that all I have to do?’ I asked. I was surprisingly weary.
‘For today. But Signorina, you know this is just the beginning. Tomorrow, and in the days to come, I am to teach you everything I know – about potions.’ He pointed to the vials on the shelf and then to the plants drying on the bench. ‘About herbs, about the way all these things, when mixed together and in specific quantities, can make people feel certain things, act in particular ways. I’m to teach you about these so that you can collect what you learn and store it in there –’ he pointed towards my chest ‘– and use that knowledge to change more candles, distil into the wax just as you did then. By the time we’re finished, there will be very little by way of feelings or emotions, let alone physical complaints and remedies, that you won’t be able to induce in others through your candles.’ He paused. ‘I’ll also teach you what I’ve learnt over the years about people – their behaviour, expressions, how they can say one thing with their mouths, something else with their bodies – what their reactions really mean. Though I have a feeling you may already know a great deal – more than I think you will ever reveal.’
I swelled with pride at the compliment.
‘For what purpose am I to learn all this?’
I already had a fair idea, but I wanted to hear it from Baroque’s mouth. ‘So the Maleovellis can use your candles to manipulate whomever they want. So their rise to power will be swift and without doubt.’
I studied my hands for a moment. ‘I thought so. I just wanted to make sure we both knew what we’re doing.’
Baroque looked me straight in the eye. ‘You can reconcile this, with your conscience? Your soul?’
‘Can you?’ I retorted.
He regarded me for a moment before turning back to the fire and poking the embers. ‘I have no choice – not anymore,’ he said quietly. ‘But you –’
‘I have no choice either, Baroque Scarpoli. Not anymore. If I ever really did.’ He didn’t reply, but began stacking the boxes back on the shelves and rearranging the vials. I watched him in silence.
The afternoon shadows grew, plunging the room into darkness. Baroque added some more wood to the fire and lit the candles at the other end of the table. He began to hum. Wandering into his bedroom, I heard him rummaging through some paper.
‘Is there anything else for me to do?’ I called.
Baroque’s head appeared around the door. He was chewing. ‘Goodness. Mi dispiace, Tallow … I mean, Signorina Tarlo. I thought you’d gone. I didn’t notice you sitting there. Lesson is over for the day. I will see you tomorrow.’
‘Bene,’ I said and slid off the stool, dropping him a small curtsy. ‘Don’t apologise,’ I said as I straightened. ‘I have become quite used to blending in over the years. I’ve learnt how not to be seen.’
‘Then that’s something I believe the Maleovellis will want you to unlearn. If I understand their intentions correctly, they want you to be noticed by everyone. Just not yet.’
I stared at him then nodded. ‘Grazie, Baroque. Grazie mille. I enjoyed my lesson.’
‘Anche me. Me too,’ replied Baroque.
I hid my smile by turning away. I wandered out into the courtyard. As I ascended the stairs, I knew if I turned round, Baroque would be in the doorway watching me.
DAYS BLURRED INTO WEEKS AS HISTORY, reading, writing, manners and dress, herbal lore and candle fixing filled my time. I could not think of it as candlemaking, not when I’d played no role in giving the wax its form, but I enjoyed working with my beloved medium, practising my talents, refining and adding to my knowledge.
I’d thrown myself into the lessons. I needed distractions, something to keep me from thinking too deeply about what I was doing; how easily it could all go wrong. I also found that keeping myself occupied prevented me from touching the little harlequin that glimmered invitingly in the afternoon light, urging me to extract what I continued to place in there – my feelings for Dante, which arose every time a fresh memory was plumbed, as well as my doubts and qualms about the entire Maleovelli enterprise.
Even though there was still a great deal I didn’t know about the family, they’d shown me nothing but an extraordinary generosity. I wasn’t so naïve that I didn’t know they’d eventually demand their price; but they’d