Archive of Our Own

It’s a typical gloomy London night, the gas lamps hardly cutting through the sullen fog, when they catch Mr. Ratcliffe and his street toughs on their way out of the pub. 

Andromache takes the lead as always, a striking outline in the dim light. The men probably catch only a glimpse of a rakish top hat and the curve of an outlandish axe before each of them is knocked to the ground in turn. 

She does not truly need their assistance, but Yusuf and Nicolo join her to restrain Ratcliffe’s companions. Sebastien, only a few short years into their company and unused to their rhythms, hangs further back, but with his pistol at the ready in warning. 

The exchange only takes a few moments, and Nicolo suspects that the startled man at the end of his knife is taken aback more by the speed than the attack itself. From what they know of Ratcliffe and his gang, they are the sauntering bully type of criminal—they rely on intimidation over technique. While Nicolo disagrees with such a style, he cannot deny that it has been effective; Ratcliffe has the entire neighborhood trembling. 

Even now, flat on the damp cobblestones, ancient axe head pressed into his sternum, he speaks with a slow, placating, drawl. “Here now, what is all this about?”

He turns his head to direct his question at Nicolo, but Nicolo remains silent. Englishmen in particular have a habit of directing their questions at him: the man in front, the one with pale skin. It unsettles them when Andromache answers, which is usually to their advantage. Not only is she a woman often dressed in men’s clothing, she carries her age with her. Though unwrinkled and beautiful, even the least observant of mortals seems cowed by her. Nicolo was, when they first met. She gives the impression that she has seen everything on God’s green earth, and nothing has surprised her yet, least of all you. 

“Edward Ratcliffe?” Andromache asks, in a way that makes it clear that she is not asking a question. 

Ratcliffe makes a small double take, then smooths over his surprise with oil. “The very same, my lady. I must say, I wish we could have met under better circumstances, for I-“

Coolly, Andromache sets her foot upon the axe head, and presses down. 

Ratcliffe wheezes, not realizing that the fact that he may breathe at all is a sign that Andromache is being patient. 

If the men with him were meant to act as bodyguards at all, they fall short in their task. At seeing the curved axe head bore into their master’s chest, they become very still. 

Yusuf, casually holding a knife to a throat, shoots Nicolo a look that Nicolo recognizes as “this is child’s play.”

Andromache speaks again. She has only made light reference to her days as a goddess, but Nicolo imagines that, had she been the type of goddess to make decrees, she might have used this voice. “Who supplies your opium?”

“My lady, if you desire opium, I could happily provide some to you,” Ratcliffe babbles. “Why, I own several fine establishments that-“

Andromache tightens her fist around the axe handle and stares him down. 

“Ahem. Well, if a fine lady such as yourself would be interested in acquiring straight from the source, for reasons I dare not inquire into, you would wish to speak with Mr. Longfellow.”

Andromache raises an eyebrow and waits. 

“Mr. Longfellow has connections in the Far East, you see. Any opium in all of Britain can be traced to him. Any less-than-legal activity might be, rather, if one were to look hard enough.” Ratcliffe starts talking faster and faster the longer he is allowed to carry on. “Incredible businessman, he is. It all ties together, see, he gets the opium, he can sell that, he can get girls on the opium, and sell them, then use the money for more ships to bring more opium!”

The crude economics of the black market have not changed much in the past seven centuries, although criminals involved with it often think that they have invented it. 

Andromache lifts her chin, signaling for him to cease talking. “Where do I find him.”

“Er, simplest way would be to catch him at the Golden Stallion gentleman’s club, though a fellow has to have money dripping out of his ears to be allowed in there.”

Andromache straightens, then flicks her left hand in a signal to Yusuf and Nicolo. They had concluded before setting out that Ratcliffe and his gang were not nefarious enough to be killed outright, but that they could not be allowed to continue terrorizing the neighborhood. 

As Nicolo understands it, Britain has a somewhat complex justice system that is meant to handle such matters, but it can be swayed by money and intimidation. Under these circumstances, justice can be meted out in a more practical manner: simply damage their bodies enough that they will never be able to hurt another person. 

It gets rather loud after that. Fair enough, Nicolo has never met a man who is quiet while several choice fingers are removed. 

Yusuf has opted to drive his opponent’s head through the pub window as an opening salvo—clever, good for putting a man off his guard—while Andromache has chosen to use her smaller knife to cut a few essential tendons. 

Unfortunately, the noise seems to have summoned a crowd of horrified bystanders, poured from the pub like so much spilled ale. 

One particularly rowdy patron shouts, “Oi! What’d that bloke do to you?” loudly and stridently enough that Yusuf falters for a moment, and the tough he was grappling with head butts him sharply. 

Nicolo is there in an instant, sweeping the man’s leg and dropping him to the ground, but then, someone else in the crowd calls out, “Here, constable! It’s getting out of hand over here!”

As luck would have it, they are in the patrol route of two of London’s finest officers. Damnably responsible ones as well—they rush straight over.

“Right! Right!” one of them hollers. “Let us all be gentlemen here!”

The second officer opts not to be a gentleman, and swings his baton into Yusuf’s leg so hard that Nicolo hears the familiar crunch of bone.

Nicolo, in his centuries of life, has seen an ocean of blood. He has fought in more wars, on more sides, than he is proud to admit. Yusuf has been by him through all of it: he has bled, he has been broken, he has been killed. Nicolo is no stranger to the expression of gritted pain on Yusuf’s face, and yet the centuries never sand down the edges of his rage when he sees it. 

Nicolo breaks the officer’s foul nose in an instant, and has a plan to wreck the constable’s leg as well, an eye for an eye, when Sebastien grabs him around the arm and pulls. 

“Come! Come!” he hisses urgently. “Hot-headed fool, are you going to fight all of London?”

Nicolo instinctively struggles against Sebastien’s grasp, but Andromache’s solemn voice brings him to heel. “We should go.”

Loath as he is to admit it, they are right. Had he more time, Nicolo would have choice words for this poor excuse of a lawman, rushing in so hastily, aiming for the most foreign-looking member of the brawl by reflex. But they do not. 

Andromache pulls one of Yusuf’s arms over her shoulder, and Nicolo surges forward to take his other side. 

They flee. The unbloodied constable attempts to give chase, but Sebastien, the rear guard once more, fires his pistol, and the resounding crack is enough to stop the constable in his tracks. 

Nicolo winces. Though he is behind the times, he still has not become used to the loudness of the strange invention. “Do you plan to fight London in my stead?” he gasps out as they round a corner. 

Sebastien huffs out a harsh, breathless laugh. In their short acquaintance, Nicolo has determined this is the only type of laugh he knows how to make. “I shot it over their heads. This thing is too unreliable to be more than a noisemaker.”

“You should-“Yusuf pauses to gasp in pain, “You should carry a great gong with you instead. It would also make a tremendous noise, but without the unpleasant smell.”

Nicolo wraps his arm around Yusuf’s waist more firmly, so as to spare him some of the pain of running on a broken leg. 

They have to take a longer route to their hideout to ensure that they are not followed, but finally, they come upon the abandoned townhouse. Andromache pushes aside the pile of refuse disguising the door, and they collapse inside. 

Nicolo guides Yusuf to the dusty chaise and sets him down. His face is pale, but gritted in a weary smile. Nicolo recognizes this expression as the one Yusuf makes when he is in great pain, but does not want to worry Nicolo. 

Sure enough, Yusuf’s trouser leg is darkened with the telltale slow seep of blood that indicates a bone has broken through the skin.  This is worse than Nicolo had expected. The run must have prevented the break from healing, instead shattering Yusuf’s leg further. 

Yusuf makes a grasping motion with his fingers, and Nicolo dutifully offers him his hand. While in pain—as in all other times—Yusuf finds touch calming. He kisses Nicolo’s knuckles absentmindedly. 

Andromache returns from the kitchens with a cool cloth, which she silently lays over Yusuf’s forehead, before settling into one of the great armchairs with a groan. 

Sebastien, in turn, returns from the study with a dusty bottle of cognac. He uncorks it, then says into the tired silence, “We cannot keep on like this.”

Three exhausted pairs of eyes turn to look at him. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t know how you have managed all this time. Every few weeks, we are brawling in the streets, or being run through with a sword only to stand up again. The list of people who have seen us miraculously heal, or ignore the law for our convenience, has grown longer than I can count, and I’ve only followed your ‘army’ for a few years.” He takes a swig of the amber drink. “I would still like to visit my wife and children, and I cannot do this from a prison cell, no matter how inconsequential that time may be to the rest of you.”

