Courtesan's Lover by Gabrielle Kimm Page A

market in the Piazza Girolamini with a length of lawn wrapped in waxed paper in a basket over my arm, intending to give it to Bianca the next day, so that she could make a start on “Signora Marrone’s” chaste chemise. The afternoon was bustling again after the quiet of midday, and the streets were already thronging and noisy.
    A gaggle of colorfully dressed young men had almost blocked the narrow path at the point at which it joined the piazza, and I had to edge between the group and the rough wall of the corner house to gain access to the street beyond, holding my basket high to keep it from banging against any unwary head or back. One or two of the group broke off from their argument and stared insolently at me as I picked my way across the cobbles. At least some of them appeared to have recognized me, though I am now far beyond the pockets of men such as these. I pretended to ignore them as they nudged each other and jerked their heads in my direction. Even after more than ten years’ whoring, though, a group like this makes me nervous, and I walked a little faster, aware of a faint twinge in my scar. I wished Modesto was with me. They hurled suggestive comments at me like lewd missiles; the ribald remarks followed me until I was able to turn the corner at the far end of the street, but the men did not move. I made no sign that I had heard them at all, though behind the dignified exterior I was struggling not to turn back toward them, to let loose a volley of insults of my own. I know a choice few.
    I walked on for some moments, breathing steadily again and taking my time to balance on the uneven cobbles in my infernally uncomfortable chopines . Stupid things—I cannot imagine why such unusable shoes were ever invented, and were it not for the fact that they are so much admired in Venice, I should not be bothering to try to introduce them here.
    I never feel at ease when I am wearing them, though.
    I can’t run in them.
    I clutched handfuls of my heavy skirts and stepped up onto one of the ridges created by last summer’s quake. The ridge runs right down the length of the street, like a cutlass scar along the forearm of a privateer, reminding me unpleasantly of that terror-soaked day last July when the earth cracked and shook for what seemed like hours.
    â€œExcuse me, Signora…”
    In contrast to the mocking taunts I had just endured, the voice that cut through the jostling chatter and into my thoughts was polite—cultured even—and I smiled as I turned to see who had spoken.
    â€œMight I speak with you?” The slight edge of awkwardness in the voice of the young man I now saw, and the pucker of anxiety between his dark brows, made me wonder if this might perhaps be potential business.
    â€œCan I help you?”
    He hesitated.
    â€œIt is…Signora Felizzi, isn’t it?”
    I eyed my new companion curiously. Neither tall nor short, well built and square-jawed, he was dressed in a dark-green doublet and breeches of obviously superior quality. He wore his clothes with a faint air of self-consciousness, as though the items were a very new purchase and thus still unfamiliar. In style, his garments seemed designed for someone rather older: perhaps he needed to impress in his line of work. His dark hair he wore a little longer than is currently fashionable. He looked, in short, as though he might be able to afford me.
    â€œI have been told of your…growing reputation…Signora…”
    I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Indeed? And just what ‘reputation’ might that be, Signore?”
    He held my gaze but flushed. I waited for a moment, rather enjoying his discomfiture, and then helped him out. “How did you know you had found the right person?”
    â€œI was given a description.”
    â€œWhich was?”
    The young man’s color deepened still further. He said, “I was told to watch out for a woman with black hair, brown