Waterfall (22 page)

I broke the surface and gasped for air, feeling the cool of the morning breeze against my hot, wet skin. I reached for the square bar of soap and rolled it in my hands, watching as strands of dried purple lavender broke free of it. There was some sort of fat in it-it was immediately more soothing than the soap they had at Castello Forelli. Maybe it wouldn’t destroy my skin like that had.

I lathered it into my hair, then ducked beneath the surface, driving it out with my fingers. I was suddenly eager to see what the day held. And if Lia might be in it.

I finished with my task, lounging in the warm waters for a precious minute longer, then rose in the cool air to reach for the cloth that served as a towel. I could make a fortune discovering Egyptian cotton, I thought. Was that how I was to seize the day? To become the killer importer maven, rich beyond my wildest dreams, because I knew what people wanted next? “Nah,” I muttered, rubbing my head as best I could. There was something more for me here, something bigger.

I dried the rest of my body and then flipped open my first valise, expecting to see my extra gown.

I sat back, gaping at what I saw. Wrapping the towel more tightly around my body, I tucked the edge and then bent and pulled out what I could only equate with a wedding gown. Except it was a vibrant, russet red. I kept pulling it out of the small case, and it kept coming, yards and yards of fabric. With the same colored beads sewed to the bodice. I spread it across the bed and then stood back to marvel at it. It was the finest silk I had ever touched, an explosion of softness. It had a square neckline, wide and low. Its waist was so narrow I wondered if I might actually get into it. This was Marcello’s mother’s?

Dimly, I remembered Giacinta saying something about how it had been meant for Fortino’s nuptials. A wedding forgotten. I doubted Marcello’s father complained when she took it from their dressing room. It represented promises lost. Hope turning into sorrow. Celebration becoming mourning.

Could I really wear it? Truly? Would Marcello remember it? Remember its true purpose? Turn away from me with sorrow in his eyes?

It didn’t matter, I thought, running my hands over it. I knew it was the perfect color for my eyes. And what else was I to wear to a ball? It was probably outdated. But it was so gorgeous, no one would dare to remark on it. “Now, to work in the ten-mile run that will allow me to sweat off enough weight to wear it tomorrow.”

I eyed the narrow hourglass of a bodice and shuddered. I wasn’t going to be able to breathe all night, let alone dance. Suddenly, I wished Marcello’s mother had been a large matron instead, given to tent dresses rather than tight-fitting gowns designed to draw the eye of every man in the room. I shook my head in wonder. “You must’ve been amazing, Mrs. Forelli. Wish I’d known you.,,

A knock sounded at my door, and I hurried over to the other valise. “Just a moment!” I called, shaking out the second, known dress I’d worn at the castello, then the underdress. Hurriedly, I pulled it over my head and across my still-wet, sticky skin, then moved to the door. “Yes?”

“It’s the maid, m’lady. I’m here to aid you with your hair.”

I lifted my brows and opened the door a crack. “That is a good thing. My hair is a…leviathan,” I said, coming up with the most ancient form of monster I could. And indeed, without conditioner, it was. What a mess, I thought, feeling up to the mass on top of my head.

“It’s of no concern,” the girl said, checking me out. “I’ve dealt with far worse.”

I raised my eyebrows and then sat where she indicated. “Actually, do you mind if I sit by the window as you work?”

“Nay,” she said, gesturing toward the window.

I moved over to the chair, and sank into it, staring to the well below. “Tell me, do you know everyone who visits the well below?”

She looked over my shoulder. “Most by sight, at least. All but the visitors, anyway.”

“Have you seen a blonde stranger, a visitor, in the last few days?” I inquired.

“Blonde?” she asked, as if unfamiliar with the word.

“Si, the color of straw in the high noon light,” I said, letting my chin sink to my crossed arms again.

“I’m sorry, m’lady, there are few with hair the color like that. Is that the sister you seek?”

“Indeed.”