Though Sebastien is the newest and least comfortable member of their small team, he is right, Nicolo realizes. They are in an age of science now; they can no longer fearlessly charge into battle and assume that their witnesses will think them spirits, or monsters, or divinely blessed. This is the age of the spying glass and chemistry set, bored magistrates and bloodless, long, prison sentences. 

Besides that, he tires of watching Yusuf bleed. 

Nicolo nods. “I agree. I think we should be more subtle.”

Yusuf hums in agreement, eyes closed. 

Andromache shrugs, face firmly neutral. Sebastien would hardly have thought of this, but his mention of eternal imprisonment likely struck a chord within her. 

It’s decided, then. They will be refined soldiers, taking a more cautious approach for a more modern age. 

:: Two Months Later ::

Nicolo is already loosening his cravat by the time he and Sebastien re-enter the hideout. It strangles nearly as much as the atmosphere of that wretched gentleman’s club. 

Sebastien claps Nicolo on the back and announces, “Your attention please!”

Andromache and Yusuf look up from their game of chess. 

“After a great deal of hard work, our Nicolo has been invited to summer at James Longfellow’s estate in the country!” Sebastien makes a grand gesture, as though waiting for applause. 

Yusuf grins. “Nobody is immune to Nico’s charms.”

Andromache merely smiles in approval.

Circumspectly, Nicolo tilts his head to the side. “I think he was not immune to months of hinting that I am very rich and involved with something criminal in Naples.”

“Ah, he loves you,” Sebastien groans, lowering himself into a chair. “Note that the invitation was for Mr. Nicholas Smith and Family, not Mr. Nicholas Smith and Mr. Sebastien Le Livre.”

“But you are family; he thinks you are my brother-in-law,” Nicolo points out, wandering to the chess table. Andromache is winning. 

Sebastien shrugs. “He probably thinks I am a drunk. What did he say, Nicolo? ‘We shall have a great many business matters to discuss’?”

Nicolo shrugs, moving Yusuf’s knight for him. “This is true; it is promising. I do think that the invitation to the country may be so that he can easily dispose of me, if I react badly when he reveals he is not merely ‘in the shipping industry.’”

Andromache snorts. “It will also be easier for us to dispose of him.”

“We are being. Subtle!” Sebastien reminds her pointedly. “Besides, worming our way into his confidence will get us access to his trading routes, his contacts, a list of every brothel with involuntarily employed women...” he trails off. They have had this conversation a number of times. 

Shrugging, Andromache moves a piece. “I don’t like him. He sounds like a wheedling social climber on top of being a piece of slime.”

Nicolo agrees with Andromache’s assessment, all the more so because he has spent countless hours being subjected to the man’s company in the gentleman’s club. Discontent with merely running the largest crime ring in Britain, Longfellow also seems desperate to settle himself among the ranks of London’s finest—and richest—families. Not every drug lord keeps up a membership at a gentleman’s club for the purposes of rubbing elbows with the nouveau riche. 

Furthermore, he drinks nothing but brandy, which Nicolo hates the taste of, but has been forced to drink endlessly in the name of cozying up to the unpleasant old man. 

When he and Sebastien had first infiltrated the club, the plan had been for Sebastien to take the lead on flattering him. Sebastien was charming—when he wanted to be—actually had experience in the criminal underworld as a forger, and was less likely to accidentally make an odd reference one hundred years out of date. He could more or less be himself, and fit in well with Longfellow and his cronies. 

However, Longfellow was a talker, and Nicolo was a naturally good listener, so before long, Nicolo received the blunt knife’s edge of Longfellow’s attention, while Sebastien merely ran backup. 

Nicolo has taken on undercover roles before, but rarely for more than a night. Already, he has had to scramble for backstory that would make any type of sense. Sebastien is some help with modern details, but Nicolo has spouted off a number of odd stories that do not add up if one were to take a closer look. On the other hand, perhaps his slightly suspicious air had endeared him to Longfellow. One couldn’t out-and-out announce their involvement in the criminal underworld at a gentleman’s club, so Nicolo and Sebastien had agreed upon a strategy of oblique references and light implications that suggested, but never directly announced, Nicolo’s connection to an Italian smuggling ring. It seems to have paid off. 

If they are successful in cutting off the head of Longfellow’s empire, they will have helped so many lives. Nicolo can swallow the prickling annoyances of Longfellow’s company for that. 

Nicolo makes another move on Yusuf’s behalf, causing Andromache to scowl at the board. “This is against the rules; you can’t team up on me.”

“We all need practice on an uneven playing field, Captain. You taught us that,” Yusuf points out jovially, fingering his growing pile of captured pieces. 

::

Later that night, as Nicolo and Yusuf are preparing to sleep, Yusuf muses, “we will have to sleep in separate beds at the country house.”

The thought had occurred to Nicolo almost as soon as Longfellow put forward his invitation. He and Yusuf have not had cause to sleep separately for more than a night in many years, and he does not relish the cold prospect of it. 

He reaches for Yusuf’s wrist. Yusuf obliges, and Nicolo sets to freeing him of the clever little buttons at his cuffs. “Yet another reason to dread the trip.” If he casts a somewhat hangdog look in Yusuf’s direction, who is to know but them?

Yusuf leans in to press his forehead against Nicolo’s own. His eyes flicker in the dim evening candlelight as he presents his other wrist to Nicolo for unbuttoning. “Point your eyes elsewhere, fiend. I cannot comfort you—you have to comfort me.”

“Is that so?” Nicolo completes his work of the buttons, and slides a hand up Yusuf’s sleeve to tickle at the hollow of his elbow. 

Yusuf snorts, slapping at him gently. “It is so, and you are doing a poor job of it thus far.”

In apology, Nicolo reaches for Yusuf’s waistcoat. Yusuf is fully capable of unbuttoning it himself, but Nicolo is a weak man. 

“I swear, each year, the fashions grow more complicated,” Yusuf grumbles, tugging at the remains of Nicolo’s cravat. “Where will we be in a few centuries? Will I have to carry a key with me to reach your skin?”

“I am certain we would find a way through,” Nicolo replies, lifting his chin for Yusuf’s convenience. 

It’s a relief when Yusuf pulls the cravat free, not only because the offending cloth is no longer pressing against his throat, but because of its replacement: Yusuf’s warm hand, cupped around his neck. Nicolo lets his eyes fall closed, and leans into it. After several hours of holding a mask over his face with white knuckles, the comfort of five familiar fingers is a balm. 

Yusuf experimentally runs a thumb over the tight muscles at the back of Nicolo’s neck, and Nicolo accepts the suggestion, bowing his head to rest upon Yusuf’s shoulder. With more access, Yusuf’s fingers trace familiar paths across Nicolo’s neck, persuading the knots to give up their hold. 

Nicolo presses his nose into the crush of cotton fabric at Yusuf’s shoulder. As he understands it, gentlemen have servants to assist them in their dressing and undressing. What a poor life they must lead. 

He shifts so that his face may press more securely into the crook of Yusuf’s neck. Yusuf has shaved his beard to better fit in with the locals, and though Nicolo mourns the loss of it, the removal has opened new lands of skin for him to discover. He roams north, rubbing his cheek against Yusuf’s, amused by the smooth slide of their skin. 

Never one to miss an opportunity, Yusuf turns his face to catch Nicolo’s mouth with his. 

In the early days of their acquaintance, when they were only allies, verging into friends, they were caught in a rainstorm with only one oilcloth between them. Under the embrace of an obliging olive tree, Yusuf swept them both underneath the wing of the oilcloth. Tucked together in the small, dry refuge, Nicolo thought that he might be content to stay there always—enfolded into Yusuf’s body, so close that they breathed as one. 

Reality intervenes, of course. Nicolo has not quite managed to stay in Yusuf’s arms always, but he returns as often he is able. Tonight, there is no oilcloth, but the warmth between them serves just as well. 

In time, they do manage to get completely undressed. 

:: Two Weeks Later ::

Nicolo shifts in his seat yet again. In his many centuries, he has done nothing but travel, and yet, the enforced tedium of a journey by carriage wears upon him like no other. Yusuf, he knows, feels the same. They shoot each other sympathetic glances. 

Neither of them can beat Andromache for discomfort. While she often opts for men’s clothing for convenience and disguise, she has been known to wear many a gown or dress with grace. However, the fashion of the moment—gauzy dresses with puffed sleeves and a sash just below the breast—has the same effect on her as a pink ribbon on a guard dog. She plucks at the long skirt distastefully. She listed its many deficiencies earlier in the day, but Nicolo suspects that they will hear similar complaints anew when they step out of the carriage and she will be forced to don her bonnet. 

Sebastien, lucky bastard that he is, has fallen asleep against the carriage window. 

