Chapter Twenty-Six
"Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble."
– Macbeth (Act IV, Scene I).
I WATCH HIM WAKE. THERE I sit, freshly bathed, hair combed into long waves, gown the color of happiness and I watch as he stirs and blinks against the morning sun. He stretches and the intimacy of it stirs within me.
Torna da me, Petra.
Giovanni's sleepy gaze settles on me, and my face heats. "You're alive?" His voice husky from sleep makes him even more irritatingly frustrating. Why can he not wake like the rest of us – like trolls after a long night of drinking? He makes his way slowly to me, not once taking his eyes away from mine – in disbelief and suspicion – half interrogation, half conversation.
How I just want to spill all that I had discovered last night. But I keep silent, for he will not believe me.
'Oh, signore! While I was floating around as a phantom of myself, you wouldn't believe who I ran into!'
'Oh, do tell!'
'Why, the Marchisios of course, Cecilia and Alfonse. You wouldn't believe, but apparently Alfonse Marchisio murdered your uncle King Lorenzo in cold blood and plans to do the same to you!'
'Oh, you don't say! Well, thank you for telling me, Petra! I should have never have doubted your grand powers. By the way, I also believe in magic and think you are much more beautiful and talented than that simpleton Valentina –'
I hardly believe it myself and so instead keep my eyes on my toast, as it has become the most intriguing object in the room. "Very much alive signore."
He slumps into a chair opposite me and sighs. "Last night..." He stops and studies me once again. "You were dying."
I swallow a knot.
"Yet, today you look ..."
He stalls and I wait, wait for him to continue, to say what I can clearly see in his eyes. He looks away but not before I can notice a small smile on the corner of his mouth.
Such a simple look, such a small expression, however my insides flutter like leaves in autumn. My skin heats like the floors of the Shazastar desert and I too look away, suddenly timid.
"Voglio toccarti per assicurarsi che non sei un fantasma," he whispers.
"You know I do not understand Florentian. How would you feel if I went around speaking and you did not understand me?"
He leans back in his seat and shrugs. "Learn."
"I already forgot what you said." I stab jam on my toast, taking out my frustrations on my breakfast. " I don't have time for your games."
It is then that he leans over to me, slowly, close enough that I can see tan freckles upon his angular face. The few days in the Ethbanian sun did him good.
"Voglio toccarti," he repeats. His eyes like metal upon my own, steady and clear. Nothing else mattered. Nothing but how he looked at me. "Means..."
I lean in closer. "Means what?"
"I want to touch you."
The butter knife I had assaulted my toast with clamors on to the floor. His gaze makes it way to my lips and back to my eyes, mischief but something more lies in those deep greys.
Into my ear, softly, barely there, he whispers, "per assicurarsi che means to make sure that ..."
I do not care about his stupid Florentian lesson any longer, for it is the last thing on my mind.
"Non sei un fantasma means..."
"Means what," I breathe, hoping that I do not sound as desperate as I feel.
I watch as he bites down a smile. "It means that you are not a ghost. So all together what did I say?" He leans his head slightly to the side and studies me in that irritating way of his.
I do not realize that my hands are in fists or that my breathing is fast and uneven or that I have leaned into him so much so it would not take much for him to touch me.
"I want to touch you to make sure you are not a ghost." My voice is barely there, I am almost unsure that I even spoke.
His fingers glide near my neck and stop at my exposed collarbone, however he only teases me with a touch that is as near as the sunlight upon me, but as distant as the sun itself.
"Quite the language lesson. I hope I am not interrupting."
Everything around me loses its vibrancy, as I recognize the voice, as the voice grates through the little piece of solace I have deluded myself with.
Giovanni's hand drops to the hilt of his saber and his eyes sharpen at the intruder.
"Have you not heard of knocking, Marchisio."
The old nobleman strides into the room, uncaring and proud. "Perdonami, milord de Luca." His sarcasm drips as extravagant as his dress. I however keep my eyes on the table before me. My hair stands on edge as my phantasmal adventures from the night before flood my senses.
King's murderer.
"Do not worry signor de Luca. I will not disclose to the young princessa Valentina how you and your mistress spend your time. We are all men of influence and nobility, the pleasure of puttanas is our right."
I stand with such force that my chair slams behind me. My hand claps a fork, but it is Giovanni who plies it unseeingly from my grasp.
"You are rather ravishing when angry, my dear."
"Always a misfortune, signor mostro. I see you have healed from our last meeting."