She paused and then resumed her work, detangling my long tresses. “I might ask my papa. He is a vendor below, selling vegetables. He will know if the woman you seek passes by.”

“Thank you,” I said, sighing heavily. It was a long shot.

That she was here. In Siena.

Now. With me. Hanging out beside an old well, when Fonte Gaia was not even designed yet, apparently.

I shook my head, knowing how impossible it was.

“M’lady,” complained the maid.

“I’m s-forgive me,” I said. I remained still, my eyes trained on the square below, watching as the pace increased, as the sun grew higher in the sky. The noise echoed from beneath us. Dudes selling fish, calling out to shoppers, trying to sell their smelly wares, days old. A man selling vegetables, far more enticing. Others selling meat, pushing fly-infested beef and lamb that made me shudder, glad to not know exactly where my last meal had come from.

Hundreds entered the lineup to reach the well. But none of them was my sister.

“The master shall find her,” said the maid in confidence.

“And if he doesn’t?”

“What the master sets out to do, he does,” she said. “Cast your mind to Lady Rossi’s betrothal to Lord Forelli.”

I caught my breath but gave her a tiny nod, hoping she’d go on. My mind was suddenly focused on little else.

“The lady, given her uncommon beauty, might have had her pick of any,” she said proudly. “But she set her sights, early on, on Lord Forelli. The two houses formed an alliance, one that has benefitted both, for many years, before Lord Forelli and m’lady came of age.”

I remained silent, hoping she’d go on.

“But it has been the master’s work, his desire from the beginning, to strengthen this line against Firenze, and Castello Forelli is key. She is one of five outposts, vital to our holding the line.”

One of five outposts? What if but one of them fell? What would become of Siena and Castello Forelli? I thought back, to the Civil War in the States. What if Fort Sumter had not fallen? Or others along the North-South boundary line?

I tried my best to remember my Italian history, lamenting not listening when my mom tried to tell me of significant events in Toscana’s history.

Those who do not remember history are doomed to repeat it, my parents drilled into us, quoting someone else.

Why, oh why, could I not summon this in my memory? What happened to Siena in the fourteenth century? What happened that turned the course of time? My mind flicked to the devastated castle in my time, the overturned stones of Castello Forelli that we’d walked through in the twenty-first century.

I knew that Florence, Firenze, ultimately reigned victorious. Why was that? Because of the plague? Politics? War?

I shook my head, and the maid cried out in alarm as I pulled strands from her elaborate updo. “Sorry,” I muttered, chin on hands, staring below again.

The day passed, after my giving a detailed description of my sister and-against all odds-my mother, taken by messenger to the other Eight of the Nine, and presumably, to many more.

“Rest assured, Lady Betarrini,” Lord Rossi said to me, “If any of your kin are within reach, we shall hear of them by the morrow.”

I took comfort in his confidence, his bravado, his fatherly tone. I had done what I could. All I could do now was wait for an answer. To busy myself, I eagerly accepted Romanas kind invitation to join her and her sisters in their version of hanging out with a couple of friends, but in truth, I could not wait to get back to the house and my perch over the piazza. I took my supper in my room again, unwilling to leave my post.

A knock sounded on my bedroom door as the sun was sinking lower in the sky. I turned from my chair at the window and wearily went to answer it.

Luca stood there, a crooked grin on his lips. “You’ve sat at your window far too long.”

I glanced back at it, wondering if he might have seen me there, then realizing he assumed it.

“Come,” he said, lifting his hand. “You can see the well from where I’ll take you. Let me teach you the dances of Toscana.”

I lifted my brows, knowing I had asked this of him, but now wondering at the wisdom of it.

“Come, come,” he said, flicking his fingers, sensing my hesitation. “I have found someplace private where we can practice.”

I studied him a moment and then agreed. It was far better to suffer embarrassment with him, someplace private, rather than in the middle of a ballroom floor. He cocked a grin and offered me his arm. “M’lady.”

“M’lord,” I returned.