Happily, their journey is nearly at an end. As the carriage slows, Nicolo plucks at Yusuf’s sleeve to pull his attention to the window. 

When Nicolo was a boy, the lord of Genoa would have dreamed of owning such a manor. Times have changed, and now the owner of this manor dreams of becoming a lord. The manor is stately, in the way English manors are, and large, and surrounded by rolling country hills. It is entirely indistinguishable from the others that they passed along the way, save for its inhabitants. 

The inhabitants in question emerge from the house before long: five people dressed in plain clothing whom Nicolo determines must be servants, then Longfellow, a woman of a similar age, and three girls, dressed to match the early summer flowers. 

The four of them in the carriage eye each other. This is their last moment as themselves before many weeks of undercover work. Andromache is steely, Sebastien determined. Yusuf knocks a knee against Nicolo’s and raises a jaunty eyebrow. They disembark. 

Longfellow, portly and ruddy-cheeked, raises his arms in greeting. “Mr. Smith! What a joy to welcome you and your family.”

Nicolo nods. “The pleasure is all ours.” 

“We hope you will have an enjoyable stay at our humble country home,” Longfellow says, gesturing at the marble staircase leading to the grand double front doors. “Now, I mustn’t tarry, let me make introductions. This is my dear wife, Mrs. Henrietta Longfellow,” he gestures at the petite woman next to him, who nods demurely. “And my daughters: Ms. Catherine Longfellow, the eldest, Ms. Jane Longfellow, our second child, and Ms. Mary Longfellow, our youngest.” Each of the daughters curtseys perfectly in turn. “My dears, this is Mr. Nicholas Smith.”

“And of course,” Longfellow adopts a decidedly more bored tone, “our staff. Mr. Hampton, the butler, Mrs. Wadsworth, our cook, Mr. Smythe, the valet, and Ms. Porter and Ms. Langley, the maids.” 

The staff bows in turn, and Nicolo’s head spins; he can hardly remember any of their names. Judging by Longfellow’s casual manner, he isn’t meant to. 

Sebastien looks at Nicolo meaningfully, and Nicolo is reminded that in these lands, he is meant to introduce his companions on their own behalf as well, or else be considered impolite.

“A pleasure to meet you all.” He bows his head at an angle that he and Sebastien had previously determined would be appropriate—not overly casual, but not overly obsequious. “May I present my sister, Mrs. Andrea Le Livre, and her husband, Mr. Sebastien Le Livre.” 

Sebastien bows, and Andromache curtseys. Though Nicolo knows her well enough to know how the motion annoys her, she is the picture of elegance. Two months ago, when they had decided that Sebastien would act as Nicolo’s brother-in-law for the purposes of infiltrating the club, they had hoped that they would not need Andromache to flesh out the role. In their travels, it has occasionally been necessary for her to feign a marriage to one of them for the purpose of not causing a stir. She doesn’t dislike putting on a charade, exactly, but playing her husband has always given Nicolo a feeling as though he is dancing with his shoes on the wrong feet. This will be Sebastien’s first turn as Andromache’s consort, and Nicolo wonders how he will experience the whirlwind. 

“Finally, Mr. Joseph Jones, our dear friend from back home in the Mediterranean.”

Yusuf bows smoothly, and Nicolo thinks he catches one of the maids blush and whisper something to the other. 

“We are delighted to welcome you into our home,” says Mrs. Longfellow, eyes twinkling warmly. 

They are indeed welcomed into the home. The servants ferry their bags inside, while their hosts usher them into a drawing room for afternoon tea. In the way that the people of this country and time do, the women cluster at one end of the room, and the men at the other. 

“I trust the journey treated you well?” asks Longfellow, leaning back to allow space for the valet to place a napkin in his lap. 

“Yes, it was smooth. Sebastien managed to sleep for most of the journey.” The valet waits at Nicolo’s side to place the napkin, and Nicolo uncomfortably allows it. It’s very intimate. 

Longfellow roars with laughter outsized for the situation, as he is wont to do. “Lucky man! My wife dislikes when I fall asleep on journeys—she desires someone to talk to.”

Sebastien shrugs. “An-Andrea is a rare woman.” He stumbles over Andromache’s assumed name, but only just. “Very independent.”

Longfellow chuckles knowingly. “Best watch out for that! Many a man has been shipwrecked against the cold rocks of an independent woman.”

Smiling blandly, Sebastien agrees. “Indeed.”

Unbothered by the cool response, Longfellow charges on. “And Mr. Jones! Tell me, how did you come to know my fine friends here?”

“Mr. Smith and I discovered that we have similar talents during our course of work, and a friendship grew between us. Then I became acquainted with his sister and her husband, and we decided to travel together to England.” It’s almost the truth, which is the cleverness of it. Yusuf should have been the one to take the lead on infiltrating the gentleman’s club, if only they had allowed his entry. 

Mr. Longfellow’s eyes glimmer with a knowing light. “I see! Then you are also in the...” he pauses meaningfully, “fine art business.”

Yusuf returns the meaningful look. “I am. We came to England hoping to find fruitful business partners.”

Longfellow chooses not to follow that topic of conversation, instead pressing, “and you hail from...Greece?”

In their travels, at least one of their party, sometimes more, sometimes all of them, doesn’t blend in with the locals. In some cities, it matters less than others, but, as they determined quickly upon reaching British shores, here, it matters quite a lot. Longfellow has likely chosen Greece because it is the most European place he can think of that might explain Yusuf’s looks, and his imagination cannot extend so far as to suppose that the urbane, charming man delicately spooning sugar into his tea could not be from Europe. Imagine his shock were he to find out that Yusuf is not a Christian, either. 

Yusuf smiles his white teeth at Longfellow, who does not deserve it. “I am, excellent guess.”

Longfellow nods to himself, satisfied. “England is delighted to have you on her shores, I’m sure.”

“I am delighted to be here,” Yusuf responds smoothly.

“Besides,” Longfellow says with a mouthful of crumpet, “I will appreciate having more men around the house. My darling wife and daughters are accomplished, charming ladies, but I shall like having a hunting party.”

They nod politely in agreement. 

Nicolo, determined to steer the ship of their conversation towards less obnoxious shores, asks, “how old are your daughters, Mr. Longfellow?”

The more people they meet and the more places they visit, the worse Nicolo is at guessing ages. The ratios of life experience, looks, and age vary more widely than an untraveled person might suppose. Nicolo has met fifteen year olds he might have guessed were twenty-five, and twenty-five years olds he might have guessed were fifteen. Eventually, he stopped making assumptions. He has stopped making assumptions about most things, by this point. 

Longfellow perks up at the question. Nicolo allows the man this: he is genuinely excited to boast about his daughters. “Mary—in the blue dress there—is twelve, and very proud of it. Jane—in the green—is thirteen, and quite nearly her sister’s twin. And Catherine, our eldest at eighteen, will be making her debut in society in the coming season! We have high hopes for her: she is beautiful, a talented artist and piano player, and a witty conversationalist.”

For whatever reason, he directs these last few sentences directly at Nicolo, who is trying to parse what ‘debut in society’ might mean. 

Sebastien comes to his rescue, catching his eye and saying, “It sounds as though she shall have no trouble finding a suitable husband.”

There, Nicolo understands the concept of a marriage market. 

“We are very confident of it,” Longfellow replies proudly. “Who knows? With fortune on our side, we may even find a match for her before she must travel to London for the season.”

He winks at Nicolo, who feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. 

Some four hundred years ago, he and Yusuf were traveling on foot through the forests of Northern Europe. On their third day of traveling, they had been congratulating themselves on their quick progress, when they entered a village and learned that they had been walking in the wrong direction the entire time. 

The rush of realization, then horror, in this moment is very familiar. 

Sebastien and Yusuf, catching Longfellow’s meaning, smirk into their teacups behind Longfellow’s back—traitors. 

Nicolo looks at the elegant cluster of women alighted upon the settees. They have naturally gathered in a circle around Andromache, to marvel at her. Nicolo can only see the back of young Catherine’s head. Does she know her father’s designs? The dark brown hair of her bun is unremarkable, and holds no answers. 

Nicolo settles for a bland reply of, “who knows what the future might bring?” before changing the subject. 

Longfellow does not veer into discussing bride prices, so Nicolo determines that his comment was either not very serious, or the British consider it to be crude to be so direct about the topic. He hopes it is the first; dodging a betrothal would be only one more complication that this job does not require. 

His optimism does not last. By the second course of dinner, it becomes clear that Longfellow was indeed serious, and although he has not outright said: “I wish for you to marry my daughter,” he is not being particularly subtle about it either. 

