alone?”
“With my cousins. They’re downstairs.”
Tycho had taken to sex like a fox to slaughter, it being as close as he’d come to finding something to sate his other hunger. He no longer bothered to count his conquests any more than he counted the ducats he won at cards.
Each night Tycho would wait to see which bank of the canal his latest lover favoured. That of ferocity, animal passion and raw excitement? Or of slowness, kindness and quiet restraint? Either was fine with him. The next night he would choose someone likely to head for the other.
So Tycho’s reputation as a fierce and kind, dark and gentle lover was confirmed. No one saw the contradiction and every woman thought they’d seen the real him. As if he dared show what that might be.
This time, though, he let his guard down and took her more brutally than he intended, surprising the merchant’s daughter into tearful protest. What Tycho really wanted was not what he took, but he took what he could.
When he was done, she hid her face from his kisses and he tasted salt and sadness. So he gentled her, muttering that he was sorry, her beauty had carried him away; and slowly, very carefully, brought her back to the side of the canal she favoured. How could he admit he’d been on the edge of ripping out her throat?
“You’re sweet,” she said.
Tycho sighed.
She was shocked when he said no husband would know what she’d done unless she chose to tell him. Men did not
know
. That was a lie mothers told daughters to keep them in their place. She was even more shocked when Tycho slid a diamond from his finger. “For your dowry.”
She was the last of his conquests.
Although Tycho didn’t know that as he closed the shutters half an hour later, drew his curtains against the coming day, remade the bed himself and tossed his soiled sheet outside for Elizavet to wash.
Waking to sadness, and the noise of friends gathering at his front door, he went downstairs to greet them. He was as surprised as they were when he sent them away. He could not afford to have them around in the next few days.
Think
, he told himself.
Either you come up with a solution or Elizavet locks you away again
. And the solution when it did come was so obvious that he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
This was Venice:
everything
was for sale.
There were darker trades beyond the sale of wine barrels offloaded at Riva dei Vin, or iron ore from the German barges that docked on Riva del Ferro, beyond even the slave markets of Riva degli Schiavoni. Since he craved blood, and since he’d taken a decision not to kill to feed, though he doubted he’d keep that unbroken, what he needed to do was buy it.
In a city like Venice how hard could that be?
A single jump carried him from the
altana
of his house – a rooftop terrace – across the narrow
rio
beyond and on to a warehouse roof. A feral tom froze, pigeons woke noisily, a nightwatchman stumbled from his warehouse to stand blinking in the darkness. Tycho was already gone, rooftops beneath his feet as he raced towards the abject poverty of the slums on Venice’s western edge.
A hundred squalid streets where each day’s battle was simply to stay alive. He wore his drabbest clothes and discarded his sword, taking only a sharp knife. The money in his belt was copper, plus a few silver coins it hurt to handle. A single ducat coin was hidden in his mud-spattered boots.
He wore a stolen Nicoletti cap.
“My patch…”
The beggar girl reached for her crutch.
She moved too easily for someone who really needed it. A rancid blanket provided her bed. A filthy dog on a frayed string bared yellowing teeth as she reversed the crutch to use as a weapon. Tycho tossed her a coin.
“What’s that?”
“A coin,” Tycho said.
The girl looked him and then dropped to a crouch and snaked out her hand to grab the greasy copper grosso. Tycho waited. When she looked up, he tossed her another and then another after that.
“Flat,
“With my cousins. They’re downstairs.”
Tycho had taken to sex like a fox to slaughter, it being as close as he’d come to finding something to sate his other hunger. He no longer bothered to count his conquests any more than he counted the ducats he won at cards.
Each night Tycho would wait to see which bank of the canal his latest lover favoured. That of ferocity, animal passion and raw excitement? Or of slowness, kindness and quiet restraint? Either was fine with him. The next night he would choose someone likely to head for the other.
So Tycho’s reputation as a fierce and kind, dark and gentle lover was confirmed. No one saw the contradiction and every woman thought they’d seen the real him. As if he dared show what that might be.
This time, though, he let his guard down and took her more brutally than he intended, surprising the merchant’s daughter into tearful protest. What Tycho really wanted was not what he took, but he took what he could.
When he was done, she hid her face from his kisses and he tasted salt and sadness. So he gentled her, muttering that he was sorry, her beauty had carried him away; and slowly, very carefully, brought her back to the side of the canal she favoured. How could he admit he’d been on the edge of ripping out her throat?
“You’re sweet,” she said.
Tycho sighed.
She was shocked when he said no husband would know what she’d done unless she chose to tell him. Men did not
know
. That was a lie mothers told daughters to keep them in their place. She was even more shocked when Tycho slid a diamond from his finger. “For your dowry.”
She was the last of his conquests.
Although Tycho didn’t know that as he closed the shutters half an hour later, drew his curtains against the coming day, remade the bed himself and tossed his soiled sheet outside for Elizavet to wash.
Waking to sadness, and the noise of friends gathering at his front door, he went downstairs to greet them. He was as surprised as they were when he sent them away. He could not afford to have them around in the next few days.
Think
, he told himself.
Either you come up with a solution or Elizavet locks you away again
. And the solution when it did come was so obvious that he was surprised he hadn’t thought of it earlier.
This was Venice:
everything
was for sale.
There were darker trades beyond the sale of wine barrels offloaded at Riva dei Vin, or iron ore from the German barges that docked on Riva del Ferro, beyond even the slave markets of Riva degli Schiavoni. Since he craved blood, and since he’d taken a decision not to kill to feed, though he doubted he’d keep that unbroken, what he needed to do was buy it.
In a city like Venice how hard could that be?
A single jump carried him from the
altana
of his house – a rooftop terrace – across the narrow
rio
beyond and on to a warehouse roof. A feral tom froze, pigeons woke noisily, a nightwatchman stumbled from his warehouse to stand blinking in the darkness. Tycho was already gone, rooftops beneath his feet as he raced towards the abject poverty of the slums on Venice’s western edge.
A hundred squalid streets where each day’s battle was simply to stay alive. He wore his drabbest clothes and discarded his sword, taking only a sharp knife. The money in his belt was copper, plus a few silver coins it hurt to handle. A single ducat coin was hidden in his mud-spattered boots.
He wore a stolen Nicoletti cap.
“My patch…”
The beggar girl reached for her crutch.
She moved too easily for someone who really needed it. A rancid blanket provided her bed. A filthy dog on a frayed string bared yellowing teeth as she reversed the crutch to use as a weapon. Tycho tossed her a coin.
“What’s that?”
“A coin,” Tycho said.
The girl looked him and then dropped to a crouch and snaked out her hand to grab the greasy copper grosso. Tycho waited. When she looked up, he tossed her another and then another after that.
“Flat,
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