States of Grace by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page B

for this, or for anything.”
    “And you, are you never taken in passion?” she asked.
    “ You ask this of me?” He smiled his amusement.
    “I didn’t mean that.” She averted her face briefly. “I meant all the rest of it.”
    He offered her a serious answer. “Those who seek revelation in art are creatures of passion, and display their passion in many ways.”
    “You accept my volatility as part of my music?” She kissed his cheek lightly. “I suppose I should be grateful for that.”
    “I have told you how I view gratitude,” he said, and took her face in his hands, turning her head so that their eyes held. “I take you as Pier-Ariana, and all that that entails.”
    She studied his face. “I wish I didn’t have so many uncertainties.”
    “And I,” he admitted. “But you do, and I comprehend many of them.” He stepped back as Baltassare came into the room carrying a platter of broiled sardines and a glass carafe of pale wine.
    “If you would, put those down on that table.” She pointed to one of two pillar-tables with round marble tops.
    Baltassare did as she told him, saying, “The kitchen fires are banked for the night and all but the front door have been bolted. Do you require anything more, or will this suffice for the night?”
    “You may all retire,” said Pier-Ariana.
    “Sta bene, Signorina,” said Baltassare, and left them alone.
    “He listens at doors,” Pier-Ariana confided when they were alone again.
    “That is not surprising,” said di Santo-Germano. “I would be more troubled if he did not.”
    She blinked and stared at him. “What do you mean?”
    “He can report nothing to your discredit if he listens at doors, not without lying,” said di Santo-Germano, raising his voice enough to have it carry. “And anything put in a Lion’s Mouth must be signed or it is ignored.” These imposing information-boxes were posted in various places in the city, for the benefit of the Collegio and the two Consiglii.
    “At least so they claim,” said Pier-Ariana. “Besides, of my servants, only Baltassare reads and writes, though not very well. He could not make an accusation that anyone would regard with attention.”
    “You would have to do worse things than write music for either of the Consiglii to consider you a danger.” Di Santo-Germano touched her arm. “The Minor Consiglio has already investigated me, so it is unlikely that they would proceed against you, no matter what your servants might say.”
    “I pray you are right,” she said, and went to eat a few of the broiled sardines. She washed them down with a glass of the straw-colored wine. “I do not know what I would do if I had to leave Venezia.”
    “You have no reason to think you might have to, not on my account,” said di Santo-Germano, hoping it was true. “But if it should come to that, I have ships that can take you to any port you desire.”
    “But I desire no other port than this one,” she exclaimed. “I speak only the Venetian tongue and enough Latin to satisfy the priests. Where could I go that I would not have to … to sing in a brothel?” She chose his phrase carefully.
    “I will make arrangements for you, if you are worried.” He thought while she poured herself more wine. “I have an old associate who would probably be willing to help you. I will contact her and see what she suggests.”
    “When you say old what do you mean?” Pier-Ariana stared hard at him.
    “I mean that she has known me for a very long time,” said di Santo-Germano. “A very long time.”
    “Capizolo,” she said in the Venetian dialect, nodding decisively.
    “It is a good thing you understand,” he responded. “I will tell you more once I have her answer. Then you can make arrangements that suit you, and my old friend as well.” He decided to send word to Olivia in the morning; a courier could be hired to carry his letter to her estate at Nepete on the Via Cassia, and get a reply in return in twelve