They are led to assigned seats for dinner, where Nicolo finds himself placed between young Catherine and her parents, while the rest of his party are banished to the far end of the gleaming table. 

“My apologies,” he says, making to rise. “I would not wish to separate your family from one another.”

“Not at all, Mr. Smith,” coos Mrs. Longfellow. “You are just where you are meant to be. Catherine, won’t you tell Mr. Smith of your journey to South Hampsteadshire this past fortnite?”

Catherine herself is perfectly pleasant company, albeit achingly young. She is enthusiastic, but stumbles over herself in uncertainty from time to time. She also is most definitely aware of her father’s plans, he determines, as she laughs loudly at another of his words—not meant to be a joke. 

In a way, Nicolo has respect for it. When he was young, he took up a sword to prove his mettle and make something of himself. Catherine’s only option for advancement is marriage, and she is pursuing that goal with as much vigor as Nicolo had when he marched to Jerusalem. Catherine’s path has the added benefit of not resulting in the murder of innocents, he reminds himself, shamefully. 

Still, he finds himself gazing longingly to the other end of the table. Andromache and Sebastien are in lively conversation, whilst Yusuf is gently asking the painfully shy Mary about the novel she is reading. 

Andromache notices him, smirks, and gestures with her knife pointedly. Back to work, soldier. 

Nicolo, farther out of his depth even than the time he drowned in the Black Sea, settles for being as blandly polite as possible. The trouble is, if he truly wanted to dissuade the Longfellows, he would have to admit that he was not as rich nor well connected as he had first implied, which not only would show him to be a liar, but also remove any interest Mr. Longfellow might have in revealing the finer details of his business to him. Better to be a smiling mirror, reflecting back any comments directed at him.

Most frustrating of all, when they are finally freed from the treacle-slow business of dinner, he cannot catch any of his friends alone. The house, which had seemed so large at first, seems to have a servant or a host around each corner. 

Desperate, Nicolo waits for the household to retreat for their separate bedrooms, then makes a beeline for Yusuf’s. 

The butler materializes from the shadows, like a very courteous bat. “Will you and Mr. Jones be enjoying a nightcap tonight, sir?”

“Oh, I only wanted to catch Mr. Jones for a moment of conversation,” Nicolo explains hastily. 

The butler’s grim eyebrows pull down ominously, like circling dark birds. “In his bedroom, sir? I can make the sitting room available.”

“That should not be necessary-“

“Mr. Longfellow would be deeply disappointed if he could not offer his full hospitality to his guests,” the butler cuts in smoothly. “Let me direct you to the upstairs sitting room; it is just around the corner here.”

Nicolo resists the urge to gaze longingly at Yusuf’s door as he is escorted away. 

The sitting room is small, designed for an intimate pipe-smoking session about the fire, or a novel enjoyed in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Left to his own devices for a moment as the butler leaves to collect Yusuf, Nicolo examines the shelves: popular novels and great encyclopedias. No suspicious maps, or financial accounts marked “opium” across the top to conveniently shorten their stay. 

“Mr. Jones,” the butler announces unnecessarily from the door. 

Nicolo’s shoulders relax at the sight of him, as they often do. Illuminated by the golden touch of the oil lamps, Yusuf is water in the desert. 

Mindful of the butler’s watching eyes, Yusuf settles himself into the armchair across from his. Two heartbeats pass, and Nicolo realizes he has no idea what to say to Yusuf while they are under observation. 

Yusuf, clever man, turns to the butler. “Mr. Hampton, on second thought, I would like that nightcap. Would Mr. Longfellow mind terribly if we partook in two glasses of his fine brandy?”

The butler—Mr. Hampton—bows, then exits the room. 

Nicolo waits for a few seconds to confirm that he is truly gone, then seizes Yusuf’s face with both hands and brings their mouths together. 

Had they more time, Yusuf might have teased him for his desperation, but Yusuf is a practical man, choosing instead to press into him and make their fleeting seconds count.

As a man who has starved to death more than once, Nicolo knows this: after a long stretch of hunger finally breaks, it is easy to think, I will never complain about a late meal again, now that I have truly known hunger, and yet, a few short years later, well-fed and full-cheeked, one inevitably finds themselves tapping their foot with impatience at a pot of water slow to boil, thinking, I have never been so hungry in my life.

Yusuf and Quynh had once left to travel the Silk Road for years, and now Nicolo is trembling after being parted from Yusuf for an afternoon. Really, he should be grateful that he has been so spoiled.

At the sound of steps, the lock of Yusuf’s arms around Nicolo’s back loosens, and he steps away, though not without a glancing touch against Nicolo’s cheek and a look that Nicolo knows well from across a pillow. 

Mr. Hampton delivers them their drinks, then, to Nicolo’s horror, situates himself near the door, clasps his hands behind his back, and waits. 

“Ah, Mr. Hampton, thank you for these drinks, we need no further assistance,” Nicolo tells the man. 

Mr. Hampton bows decorously. “Mr. Longfellow was very clear that I should make myself quite available to his guests.”

Nicolo cannot decide whether this is a deliberate strategy to encourage his servants to spy, or Mr. Longfellow has such a zealous desire to act as he imagines a gentleman host would, that he has overstepped. 

“All the better then,” Yusuf pipes in, “for I have just realized my need for another of Mrs. Wadsworth’s biscuits. I don’t suppose there are a few remaining in the kitchen?”

Mr. Hampton bows once more. “That there are, sir.”

He exits, and Yusuf clasps Nicolo’s hands in his. “Quick, what have you to tell me before our friend returns and offers to wipe our asses for us?” he asks, in Italian. 

Nicolo heaves a sigh, leaning against the arm of the rock hard armchair. “You might have noticed that Mr. Longfellow is playing matchmaker.”

Yusuf’s eyes twinkle with mirth. “And, will you be leaving me for the young Ms. Catherine?”

Nicolo huffs a laugh. “Yusuf, what am I to do? I cannot reject her outright—that would endanger our plans—but I cannot marry her either!”

“There is a wide range between rejection and marriage,” Yusuf points out, as casually as though he were discussing the weather. “You only need to imply an interest for long enough that Longfellow trusts you enough to spill his secrets.”

Nicolo shakes his head. “I do not know how to imply an interest, the last time I wooed anyone was seven hundred years ago, and that only worked because the man in question had endless patience.”

Yusuf squeezes his hand. “Was he also very handsome? Tell me more of this man.”

Were they allowed the decadent pleasure of an evening alone, Nicolo would humor Yusuf this turn in the conversation, but instead he presses, “Truly, how do I walk this tightrope? At dinner, all I knew how to do was be as mild as possible. A slice of dry toast can only be appealing for so long.”

Yusuf shakes his head. “Whatever you may have thought, you were not dry toast. In my eyes, you came across as stoic and mysterious, in an appealing sort of way.”

“Yusuf, perhaps you are not the most impartial of judges.”

Yusuf’s response is cut off by the door re-opening. 

Mr. Hampton, in a noticeably better mood, pipes up in clumsy Italian: “Cookies are here! My grandmother, she was of Italy, it is good to hear the Italy language again.”

Nicolo and Yusuf make eye contact. Not only had Mr. Hampton just admitted to listening at the door, any hope of secret communication in Italian while they were in Longfellow’s house was lost. True, they could switch to Arabic, or one of their languages long lost to history, but that would raise more questions than it would evade. Private moments were going to be few and far between. 

“Thank you, Mr. Hampton,” Yusuf responds graciously. “Now, Nicholas, what were you just saying about the weather? I think it has been quite fine.”

::

Breakfast the following morning is more of the same routine, but after his conversation with Yusuf, however brief, Nicolo feels more at ease. He has never begrudged sacrificing his personal comfort in the name of the greater good. Besides that, it feels like the height of indulgence to pity himself over having to partake in some awkward conversation—he has held the dying in his arms more times than he can count; who is he to complain when he is whole, fed, and sheltered?

Andromache and Sebastien must have conspired in their room the previous night, because they too are committed to the cause. Andromache has taken to telling flattering stories about her “dear brother” with only the vaguest relation to the truth. Yes, he had once rescued a kitten from a tree, but only because its mewling was going to give away their position. And who would not have fed and watered it after? Its mother was long gone, and Nicolo is not made of stone. Besides that, Yusuf had been just as instrumental in little Daffodil’s rescue, but he is cut from the tale for the sake of convenience. 

Yusuf plays his own role in their dance, occasionally swooping in to swap places with Nicolo when Longfellow’s company begins to wear more than usual. Yusuf has an uncanny way of making people feel as though the are the most interesting person in the room, which works especially well with Longfellow, who already believes that he is, and is quite pleased to have his confirmed. 

