A Hidden Fire
Page 58
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
He shrugged. “Don’t worry. Nothing will happen to her.”
“Because you need her?”
He glanced at Casper in the flickering light. The fire had started to die down, and he could feel the dawn beginning to tug at him after his long journey.
“You need her,” Caspar repeated, “so you’ll keep her safe?”
“Of course.”
Caspar nodded and finished his drink, setting it down on the coffee table and standing up from the sofa. “Of course.”
The old man walked upstairs, his step slightly slower than the year before as he climbed to the second floor. The next year would be slower still, until it would be necessary to move his old friend to one of the rooms on the ground floor. Though he knew Caspar was in excellent health, he also knew that the passing of time carried inevitability and with that would come loss.
He spent another hour staring into the fire before he finally banked it and climbed the stairs. He entered his walk-in closet, took off his old watch and put it on the dresser before he stripped out of his clothes and placed them in the laundry basket for Caspar to tend in the morning. He punched in the code to his sleeping chamber and walked through the reinforced door.
As he entered, he looked around at the spartan furniture that decorated the space. There was only a small bed; despite his tall frame, his body would hardly move while in its day rest, a desk where he kept some writing paper, the older fountain pens he still preferred, and a rotary phone. The one piece of decoration was the photograph of the Arno River that flowed through the heart of Florence and the arches of the Ponte Vecchio that spanned it. The picture had been taken in the middle of the day, and the shops along the bridge glowed vividly in the searing Italian sun.
On the wall opposite the framed photograph, there was a large bookcase filled with his collection of journals. In them were the collected memories of five hundred years; no one had ever read them besides himself. As he lay in bed and waited for the pull of day, he tried to imagine Beatrice in this small, confined room.
He could not.
Giovanni heard her before he scented her, and he scented her when she walked in the house. He forced himself to sit at the table in his library and examine the fifth letter as Beatrice chatted with Caspar in the kitchen. It was a lighthearted letter; with Poliziano teasing about the debates in Rome and warning his friend to not speak publicly about the mystic texts Andros had given him.
“I do hope you keep in mind the rather stringent positions our Holy Father has taken regarding anything of a mystical nature. I know you are enamored of your Eastern texts and your thoughts of philosophical harmony, but I do not wish for you to fall under his scrutiny. I have no doubt the result would be to no one’s liking.”
The debates, he remembered, had not been successful, and the Pope had only been angered. He smiled when he saw the closing paragraph.
“On a more pleasant note, I was pleased to read Jacopo’s letter, and gratified he recalls his time in Benevieni’s household so fondly. Indeed, my friend, along with your philosophical work, I believe what you have accomplished with his education will be one of your finest achievements.”
He paused in his examination when he heard Beatrice climb the stairs. He couldn’t help but notice her step did not have its usual exuberance.
“Hey.”
He looked up to meet her dark eyes, immediately tempted to throw away every stern admonition he had given himself when he saw her form-fitting black shirt and slim burgundy skirt. He glanced at her feet and smiled when he saw she was wearing her combat boots again, but he forced himself to stay seated.
“Hello, Beatrice.”
“So I heard you got it. The Lincoln speech. Was the buyer happy?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Happy parties on both sides, and a good commission for me.”
“Great. That’s great.”
She sauntered into the library, eventually making her way back to the desk where her computer had rested silently during her absence. She turned it on, and Giovanni searched his mind, trying to find a way to bypass the wall that had risen between them.
He had an idea. “I have another project for you.”
She frowned a little as she concentrated on the computer screen. “Oh, really?” she said. “What’s up?”
“It’s related to the Pico letters.”
Her eyes met his, obviously surprised. “The letters? You mean—that’s…you trust me to find stuff about the letters?”
He frowned, “Of course I do. Why do you think I wouldn’t trust you?”
She just stared at him for a few minutes before a sharp laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. “Do I think…I don’t—Giovanni, I don’t know what to think about you. About anything. I just—I should just stop trying to figure you out, honestly.”
Giovanni took a deep breath and stood, perching his hip on the corner of the large table before he answered. “Beatrice, that night at the pub—”
“Did you mean it?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “That kiss?”
Yes, he thought, but remained silent as she stood and walked toward him.
She looked at him, frowning as she bit her lip. “Because at first I thought you did—I mean, it felt real to me—and then you implied that you were acting.”