“Nay,” he said, leading me down the corridor on his arm. “Such a title is reserved for Marcello or Lord Forelli. Take care with it. Sir is title enough for me.”

“Understood, Sir Luca,” I said, with a curt nod. He wasn’t chastising me, I realized, he was attempting to help me.

We climbed a narrow stair, then another, and still another, until we emerged on the rooftop of the palazzo. I turned, full-circle, in wonder at the view. Past the towers and the city wall, I could see miles of green rolling hills. “It is marvelous,” I said.

“Indeed,” he grinned. He closed the door and then turned to stare at me, crossing his arms. “So, tell me of what you know about formal dance.”

I sucked in my breath and gave him a sorrowful glance. “I am afraid it is not popular in my own land. I know little.” There was no way I was going to pretend I knew anything. Not here. Now.

“Hmm. Very well.” Luca stepped forward, all man. I felt a pang, wishing I felt something more than a let’s-be-friends thing with this guy. He raised his hands and waited for me to place mine in them. “The first is an estampie. Step forward, step left, step backward, then pause, and then forward again….” He repeated it, counting, as if in time to some unheard song.

A four-square sort of step. I nodded and moved into his arms. We made it through the first three counts, and then I missed the pause. He released me and then looked at me, his eyes slightly narrowed, as if exasperated, as if we had gone through it a hundred times.

Oh, come on. “Give me a chance!” I cried. “That was once! How many times were you taught that square?”

He cocked a brow, apparently reluctant to give me room to fail. He flicked his fingers forward. “Let’s give it another try,” he said tiredly, acting as though we’d been at it all night. “This time, close your eyes. Think only of the rhythm.”

I sighed, trying to get above my frustration. I closed my eyes and listened to the beat of the dance, along with his counting, feeling the shifts, the pause at the end, then resuming. “Good, good,” he encouraged.

On and on he went. “Ahh, yes. That is it. Perfecto,” he said.

I gloried in his praise, melting into the feel of his hand at my waist, the other at my shoulder. “I’m going to release you for a moment, but you keep your count, as if another man is taking my place, as they will in the dance on the morrow.”

His hands left me, but then slid back in place, at my waist, but wrapping a bit more behind my back this time, as if a tiny bit more possessive.

My eyes fluttered open. And encountered Marcello.

I stopped, glancing at Luca, his profile aglow in the setting sun. He shrugged. “What m’lord asks, he receives.”

I looked up to Marcello and stared hard into his eyes. “And what the lord wishes is to dance with a sword-carrying girl with a penchant for running off?” I asked.

“Tonight that is my wish,” he said, his voice strangely husky, his eyes unwavering. He began to count off the dance again, and I, apparently devoid of will, followed it.

“Now, has Luca taught you this one?” he asked, raising both hands to me, palm up.

I frowned and shook my head, then glanced toward Luca. He was gone. I sighed. I was alone with Marcello, receiving a dance lesson. This was fraught with disaster, as my grandmother would say. I could do nothing but place my hands in his.

“This is an eight-count dance,” he said, staring down at me with all earnestness.

He dropped my hands and counted it out, as if I were in his arms, closing his eyes, turning at the fifth count, and again at the seventh.

“Tricky,” I said, raising a brow.

“The key is following your partner’s lead,” he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. He cocked his head. “Tell me, Lady Betarrini, can a woman who can wield a sword find her place on the dance floor?”

“I believe them to be quite similar,” I said, moving toward him, placing my hands in his. “Don’t you agree? Swordplay is a dance of sorts, an understanding of the logical, most sophisticated next step. Except that in a fight, one must take the unexpected step. In dance it is all about taking the right, expected step.”

He stared down at me, clearly wondering at my odd words, but letting them slide.

He began counting the dance, turning me at count five and seven. I moved with him, without hesitation, and the eighth count found my left hand in his, at chest level, and my right hand above my head, facing him. Our mouths were inches away from each other. “I believe you have this mastered, m’lady,” he said, still not releasing me, still staring into my eyes.