The downside of Yusuf’s rescue is that it often leaves Nicolo to the velvet-gloved mercy of Mrs. Longfellow and Ms. Catherine. 

Mrs. Longfellow, as far as Nicolo can tell, truly seems to be under the impression that her husband is a legitimate businessman who works in the astonishingly lucrative grain shipping industry. Their good fortune has only flourished in the past fifteen years or so, so Mrs. Longfellow still has the somewhat frank manner of a middle class wife. Nicolo likes her very much, if he ignores the circumstances. 

“Now I have read about Italy in the papers, but tell me, what is it truly like? Is the weather as lovely as they say?” Mrs. Longfellow leans in with interest, and her daughter echoes the motion. 

“As pleasant as one can imagine,” Nicolo answers. At this moment, it is struggling to rebuild after the wreckage of Napoleon’s wars, but he and Sebastien had decided months ago that they would pretend to have been conveniently far away during the course of the war. Longfellow doesn't seem to have many political opinions, but the fact remains that Britain had been on one side, while the French and Italians had been on the other. Besides that, Nicolo was to understand that this sort of topic was not considered civilized for conversation with ladies. 

“One has not truly lived until they have tasted the wine from Toscana,” Sebastien interjects. “As a Frenchman, I resent this, but it is true.”

“Really?” Mrs. Longfellow pauses in her embroidery. “I thought Bordeaux was meant to put every other vintner to shame.”

Sebastien raises an eyebrow in genuine surprise. “Have you been to France, Mrs. Longfellow?”

Mrs. Longfellow waves him off. “Oh heavens no, I’ve never left England! But other countries fascinate me, it’s true. I’ve done some reading.” 

Catherine looks up from her sewing. “We are reading through The Personal Narrative of Travels to the Equinoctial Regions of the New Continent, the new book from Alexander von Humboldt. It was originally written in French, you know! We are reading it in English of course—my French is hardly anything but elementary.”

Sebastien warms to that, asking, “Ah, parlez-vous français?”

Catherine blushes. “Je- je parle Francais un peu.”

He nods along. “Tu as un bon accent.”

Sebastien rarely speaks of his sons—a difficult subject at the best of times—but Nicolo is reminded in this moment that they would be not so far from Catherine’s age. Though Sebastien likes to present himself as a deadbeat layabout, Nicolo thinks this may not have been the case, if Sebastien’s gentle encouragement is anything to go by. 

“Catherine is very accomplished,” her mother confides to Nicolo, as though she is telling a secret. “A bright young woman in all respects.”

Catherine, the picture of feminine modesty, waves her hand. “Mother, you flatter me. For one thing, we have hardly made it through the first half of Mr. von Humboldt’s work! I am certain that someone such as Mr. Smith could read through it in half the time that we have.”

A bright young woman indeed; she has managed to bring the conversation around to Nicolo once again. But he is going to take Yusuf’s advice, and allow it to happen. 

“I’m sure this is not true,” he responds with a small smile. “The title sounds terribly dry.”

Catherine and her mother share a knowing laugh. 

“True, Mr. von Humboldt might have benefited from a less patient editor,” Mrs. Longfellow allows. 

“I do not mind it terribly,” Catherine adds, “for the descriptions of the flora and fauna are fascinating enough to carry the reader through. Do you know, they have a great python there, that stretches as long as fifteen feet?”

Nicolo did not know this, actually. They have toyed with the idea of visiting the New World, but the specter of drowning over and over again, were the ship to sink, still hangs over them all. 

So it is, that he leans forward in genuine curiosity. “Tell me more of this.”

::

The days begin to blur together. Nicolo will say this for Sebastien’s suggestion of the subtle approach: he has not gone so long without a fight in some time. The Longfellows pass the time with the pursuits of any well-to-do family: reading, dining, hunting, gossiping, and brisk walks in the countryside. They try to pry further into Mr. Longfellow’s affairs, but when discussing business, he tends to fall into platitudes that could apply to anything:

“It all comes to hard work, my boy. Hard work and determination.”

“Knowing the right people is essential.”

“One must be prepared to make difficult decisions. If an employee has failed you, he must be removed.”

In addition, Nicolo can still hardly manage to catch any of his companions alone. Mr. Longfellow and Mr. Hampton seem to make a habit of roaming the halls at night, and any suggestion of an outing outside the house results in at least two Longfellows joining them for company. Nicolo begins to envy Sebastien and Andromache for having their own private room, even if Sebastien is sleeping on the floor. 

Nicolo’s sleep has not been sound as of late, either. He has slept without Yusuf before, of course, when circumstances or necessity required it, but the frustrating fact that he lies unreachable just down the hall worries at him like a splinter, winding into his sleep and strangling his dreams. 

Nicolo is settling against his pillow for a few hours of unsatisfying rest when he feels the crumple of paper underneath his cheek. He reaches into the pillowcase and finds a letter, sealed with Yusuf’s telltale blue wax. Clever man, he must have secreted it away whilst the rest of the household was occupied at a meal during the day. 

While no substitute for Yusuf’s physical presence, Nicolo’s spirits fly, and he almost topples over the candle at his bedside table in his haste to relight it. 

Yusuf has written his message in Arabic, so that even if a member of the household opted to throw all propriety out of the window and break the wax seal, they would still not be able to read the contents. 

Dear Nico,

I hope I will find a way to secret this letter to you. I have designs to slip it under your pillow, but we shall see what Luck allows. 

So much to say, but time and paper are limited. 

First: Longfellow dropped a clue today, told me Customs Officer Downey could be “very helpful in moving my business along expediently.” So there is one official we know to be in his pocket, and that would have been difficult to learn, had we used our usual methods. Do not tell S, he will implode with smugness.

Second: Sebastien has been sleeping on the floor all this time, which is of great amusement to me. 

Third: You must know how poorly it sits with me to see you within arm’s reach, and yet not be able to touch you. The absence of you disturbs my sleep and turns my hands to restless things. I miss whispering secrets into your ear, provoking your hidden smile. Your wrist bone snuck loose from your sleeve when we were in the parlor this morning, and I found myself staring, remembering the curve of it under my thumb—I am a man in a desert, and I long for when we shall find an oasis in each other again. 

Longingly,
Your Yusuf

Nicolo re-reads the letter several more times over, committing it to memory before he holds it by the tips of his sweaty fingers and burns it to ash over the candle. He will find a way to send his own response. 

Yusuf,

You must know what a pleasure it was to find your letter, and what a frustration it was to not speak of it with you today. I found myself wishing we had a secret signal, so I might signify to you that I had read it, and that I loved it, and you, in turn. Instead, I had to content myself with ensuring that you received the platter of scones first this morning. I hope that you understood this symbol of affection. 

Good to know about Customs Officer Downey—we are nearing a fortnight in Longfellow’s home, and yet Longfellow has hardly mentioned any specifics of his trade to me. I’ve begun to wonder what his purpose was in inviting us here, if not to seek a partnership. I am waiting to discover that we have been entirely incorrect in our assumptions, and he truly is a grain baron looking for company over the summer. 

I was thinking of our time in Constantinople today. Walking through the country lanes, I was reminded of that olive grove we would visit. I wonder if it still stands—olive trees can live centuries. I could not conjure up a specific memory, only the feeling that it was always summer there, and how the sun would stream through the trees at sunset. Andromache would laugh at me for this, but I thought then that the Old Romans were imagining something like you in that grove when they carved their gods: someone golden, laughing, powerful. We should visit again, but only after we have gone to the New World and met one of these “anakondas.”

Yours,
Nicolo

A scrap of paper, pressed into his pocket as Yusuf sidles past him in the hallway:

Nico—have you considered that his purpose in bringing you here is only for his daughter? He may not be as sophisticated as we think. 

Your waistcoat today is quite becoming.
-Y

Nicolo can read this one quickly enough to give Yusuf a skeptical look after reading it. He had been assuming that Catherine’s potential marriage was a secondary concern to Mr. Longfellow. Surely, the man had higher priorities?

Yusuf, you villain. 

Never have I known such a cruel and unjust man as the likes of you. Were you raised by dogs and taught no human decency? I can imagine no other reason why you would choose to torment me so. 

I heard your protestations, but I refuse to believe that you fell into the pond by accident. There were ample places to stand upon solid ground, and you are a nimble man. No, you chose to leap in so that you might emerge, dripping wet, your loose white shirt near-transparent, and be forced to strip your outer garments within my view. I hope you choke upon your dinner, and your clothes never lose the scent of pond algae, you temptation. 

Yours in frustration,
Nico

Nicolo is several hours into slumber when the sound of his bedchamber door creaking open wakes him. Reflexively, he throws the knife from his nightstand, but Yusuf, knowing his rhythms, dodges it. 

