it was the first time that someone called me out on my whole I’m-from-France story.

“Near Dordogne,” I said in a rush, hoping my accent was somewhat believable.

His lips thinned in a wise smile. “Je connais bien la Dordogne, ” he said.

My heart skipped a beat. Just my luck. The dude knew it well.

“Oiu est votre maison situee?”

He wanted to know where my home was, specifically. I cast back through my memories of a brief trip through the region. ” Un manoir pres de la riviere. “Near the river.

“Ahh,” he said approvingly. ” Un endroit charmant.”

I don’t think I took a full breath until he finally nodded and disappeared into the crowd. Had he bought it? I didn’t think so. Not really. Lord Rossi took a deep breath, made his excuses and departed, and Marcello turned to the window. I did as well. “So, I assume you should have warned me of that one.”

“Indeed,” Marcello said.

“Why?”

“Many suspect him of spying for the Florentines,” he said lowly. “He oft argues on their behalf, urging peace, citing ways our city might gain if we worked with them, instead of against them.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but isn’t that a possibility? Might the Sienese not gain from peace shared?”

Marcello frowned at me, as if I had just uttered heresy. “Our ongoing war is their doing, not ours. If peace is to come to Toscana, they shall have to repair many years of damages done to us.”

Fine, fine, whatever, I thought, backing off. I wasn’t going to win that argument, with him all hot and bothered. But how did a known sympathizer of the Florentines remain in the upper crust of Sienese society when emotions ran so hot? The guy had to be buying his way in, somehow. Wasn’t that how it was done, regardless of the era?

“Come, Lady Gabriella,” Luca said. “Marcello needs to escort his bride-to-be to the dance floor, and I am eager to see if my fine lessons have remained in that pretty head of yours.”

The floor erupted in polite applause as the previous song ended. Some moved from the lines, others moved into them, as Luca and I did. I refrained from looking for Marcello and Romana, and focused only on Luca, determined to get the steps right.

“Smile, Gabriella,” he coaxed. “This is not a punishment. It is joy in movement.”

I gave him a fake smile, though when he lifted his eyebrow in doubt I had to grin in earnest. The music-performed by a small orchestra of lutes, flutes, and violins-began again. We moved in time to it, and I gasped at the glory of everyone doing the same move at the same time. It was as if I was a part of society in a whole new way, connected to them all, in this shared experience. How I wished we would dance like this in my own time! It was refined, flirtatious, fun. None of the bumping and grinding that the kids did at my high school. This was a celebration of men and women, of life, of the draw between us all. I clapped in perfect time and turned, smiling back at Luca.

“Perfecto,” he whispered, nodding at me in admiration.

“I had a decent tutor,” I whispered back. But then my smile faded as I thought of Marcello, holding me in his arms, then later disappearing through the door, leaving us both quaking with disappointment. I doubted he’d try and dance with me this night. No, Romana would likely keep him by her side the whole evening. I was surprised that he had escaped to come and stand by me when Lord Vannucci neared.

Romana’s cousin, Captain Orlando Rossi, approached, and Luca reluctantly released me into his care. I danced with him next, then two others.

Seriously. If the guys were this hot in Siena in 1332, their greatgreat-great-grandsons had to be there in the twenty-first century. I had to get my mom to leave the ruins and get us to the city. At least once in a while. It would make my summer so much more fun.

But then Lord Vannucci came near, and the hair on the back of my neck stuck up again.

“Forgive me, m’lord.” Luca tried to intervene, again at my side. “But I believe Lady Betarrini had promised the next dance to me.”

“I will wait,” he said, bowing his head a little, still staring at me. Was that a tiny smile on his lips? My heart skipped a beat. There was no way I could have an extended conversation with the man. My French petered out at level two.

We moved off, and I fumbled through the steps this time, too aware that Lord Vannucci was boring two holes into me with his hot stare. “Do I have to dance with him?” I whispered, as Luca came by me again in our group’s circle.

“Just once,” he said, sorrowfully. “Make it through, and you can feign a headache. I’ll escort you out.”

“All right,” I said.

I clapped with little enthusiasm for the end of the song, and then he was there, in front of me, offering one hand, palm up. He was over six feet tall, about forty. And he never released me with his dark eyes.

I took a misstep, and he began to count with me in a low, whispered French. “That’s it, Gabriella, that’s it,” he said, as if soothing a lost kitten. As far as I knew, few dared to speak to a relative stranger using their first name. It was reserved for people who really knew you. People who’d earned it.

This guy, using my first name? Major Creeporama.

I concentrated on my count and steps, looking over his shoulder, refusing to meet his gaze. I was proud of myself for not messing up again, then got all irritated at the thought of his believing it was because he counted for me, like a patient instructor. We were on the last round. I took his hand again and then couldn’t resist staring back into his eyes. He was handing me a slip of paper. There was the tiny smile again. A smile of victory, like he had me already.

The dance ended, and I slipped the note into my waistband and clapped, side by side with the tall man. He smiled and leaned over to me, as if to thank me for the dance, but instead he whispered, “Make your excuses and meet me alone, out in the courtyard, in the far corner. En toute hdte, s’il vous plait.” In all haste, please. Hurry. He smiled and then nodded cordially before sauntering off, as if he was your average dance partner, off to catch a cup of punch or something.

Luca arrived. “Are you all right?” he whispered, taking my elbow. “You look ill. What did he say?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I muttered.

“Do you want to take your leave?”

“Nay. Not yet.” I had to shake him, if I was to read the note in privacy. “Listen, Luca, would you kindly find another glass of water?”

“There’s wine-“

“Nay. I’m afraid that will only make me feel worse. Please. Water?”

He studied me a moment and then left.

I moved around a pillar and down a small hallway. Finding a door unlocked, I slipped inside and moved over to the window, where the moon was just barely bright enough for me to read the note.

Votre recherche se termine avec moi. Je sais ou est votre swur.

Your search ends with me. I know where your sister is.

I slipped down the staircase, knowing that Luca was probably already where he left me, glass of water in hand. I had to hurry.

I moved through the dining hall, where servants were clearing the tables, and out into the courtyard, surrounded by three levels of arched colonnades. The moon was climbing higher in the sky, casting deep, spooky shadows. A couple moved through, whispering to each other, then, spotting me, hurried off.

I swallowed hard, wishing I had that glass of wine now. I’d down it in one gulp. Maybe it’d give me the courage I needed to face the weirdo. I lifted my chin and pulled back my shoulders, refusing to appear afraid, even if I was terrified inside. He knew where Lia was.

I moved down through the ground-floor colonnade, looking left and then right, wondering if I had misunderstood him. But then I saw his silhouette in the far corner, leaning against a wall, casually waiting on me.

I stopped, a few feet off, and looked back. We were alone for the moment. “You know where my sister is?” I whispered in French.

“I do.” He pushed off the wall and walked around me. “You may drop your faulty French now, Gabriella. I know you are not who you pretend to be.”

I made myself stand still, to bear his stare. He didn’t touch me. But it was like he had.

“You resemble her.”