42
“Iacopo?” asked Tycho, hearing his door begin to open.
Desdaio peered into the cellar. “Are you expecting Iacopo? she asked, sounding surprised.
“He was moving about earlier.”
Slipping inside, she left the door open and moonlight flooded in from above. The moon was full tonight, the sky bright with stars.
“My lady, shut the door.”
“We can’t all see in the dark.”
More moonlight filled the room as Desdaio obstinately opened it a little wider. Turning, she found Tycho facing the wall. “Leave,” he said. “Or close it.”
“Tycho…”
“Do it now.”
She shut the door with a bang.
“Go to that corner. Don’t come any closer…”
Kicking a wooden wedge under the door, Tycho found a candle, kindling and flints. The kindling was rag, the flints dropped by a cittadino too spoilt to retrieve them. “Candles cost,” said Desdaio, with the fervour of a rich woman who believes she is now poor.
“Moonlight hurts me,” Tycho said.
“That’s the sun.”
“A different kind of pain.”
Desdaio looked at him doubtfully. Moving closer, she seemed surprised he kept the candle between them. “I have things to tell you. And I want to sit.”
“On my mattress?”
“Do you see a chair?”
She smelt of roses and sweet wine, an undertaste of sweat, and a musk Tycho loved, loathed and found addictive. Every woman in the city between fifteen and thirty smelt the same.
“Are you all right?”
“No,” he said harshly. “I’m not.”
Desdaio was so shocked she stepped back. And for that Tycho was grateful. Her body still called to him, the pulse in her throat the beat of a drum summoning him to disaster. The skin of her neck glowed with youth and candlelight.
“Leave,” he told her. “Just go.”
“I thought you were my friend,” she said. “And then you talk to me like this.” Her eyes were huge with unspilt tears. “You can’t. It isn’t allowed.”
“Because I’m a slave?”
“It’s rude.”
“Some days,” he said, “I hate you.”
She sobbed. A single gulp in the back of her throat. “I thought if I was kind it might help. They say all slaves want to kill their owners. You’re meant to be different. You have a good heart,” Desdaio said fiercely. “Inside all your hate.”
Tycho’s smile made her shiver.
“You’re wrong, my lady. I doubt I have a—”
The knock interrupting his boast was abrupt and Desdaio’s eyes widened. Being found here was bad enough. To be found in her nightdress, a woollen shawl thrown over her shoulders and her feet bare…
“Maybe it’s Amelia. I’ll explain.”
“It’s Atilo,” said Tycho, as the knock repeated.
It came again, angrily. Atilo now knew the door was jammed, from trying its handle when his second knock wasn’t answered.
“How do you know?”
“His footsteps.”
Pulling aside his mattress, Tycho revealed a hole in the floor. An early and abandoned attempt to tunnel out. When Desdaio hesitated, Tycho lifted her—one hand under her knees, the other round her ribs—and dropped her in, before dragging his mattress back into place. From the look on her face she’d felt his hand come to rest under her breast too.
“Open this door.”
“My lord, if you could stop pushing.”
The pressure ceased and Tycho pulled away the wedge, moving just fast enough to avoid having his fingers crushed by Atilo’s furious entry. The old man glanced at the offcut in Tycho’s hands, then glared round the cellar, his eyes alighting on the candle. “Why do you need that?”
“My night sight’s not perfect,” Tycho lied.
“Where is she?” he demanded.
“Who, my lord?”
“Amelia.”
“Asleep in her bed, I imagine.”
The old man scowled. “She was meant to come to me tonight.” He sucked his teeth, deciding he’d said too much. “Iacopo is also missing. If they’re up to mischief together…”
“He returned a little earlier.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard him, my lord. His new breastplate scraped the wall above and he swore loud enough for me to hear.”
“Drunk, I imagine.” Dark eyes above a sharp beard watched Tycho. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“I try not to, my lord.”
“You know there are no bolts inside. But I found this above.” Holding up his offcut, Tycho said, “It keeps my door secure. You say we should secure our entries and exits. I’m simply obeying orders.”
The old man snorted. “Get some sleep. Wake early, rested and ready, with your wits sharp. Much turns on tomorrow. Don’t let me down.”
“My lord?”
“Pray to your gods for success.”
There are no gods, Tycho almost said. Not for the likes of you and me. “I will, my lord. Goodnight.”
Kicking his door jamb back into place, Tycho dragged the mattress aside and hauled Desdaio from the hole beneath. She shook him off when he tried to brush earth from her gown. “That’s what I came to tell you. Atilo has a special job for you tomorrow. And I should have known…”
She hiccuped.
“Known what?”
“Amelia goes to his bed. I thought…”
That he confined himself to the duchess? That he kept his whoring for brothels? She couldn’t really believe that a man as powerful as Atilo il Mauros slept alone under his own roof? Even Desdaio wasn’t that naive.
Holding her tight as she cried, Tycho folded her in his arms, feeling her breasts press against him and her nipples harden. Her eyes went wide when he kissed her and for a second she responded. Then he was blocking a slap.
“You kissed me back.”
“I did not.”
“My lady…”
“Enough.” Her voice was furious. “We won’t talk of this again.”