“I thought I would receive a warmer welcome,” Yusuf whispers, padding lightly to the bed. 

If he meant to say anything else, it is prevented by Nicolo grasping the neck of Yusuf’s nightshirt and pulling him down for the requested warmer welcome.

In another life, Yusuf must have been a climbing vine, such is his love for winding his arms and legs around Nicolo’s body. By this logic, Nicolo must have once been a trellis, for he will happily be climbed upon. What foolish bedspread thought it could be a better blanket than Yusuf? What pillow finer than Yusuf’s muscled arm under Nicolo’s head?

In his fantasies, he had pictured ripping Yusuf’s clothes away in an outpouring of rabid passion, but tonight, he is only just roused from sleep, and soft clay under Yusuf’s hands. The room is as black as a cave, but Nicolo knows Yusuf’s shape as well as he knows anything—nothing in the past centuries has stayed as constant as his Yusuf. 

They kiss, but without urgency. With the gauntlet of the public hallway maneuvered, they have until sunrise. 

Yusuf runs a finger along the ridge of Nicolo’s nose. “I missed this beak,” he mumbles sleepily. 

“Must have, if you were willing to risk Mr. Hampton’s hospitality for it.” Nicolo bumps his beak against Yusuf’s own. 

From the sound of his voice, Nicolo knows that Yusuf is smiling. “I persevered. I hope you are awed by my ability to stay awake this late.”

“All these hours? I thought you must have awoken from a dream and decided to take advantage.” Nicolo slides a hand underneath the curtain of Yusuf’s nightshirt. 

Yusuf shifts to allow him better access. “No, after tormenting you so yesterday, I strategized to find you in private again, no matter the inconvenience.”

“Oh mercy, do not hold me to the whims of Yusuf Al-Kasyani’s strategies,” Nicolo teases softly. “I will be dead of a spider bite within the hour.”

Yusuf smacks his chest lightly, then keeps his hand there to explore under Nicolo’s neckline. “One spider bite in seven hundred years; I would call that good strategy.”

“Oh, if you had told me that at the time, I would have slashed your throat and taken you down with me.”

Smug bastard that he is, Yusuf laughs. “You would not have.”

“No,” Nicolo admits, “but I would have thought about it in great detail.”

Yusuf is a talented poet, whose ways with words often leave Nicolo speechless in response. Tonight, however, he leads with: “Do you know what I have thought about in great detail?” And uses his hands to demonstrate. It does still leave Nicolo speechless. 

Just as he is about to divest Yusuf of his clothing completely, he hears a quiet knock at the door. 

Soft as a breath, he asks, “did you-“

“No, did you?”

“No.”

He walks to the door, pulling his dressing gown over his nightshirt. In the dark, he can hear Yusuf shuffling to hide himself under the bedclothes. 

An attacker would not have chosen so quiet a knock, so Nicolo’s guess is that it is Andromache or Sebastien, who, through some coincidence, have also chosen the dark hour of the night for a secret meeting. Yusuf probably does not need to hide at all, though they will have to bear Andromache’s teasing.

He opens the door, and is quite surprised to see the small figure of Ms. Catherine, dressed like he in her nightgown and dressing gown. She holds a candle and a harried expression. 

“Ms. Catherine,” Nicolo says in surprise, glancing over his shoulder. Yusuf’s form is indistinguishable within the shadows of the bed. “You- uh- you should not be here so late, what-“

Catherine makes a noise of exasperation and pushes past him into the room. “Shut the door, will you? Unless you want all the house to hear.”

Nicolo would prefer to shut the door with Catherine on the other side of it. He can imagine only a few reasons that might have brought her to his room under the cover of darkness, and he is not interested in any of them. 

But he is even less interested in being caught under compromising circumstances with Mr. Longfellow’s daughter, so he closes the door, to muffle the sound of their voices. 

“I must point out that this is terribly inappropriate,” he says to her, flustered. 

“Oh hush, you are a criminal, aren’t you? You cannot be terribly bothered with impropriety.”

Whatever Nicolo’s response was going to be, this stops him short. He had underestimated her. He should not have: he knows from his conversations with her that she is bright. Why shouldn’t she have drawn her own conclusions?

“A criminal might care about propriety, under some circumstances,” he points out, with careful neutrality. She is standing closer to him than entirely necessary; he hopes so that she can speak quietly, and for no other reason. 

Her eyes flicker away for a moment, before she squares up her shoulders, calling up confidence. Teenagers. “I have only come here to speak with you in private.” She toys with the end of her braid, then stills her hands. “As you know, my father is in search of an heir for his opium trading empire.”

Nicolo nods, as though he did know. 

“By marrying me, you would secure yourself within the family, and therefore your position as heir,” she carries on, rattling off the information as though it is an old nursery rhyme he knows many times over. “With the power of our families joined, we will have a hold over a good portion of the Mediterranean, and prosper forevermore.” She waves a hand dismissively. “I intend to accept, but only if you and I agree on a few advance conditions.”

Meeting a marriage prospect in secret to discuss stipulations directly is also very improper, but Nicolo finds himself quite proud of her. 

“What might those be?”

She relaxes, and he realizes that she had not been confident in his response. Of course not—he is a quiet foreigner involved in a shadowy business who she has hardly known two weeks. This endeavor has taken some daring. 

“First, the securing of my mother and sister’s fortune in the event of your early death.”

Nicolo raises his eyebrows. “I suggest that you keep your plans to murder me more subtle than that.”

She looks at him in surprise, huffing a laugh. “With you as master of the household, they would be guaranteed nothing, were you to die. They would be at the mercies of Mr. Le Livre.” She sets her jaw. “However friendly he might be, I am not interested in gambling with mercies.”

Nicolo nods. If he had any intention of carrying this farce through to the end, he would consider this condition fair. “I agree with that.”

“Oh! Good.” She gathers herself. “Second, in our household, we will never host guests involved with the business. They are lewd and unpleasant.” Her mouth twists down at the edges. A distaste born from experience, then. 

Nicolo nods again. “This sounds unpleasant to me as well. I agree with the second condition.”

She nods decisively. “Alright, then. Third, I request that should you take a mistress, you notify me, so that I may not catch syphilis and die.”

Nicolo coughs. Is she in a competition with herself to make each new request more frankly than the last? “This is reasonable, as well. What else?”

Catherine blinks at him. “That is all?”

“Only those three?” Nicolo has never personally negotiated a marriage, unless one counted the promises he and Yusuf have made to each other, alone under the stars. It seems as though there should be more. 

She narrows her eyes at him skeptically. “If you are only agreeing with me for the sake of it, I must warn you that I hold information about my father’s business that I will never share with you. Should you break any of the conditions, I will turn that information against you.”

In that moment, Nicolo is completely confident that Catherine is bluffing. She could hardly know anything that Longfellow would not tell him, and, as her husband, he would own her as property. How long could she hold out against him? 

He feels a rush of compassion for this girl: fierce and foolhardy, walking into the den of a viper with hardly a chip to gamble, to ask only for safety and comfort for herself and her family. In another era, she could have been a feared member of Andromache’s cadre of warrior women. He remembers, too, that when they drop their facades and disappear, she will be forced to make this white-knuckled negotiation with another of Longfellow’s seedy business associates, who may not be so kind. 

He looks at her with complete seriousness. “Of course, my lady. You are clever—I do not doubt that you have assurances in place.”

Her hands fidget against her candleholder. They look as though they may be sweaty with nerves. 

To Nicolo’s horror, she sits heavily on the bed. Behind her, in the dim light, he thinks he sees Yusuf’s legs gingerly shifting farther away. 

“Well, that is the difficult work done, then,” she says. Her voice is tight with displaced nervous energy. “I think we will make a good match.”

Awkwardly, Nicolo stands nearby and tries not to loom. “Yes, I hope for a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

He must sound terribly stiff, for she looks at him in amusement. “Here now, we are very nearly betrothed. I do not think you need be so formal.”

Nicolo seizes on the topic. “On that matter, what method would be best for asking your father for your hand?” 

He had hoped to make his way out of this summer without embarking on a false engagement, but judging by Catherine’s remarks, the keys to the kingdom would only be handed to him after he made more formal arrangements to join the family. 

She shrugs. “Father has some sentimentality in him; he might like to think that you hold some affection for me before you make your proposal. We should be able to convince him of this by the end of the month, I think.”

What an unromantic prospect. Nicolo knows this is true of most marriage arrangements, but it is unpleasant to see it laid before him firsthand. “You know,” he offers, “I do hold some affection for you. You are clever, and well-read, and have the wits to use the resources about you.”

