States of Grace by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

her. “You and I will devote our time to guarding you from harm.”
    She bit her lower lip so that it would not tremble. “You are not going to change your mind, are you? You will go to Antwerp, won’t you?”
    “Yes, I will—unless there is a change in the state of affairs in the Low Countries, which hardly seems likely.” He took her hand and kissed her palm to punctuate each of his promises. “But I will not forsake you. I will not be gone any longer than I must be. I will not leave you without means to live; that would be a most reprehensible imposition upon you. I will arrange matters so that you will be able to manage for yourself in my absence. I will make sure there is an official record of these provisions.”
    “I am most grateful,” she said very deliberately, and turned her hand to enclose his. “I do not ask you to forget the others, but I do not want you to forget me, either. Without you, I have no one to turn to.”
    “I could not forget you, carina, not ever,” he said gently, his touch as persuasive as his voice. “You are part of me.”
    She let go of his hand and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I wish I understood that.”
    “Whether or not you understand, it is true,” he told her, rising and lifting her to her feet as he did. “Pier-Ariana, listen to me: you are dear to me, and will always be dear to me, from now until I am truly dead. I will not leave you to flounder, nor will I take away anything I have bestowed upon you; I have given you my Word upon it. This house is yours no matter what may happen. Giovanni will print your music as long as you care to compose it and write it down. With or without me, you will not find yourself hapless in the world.” He touched her face, his fingers light and lingering. “You must not fear that you will lose anything while I am gone.”
    “I will lose you ,” she said, her embrace tightening. “Without you, the rest is chaff.”
    “You would not think so if it were taken from you,” he said somberly. “I do not want you to have to accommodate other demands.”
    “Do you think so little of me?” She released him again. “That I seek only your support?” Before he could speak, she continued. “Of course you do. What rich man does not think such things of his mistress?”
    “I do not think you accept me only for my money, or my press, and if all I wanted was a compliant female body, there are courtesans in plenty in Venezia. No, Pier-Ariana: I value you and your gifts, and I know that if you were reduced to singing in brothels, no one would remember your songs.”
    “Perhaps I should go on the stage, as some women have done already?” She cocked her head, being intentionally provocative.
    “If that would suit you, then do as you must; it will not change my regard. It pleases me to let the world know your music.” He said it bluntly, and held her while she thought out what he said. “Your songs are as dear to me as your kisses.”
    Pier-Ariana sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, and did her best to keep skepticism from her remark. “No doubt you’re genuine in what you tell me.”
    “It is a matter of worth,” he said, kindness making his words tender. “You have so much to offer, and I would not want to be bereft of any of it.”
    She tried to laugh but it caught in her throat and she began to weep again. “I apologize for—”
    “For what?” he asked, and kissed her forehead.
    She wiped her face with the back of her hand. “For this.”
    “It does not trouble me,” he said. “Your talent makes you more responsive to all around you.”
    “I feel I am a puppet of my emotions,” she muttered, her body becoming tense although she remained in his arms.
    “At least you perceive these things, and you know the strength of your emotions. Most around you are equally susceptible but will not acknowledge it, or turn it to use.” He waited a long moment, then added, “You have no reason to be disconcerted with me, not