“Because you need her?”
He glanced at Casper in the flickering light. The fire had started to die down, and he could feel the dawn beginning to tug at him after his long journey.
“You need her,” Caspar repeated, “so you’ll keep her safe?”
“Of course.”
Caspar nodded and finished his drink, setting it down on the coffee table and standing up from the sofa. “Of course.”
The old man walked upstairs, his step slightly slower than the year before as he climbed to the second floor. The next year would be slower still, until it would be necessary to move his old friend to one of the rooms on the ground floor. Though he knew Caspar was in excellent health, he also knew that the passing of time carried inevitability and with that would come loss.
He spent another hour staring into the fire before he finally banked it and climbed the stairs. He entered his walk-in closet, took off his old watch and put it on the dresser before he stripped out of his clothes and placed them in the laundry basket for Caspar to tend in the morning. He punched in the code to his sleeping chamber and walked through the reinforced door.
As he entered, he looked around at the spartan furniture that decorated the space. There was only a small bed; despite his tall frame, his body would hardly move while in its day rest, a desk where he kept some writing paper, the older fountain pens he still preferred, and a rotary phone. The one piece of decoration was the photograph of the Arno River that flowed through the heart of Florence and the arches of the Ponte Vecchio that spanned it. The picture had been taken in the middle of the day, and the shops along the bridge glowed vividly in the searing Italian sun.
On the wall opposite the framed photograph, there was a large bookcase filled with his collection of journals. In them were the collected memories of five hundred years; no one had ever read them besides himself. As he lay in bed and waited for the pull of day, he tried to imagine Beatrice in this small, confined room.
He could not.
Giovanni heard her before he scented her, and he scented her when she walked in the house. He forced himself to sit at the table in his library and examine the fifth letter as Beatrice chatted with Caspar in the kitchen. It was a lighthearted letter; with Poliziano teasing about the debates in Rome and warning his friend to not speak publicly about the mystic texts Andros had given him.
“I do hope you keep in mind the rather stringent positions our Holy Father has taken regarding anything of a mystical nature. I know you are enamored of your Eastern texts and your thoughts of philosophical harmony, but I do not wish for you to fall under his scrutiny. I have no doubt the result would be to no one’s liking.”
The debates, he remembered, had not been successful, and the Pope had only been angered. He smiled when he saw the closing paragraph.
“On a more pleasant note, I was pleased to read Jacopo’s letter, and gratified he recalls his time in Benevieni’s household so fondly. Indeed, my friend, along with your philosophical work, I believe what you have accomplished with his education will be one of your finest achievements.”
He paused in his examination when he heard Beatrice climb the stairs. He couldn’t help but notice her step did not have its usual exuberance.
“Hey.”
He looked up to meet her dark eyes, immediately tempted to throw away every stern admonition he had given himself when he saw her form-fitting black shirt and slim burgundy skirt. He glanced at her feet and smiled when he saw she was wearing her combat boots again, but he forced himself to stay seated.
“Hello, Beatrice.”
“So I heard you got it. The Lincoln speech. Was the buyer happy?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Happy parties on both sides, and a good commission for me.”
“Great. That’s great.”
She sauntered into the library, eventually making her way back to the desk where her computer had rested silently during her absence. She turned it on, and Giovanni searched his mind, trying to find a way to bypass the wall that had risen between them.
He had an idea. “I have another project for you.”
She frowned a little as she concentrated on the computer screen. “Oh, really?” she said. “What’s up?”
“It’s related to the Pico letters.”
Her eyes met his, obviously surprised. “The letters? You mean—that’s…you trust me to find stuff about the letters?”
He frowned, “Of course I do. Why do you think I wouldn’t trust you?”
She just stared at him for a few minutes before a sharp laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. “Do I think…I don’t—Giovanni, I don’t know what to think about you. About anything. I just—I should just stop trying to figure you out, honestly.”
Giovanni took a deep breath and stood, perching his hip on the corner of the large table before he answered. “Beatrice, that night at the pub—”
“Did you mean it?” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “That kiss?”
Yes, he thought, but remained silent as she stood and walked toward him.
She looked at him, frowning as she bit her lip. “Because at first I thought you did—I mean, it felt real to me—and then you implied that you were acting.”