Catherine’s eyes shine, and Nicolo realizes immediately that he has gone too far in his words of encouragement. 

“After our conversation, I do not think it is too bold to say I find you quite pleasing to look upon,” she blurts breathlessly. 

“Ah. Good.” Perhaps he is imagining it, but he swears he can see Yusuf shaking in silent laughter. She looks at him with such expectation that he finds himself saying, “And I...you.”

Catherine surges to her feet and swoops towards him, but his fighter’s instinct prompts him to dodge her incoming mouth. 

“I agree, it is time to return to our separate rooms,” he says hastily, moving towards the door. “Thank you for your visit, it was most illuminating.”

Catherine looks disappointed for a moment, but covers it quickly, with a lady’s grace. “Until we meet again.”

Nicolo closes the door behind her, and leans his ear against it, listening for her retreat. 

He hears Yusuf emerge from the cocoon of sheets. “Nicolo, you minx!”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Nicolo limps back to the bed. He feels twice as tired as he did before the knock on the door. 

“I am as surprised as you.” He lets himself collapse into Yusuf’s chest. “I admire her mettle,” he allows. 

Yusuf hums thoughtfully. “She admires you very much as well.”

Nicolo groans. “I am her best option in a fallow field.”

“And she is ours,” Yusuf points out, trailing his fingers between Nicolo’s shoulder blades as he thinks. “She has told us more in ten minutes than we have been able to puzzle out in two weeks.”

Nicolo nods into Yusuf’s chest. “I still feel like a lecherous old man.”

Yusuf chuckles softly. “Quite the respectful one, from what I overheard. Very traditional and proper of you, to not touch before the wedding. Had I a daughter, I would hope that she would be betrothed to the likes of you.”

Nicolo pulls a disturbed face that Yusuf cannot see. “If you seek to compliment me, please, choose another route.”

More seriously, Yusuf adds, “I think we were lucky, to be born as men. We were not so much at the mercy of the marriage market. Sure, not free entirely, but we could make our own way for a time.”

Nicolo nods. “I thought the same, when Catherine told me of her conditions. So young, and bargaining for her life.”

“I think we should see what arrangements we can make for the Longfellow women, in the event that we destroy Longfellow’s business,” Yusuf muses, speaking Nicolo’s thoughts aloud. 

“I think the same.”

Yusuf shifts onto his side, prodding Nicolo until he cooperates, and folds the curves of their bodies together. Yusuf’s arm takes its natural place over his waist. “I can think of some conditions that I should have set for you.”

“Is that so?” Nicolo asks. His eyelids are weighted as if with sand, but he wants to follow Yusuf in his game. 

“Mm.” Stubble scrapes across the back of his neck. “First would have been that you never wear a mustache.”

“I liked the look of my mustache,” Nicolo protests halfheartedly. 

“I liked the look of your face, unmarred by whiskers,” Yusuf retorts sleepily. “Second: that you would never drag me to any place afflicted with snow.”

“Ah, but what is winter without snow?” Nicolo argues, for the sake of it. 

Yusuf kicks at his ankle, then reels Nicolo in closer, as if to temper his attitude. “Third: that you would never be parted from me.” His hand wraps around Nicolo’s. “I cannot sleep, Nico.”

Nicolo twists his head back so that he may make out the faint shape of Yusuf’s face. So like him, to lure him in with jest, then wrap a rope around his heart and capture him with sincerity. 

“I cannot sleep either,” he whispers. “I will agree to that vow.”

Yusuf’s hand squeezes his. “Agreed.”

::

The next two weeks turn soggy, and their activities move indoors: books, games of cards, and embroidery for the women. Nevertheless, today, an excitement grips the Longfellow house: their neighbors will be holding a party that night. 

After weeks of country quiet, Nicolo finds that he, too, is genuinely excited for a change of scene. Half the day seems taken up with preparations for an event the Longfellows are not even hosting. The ladies take Andromache and disappear for hours to partake in mysterious cosmetic rituals, the servants polish the Longfellow carriage until it gleams, and Nicolo and the other men lounge about like lazy cats, letting the flurry of activity pass them by. The regency gentleman need only don his finest suit and leave when the hour requires it. 

When the time comes to depart, they assemble in the foyer. Their little army can smarten up nicely when the occasion calls for it. In preparing for this trip, they had made the deliberate choice to display some amount of ostentatious wealth, in the hopes of gaining Longfellow’s favor. This is most obvious on Andromache, who drips pearls and satin, but Nicolo, Sebastien, and Yusuf are also finely dressed, each wearing conscientious tailoring and fine fabrics. It is probably considered poor manners to dress more finely than one’s hosts, but perhaps Longfellow will consider it further motivation to tie their families together. 

In the most technical of senses, they are not actually faking their wealth. Living centuries allows for the accrual of fine baubles and cash, though it also tempers the desire to use it—few possessions last so long a time. Of the four of them, Andromache is the most liable to live like a monk, and Sebastien the least. Perhaps when Nicolo passes a few thousand years, he too will no longer care about a warm meal from a pub, or a comfortable bed. 

When their carriage arrives at the neighbor’s manor, it becomes clear why Longfellow had been so eager to come: the house dwarfs the Longfellow home. Nicolo suspects it may dwarf a few small palaces. By the number of carriages outside, it seems that every well-to-do family within twenty miles must have been invited, and Nicolo has no doubts that the home will be able to fit them. 

The younger Longfellow daughters giggle and whisper to one another in excitement, and even Sebastien makes a low, impressed noise. 

The trouble with such parties is, no matter how grand the ballroom, how elegant the food, how talented the musicians, one still has to dance. Nicolo is not opposed to dancing, only the fashions change so quickly that he can never keep up with them. He had grown particularly fond of the lute, but now no respectable party would be caught dead with such an odd historical instrument. 

Naturally, as the current song winds to a close, Catherine walks up to him and looks at him expectantly. 

Nicolo pauses in confusion for a moment, until Sebastien elbows him and mutters, “You ought to ask her to dance.”

Andromache, more familiar with Nicolo’s dancing skill, smiles wickedly. “Dear husband, I think we ought to join as well.”

As Sebastien is dragged out to the floor, Nicolo turns to Catherine, clearing his throat. “Ah, Ms. Catherine, may I invite you to dance-“

“You may,” she answers so quickly that he can hardly finish his sentence. 

With that, they join the parade of men and women at the center of the large room. 

Mercy of mercies, the music is slow, and all of the men follow the same series of movements, so Nicolo can muddle through by watching everyone else. There is a line of men and a line of women, and sometimes they switch sides, then sometimes they bow, then sometimes they spin in a small circle with their partner. 

Catherine raises an eyebrow at him when he rejoins his line a moment too late. “Are you unfamiliar with this dance, Mr. Smith?”

“We...do not have this dance in Italy,” Nicolo hedges, glancing down his line to see what the men are doing next. 

Taking two steps forward towards the center, it seems. He steps forward, and Catherine meets him with a gloved hand. 

“Then prepare yourself: this is a mixing dance.”

Nicolo has just enough time to ask “what?” but Catherine steps back into her line, which then shifts one person to the left, placing him with a new partner: someone’s dowager aunt, who makes polite comments about the weather as she completes each step very precisely.

Next, to both his relief and annoyance, is Andromache, who adapts so quickly to everything that she mastered the dance within the first round. 

“Don’t look so dejected,” she says lowly, as they circle each other. “You’re dancing with your future betrothed.” She adds some complicated additional step to the dance, making Nicolo stumble, before gliding on to her next partner. 

Next comes Ms. Something of Somewhere, who makes some embarrassed fuss about not having arranged a formal introduction, but, in truth, doesn’t seem terribly contrite about it. Next is Mrs. Longfellow, who takes pity on him and gives him a few tips on how to count the steps. Then, a series of officer’s wives, each of whom seems more excited about the party then the last. 

Eventually, Catherine is returned to him, which is almost a relief, terror that she is. 

“Now we are to do the promenade,” she warns him. 

“What-“

The group of dancers shifts, and the pair at the head of the line grasp hands and gaily dance down the lines of people, whilst the rest of them clap in time. The next pair follow, and Nicolo realizes that each of them is to have their moment in the spotlight. 
Their turn comes, and he holds Catherine’s hands and prances down the aisle with her. She laughs in delight, and Nicolo glimpses her father nod approvingly over a glass of wine. It feels as natural as breathing underwater, which is to say, not very.

He does not enjoy looking at Longfellow, so he casts his eyes further to catch a glimpse of Yusuf. 

No surprise, he has acquired a pack of admirers. Yusuf’s friendly nature cannot be suppressed by something so simple as a false identity. His new friends hang upon every word, and Nicolo suspects that at least one of the women is angling for an invitation to dance. 

