nearing the end of day.
He decided against the mackerel. “Do you have any mussels?”
“No, but some nice eels came in today.” The rotund little stall owner gestured at another table with an arm full of cheap bangles. “Make a fine bisato su l’are.”
Mircea shook his head. He was not fond of eels. I had known that, and had suggested them deliberately, trying to buy time.
It wasn’t helping.
He walked to another table, scrutinizing the available offerings. He was dressed in a conservative, dark blue brocade that set off his shoulder length, dark brown hair and piercing dark eyes. It was understated, yet almost screamed quality, as did the sapphire signet ring set in heavy gold on his right hand. Anywhere else in the world, he would have looked a little odd perusing a table full of fish.
But this was Venice, where the men of the house typically did the shopping, including for groceries. Even wealthy men, including senators, could be seen in the marketplace, trailed by servants who were there only as human pack animals, to take the foodstuffs selected by their masters back home. Trade was the heartbeat of the city, and it could not be left in servants’ hands—or in women’s. Only men, it was thought, could judge quality.
Of course, Mircea flouted conventions regularly, but he had learned to enjoy picking out his own dinner when he was poorer, and often still did so. And Dory had taken a late afternoon nap, knowing that we were having guests tonight, and that she might be up late. I had been waiting for just such a chance for a very long time.
And yet, here I was, ruining it!
“Canocie?” he asked, talking about the sweet little shrimp that went so well in so many dishes.
“What you see is what we have . . . Mircea.”
Father’s head came up at that, startled. He had come here before, but there was no reason for the vendor to know his name. They had spoken about fish, nothing more.
I waited patiently as his eyes went over the body I was using.
She was a sweet old woman, with sixteen grandchildren, a half gray topknot perched precariously on her head, and a pleasant, wrinkled face. She wore a black shawl around her shoulders, knitted by one of her many granddaughters, far too much cheap jewelry, and a pair of red Moroccan slippers. She was a puzzle, and I saw Mircea’s brow knit.
“The octopus, then. Two of the larger ones—with the ink, grasie.”
I packaged up his fish.
He handed me the coins, and I slipped them into a pocket in the old woman’s dress. I gave him his purchase, but held onto it until he looked up, and our eyes met. “I need to talk to you.”
“About?” It was courteous. He still didn’t understand.
“About . . .” I stopped, all of my carefully prepared speeches leaving my mind, all at once. “About Dory,” I blurted out. “I never meant—I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I didn’t know—”
I stopped again, but this time, it was because he did understand. He’d always been quick, and a second later the package was gone and so was he. I stared at the empty spot where he’d been, then threw my mind outward, leaving the old woman behind, a little befuddled, but unharmed. And took flight.
I spotted him near the water’s edge, about to take a gondola. I waited until they had pushed off, then settled onto the gondolier. He was distracted; he had problems with his woman, who he suspected of cheating. It was easy to redirect his thoughts while I borrowed his tongue for a time.
“Mircea—”
“Is this what you do now?” he demanded furiously, looking up from his seat. “Take over the lives of others—”
“You left me none of my own! Why do you not release me?”
“You do this and you ask why?”
“I’m not dangerous—”
“You’re the most dangerous creature I know!”
And with that, he was gone again, leaping to the embankment before I could stop him, not that I knew how. I only knew how to follow, so I did, flying up into the sky, searching the crowds while a pink and orange sunset made the whole city blush. It was busy; it was always busy. But I caught up with him again nonetheless, in a narrow street notorious for its prostitutes.
Here it was already as dark as night, with the overhanging upper floors of the houses forming a long, dim corridor. Only the rectangular doorways of the brothels provided any light at