I watch as the sneer disappears, only to be replaced by an ugly wolfish snarl. Truly the man is a monster.
Giovanni pushes me behind him. "You have no business here, so leave, Signore."
Alfonse Marchisio shrugs. "I only wanted to see if the Fortune teller is truly dead as everyone says. However, I see it is nothing more than a ruse by a gypsy charlatan. Good day to you, Signor de Luca." He turns stiffly around and walks out, leaving me in fit of red-hot anger.
It isn't until we can no longer hear the click of his heals that Giovanni relaxes the hold upon his saber.
"Do not pay any mind to what he says."
I step away.
"I do not care much what people think or say of me signore. I would not have survived this long if I had."
There is indeed something between Giovanni and Valentina; Marchisio spoke truth there. Who am I to come in and disturb that? I may not care what many people think or say of me, but I do wonder whether Giovanni sees as Marchisio says.
"Milord," I whisper. "There is something I must tell you. I know you do not believe in magic and believe me a charlatan, however I must urge you to believe me."
Although I do not look at him, I can feel his gaze upon me, the pull of it, the clarity of it.
"Tell me, but you must look at me as you do so."
I take a deep breath and slowly lift my head to meet his gaze. He smiles, so softly, so kindly, I almost look away, for why does he look at me so? I keep my gaze as steady as I can upon his, although my eyes water, and although his face blurs.
"Tell me."
And I do. I tell him of being a phantom and floating around and listening in on Marchisio and his daughter's plan. I tell him of Marchisio's confession. Marchisio the king's murderer.
I tell him of how Alfonse Marchisio plans on murdering him as well. Through it all Giovanni listens. Not once doubting me as I had feared. Not once interrupting me.
At the end of it all, he sits back down and shakes his head. "I have had my suspicions of Marchisio, but I never believed it would be to this extent. How can he do such a thing? My uncle...he helped him when no one else would! If what you say is true, then we must act cautiously. We do not have evidence, only your testimony and that is not enough. He is a councilmen of the Florentian court and a clever one at that."
"Not only that milord de Luca, but I believe he is working with the Northerner, la Fontaine."
Giovanni stands and walks over to the door, but before he leaves me he says, "I will call on you as soon as my guard has gathered intel on the matter. For now go on as you always do. Do not let on that you know anything."
He does not wait for my agreement, only briskly walks out. I stand alone confused and relieved at how easily he had believed me.
Perhaps he is desperate for any sort of lead?
A breeze, warm and familiar encircles me and I surrender to it, close my eyes to it and let it move around me. Yet it is not emptiness that greets me with eyes closed. The breeze increases in heat and there he stands. The man from the night before. He smiles at me, but is it a smile? How can his face capture the stars? How can his hair flow like the sun itself? He reaches out to me, a white gloved hand. His sky colored eyes urging me to accept it.
But I cannot.
I hold my hands to my sides in fists. For I have not forgotten. I have not forgotten what it means to touch him.
"Do not fear me."
His voice like the wind itself. He moves his hand away, not at all disappointed, merely amused at my pathetic resistance.
I feel as if I am in the inside of the sun, the breeze no longer comfortable in its warmth.
"I do not fear you." My voice although firm is lost amongst the wind. Yet I know he has heard me, for he smiles brighter and wider. "Tell me who you are. It is the least you can do as you almost killed me the last time we met."
The howling winds stop. The silence so abrupt that my ears ring in response.
"I go by many names, Ma sorcière," his voice chimes, distant and close. Yet the twinkle in his eyes is more evident, as if he is not used to such banter.
"Tell me one of them."
His steady scrutiny leaves me bare. I try to hold my own, but I falter for his unearthliness shields him. I want to break through it. To feel his entirety, the absolute rawness of it.
My breathing quickens. My heart races. My skin shimmers and tingles with a million sensations. And yet he stands, mighty and amused as I hold his gaze.
Ma sorcière...
Yes? Yes? I urge him silently.
"You may call me ..." he tilts his head to the side, his hair shines like a crown of gold. "You may call me Roderick. Roderick la Fontaine."
A/N:
Short update i knowww, but it's better than nothing! lol Also, its my first attempt at writing in like MONTHS! lol so it might be a bit choppy as i get back in the grove of thaaaangs :)
Oh, snaaaap. What do yall think of that! Let me know below! Your comments mean the world to me!!
Marchisio is such a creep omg. I hate him.