His guess proves correct, when the musicians transition to a new song, and Yusuf and his new dance partner sidle in beside Nicolo and Catherine. 

“Lady Gramercy, may I introduce my dear friend, Mr. Nicholas Smith, and Ms. Catherine Longfellow, the daughter of our host for the summer. My friends, this is Lady Elizabeth Gramercy, the sister of Lord Gramercy, the owner of this house.”

Naturally, Yusuf has ensnared the woman who will be most in demand for the night. Not only must she be incredibly wealthy—her elegant jewelry and crimson silk dancing dress are proof enough of that, if her brother’s house were not—but she is a true beauty as well. As the two most attractive people in the room, they make a natural pair.

Lady Gramercy curtseys elegantly, situating herself in the correct position for the beginning of the dance. 

“Lady Gramercy, I have taken a risk by placing us so close to my friend. Once you have seen him dance, you may feel compelled to eject him from this house,” Yusuf tells her somberly. 

Nicolo would retort with an insult in kind, but he would be proven wrong as soon as the dance begins. He settles for giving Yusuf a disappointed look, which only makes him laugh. 

With Yusuf at his side, the next several dances go more smoothly. Yusuf is not afraid to yank him back if he steps forward too early, or elbow him if he moves with the wrong foot. When another partner switching dance comes, Catherine and Ms. Gramercy are swept aside, but Yusuf still stands at Nicolo’s shoulder. 

Yusuf and Andromache are a threat to public safety when paired, so wild is their dancing.  Andromache’s train is pinned up against her dress, but it still swirls in a great flowering circle when she spins. For his part, Yusuf runs through the steps with such vigor that his hair is askew when he returns to the line, panting. 

A song or two more, and Nicolo understands enough of the common steps that he no longer needs to look at his feet. Of course, this signifies that the dance is due for a change. The head violinist stands, and announces that the next dance will be a “waltz.”

Nicolo looks at Catherine. “What is a waltz?”

“You haven’t danced one before?” she asks eagerly. “I thought it was more popular on the continent.”

“Eh, not in Italy,” Nicolo bluffs. The sturdy line of dancers is dissolving, each pair calving off on their own.

Catherine smiles mischievously. “It is still quite controversial here. I am sure that father wouldn’t approve, but if Lord Gramercy has given it his blessing, he cannot say a thing!”

There is a hint of glee in her voice that makes Nicolo nervous.

Catherine seizes one of his hands and places it against her waist. Nicolo restrains himself from jumping, but cannot stop himself from looking wildly about the room for witnesses. It seems that the “waltz” requires this hold, as all of the other pairs are assuming the same position.

Catherine places one little hand on his shoulder, then grips his other hand with hers. Nicolo can see why this dance is controversial—it feels miles more intimate than the merry group dances.

Then, the music starts, and Nicolo is even more off balance than he was before. The dance has an odd rhythm: asymmetrical and lilting. He would consider it pleasant to listen to, if only he did not have to dance to it. He keeps trying to move on a beat that does not exist.

The waltz also allows for more conversation than the earlier dances: they have a inch more privacy, and the dancing position brings them much closer together. He can imagine that many a young couple would be delighted at the opportunity.

Catherine seems to be trying to gaze into his eyes, and although he knows he should be encouraging her, Nicolo directs his attention to the floor. It feels cruel to play with her.

Yusuf and Lady Gramercy twirl past. Yusuf’s hand is wide on her waist, and Nicolo can see her leaning into it, confident that he will hold her up—he will.

The song ends, and Catherine asks hopefully, “Shall we dance another?”

Nicolo would prefer to be alone in a dark, quiet, room, but he cannot falter in his task. “Of course.”

::

“Children, please,” Mrs. Longfellow groans in the carriage home. “No more humming the songs. And to our dear guests: I am including you in the count of the children.”

Sebastien ceases humming, and pastes on as serious a face as he can manage, only prompting little Mary to laugh. 

“I am pleased to see that a good time was had by all,” Mr. Longfellow observes. “Dear, did you see Lord Gramercy’s candlesticks? Why, those must have sold-“

Mrs. Longfellow pats him firmly on the knee, perhaps as a reminder that it would be gauche to discuss money matters openly.

The carriage stutters to a halt, and they disembark. Nicolo allows himself a moment to let the night air cool his flushed cheeks. On nights such as these, the sky feels so very high and far away. 

Mr. Hampton lets them all into the house with a weary smile. “Welcome back, all. I trust you enjoyed yourselves?”

“Just so, Hampton, just so,” Longfellow responds jovially, clapping Hampton on the shoulder. 

Hampton clenches his jaw for a split second, then assists Longfellow in removing his coat. 

They drift upstairs to bed, and, in a surprise twist of fortune, Nicolo finds a split second alone with Yusuf in the hallway.

Nicolo says, in Italian, “I think I would like to go to a ball again, under less tiresome circumstances. After we have brought down Longfellow.”

Yusuf makes a sleepy noise of agreement. “Perhaps the constables of London will throw one in our honor, to thank us for our service,” he suggests wryly. 

Nicolo can hear steps coming from around the corner, so all he can do is roll his eyes at Yusuf and bid him good night. He tires of holding only a fraction of a conversation before they have to part again.

::

After dinner the following night, Longfellow claps his hands like a king in a great hall and says, “Time for brandy, I think! Nicholas, you are a great lover of brandy, why don’t you accompany me and assist in choosing the bottle?”

Sebastien smiles knowingly. “Yes, Nicholas, we know how you favor brandy.”

So Nicolo must rise and follow Longfellow to the study, and within it, the tremendous cabinet of glass bottles. 

“I think this one would suit, don’t you, my boy?” Longfellow pulls free a bottle that looks indistinguishable from the rest of them. “I was gifted this from an...associate in the Far East,” he winks. “He offered me more potent substances, but I don’t partake, personally. Just good old brandy for me!”

“Very wise, sir,” Nicolo responds. 

Longfellow rings the little bell that summons Mr. Hampton. “I could tell you’re a man of great self-restraint as well, Mr. Smith, it’s why I took a liking to you immediately.”

At the compliment, Nicolo realizes rather abruptly that now would be a fine time to make his proposal. He has Longfellow alone, and in a good mood. As much as this ruse chafes at him, this will bring them closer to completing their mission, and he can find some motivation in that.

He clears his throat. “If we might stay here a moment, Mr. Longfellow, I have a question of some import to ask you.”

Mr. Longfellow smiles expectantly. “I thought you might, dear boy. Tell me of it!”

“Well,” Nicolo has some experience looking lovelorn, and he tries to imitate the expression. “I have come to know your daughter, Ms. Catherine, quite well over the past few weeks, and sir, I would be greatly honored if you allow me to ask her hand in marriage.”

There, it is said. Nicolo feels like the worst type of slavering, pawing man.

“Nicholas, my boy!” Longfellow booms, “nothing would make me happier!” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I was being quite subtle, so you must not have noticed, but I was hoping such a match would occur when I invited you to the house.”

Nicolo truly wonders how this man can run a criminal empire. “I am overjoyed to hear this, sir.”

Longfellow claps him heavily on the shoulder. “And I am overjoyed to have you join the family! Now, with a male heir, my business and yours can carry into another generation of success!”

The sound of shattering glass rings out behind them, and they turn to see Mr. Hampton, a smashed tea set at his feet, and a face stony with rage. 

“By God, Mr. Hampton, you gave us a fright!” Longfellow stammers. “Perhaps you ought to call one of the maids to-“

“I’ve had quite enough of this, James,” Mr. Hampton cuts in, china crunching beneath his feet as he steps forward. “We had an agreement.”

Nicolo had not quite noticed how tall, nor how broad, the butler was until this very moment. Like all butlers, he had a knack for being unobtrusive, until, it seems, he decided not to be. He isn’t nearly as old as Nicolo thought he was, either, now that he is standing tall. Perhaps Sebastien’s age. Beside him, Longfellow looks like a portly, sweaty old man who has already had too much to drink. 

Mr. Hampton huffs. “Old chap, I wouldn’t say it was an agreement so much as-“

“I made you!” Mr. Hampton roars, pointing a blunt finger into Longfellow’s face. “You can’t cut me out of this for some foreign dandy!”

Andromache likes to call the four of them a small army. They hardly resemble one; too small by a few thousand, and too unprofessional by far, but the label fits, in its way. They fight with a singleminded purpose for what they think is right. Armies are good with swords and formations, and so are they. Armies are not good at spying, and, Nicolo is realizing, neither are they. 

Hadn’t it seemed odd that such a bloated balloon of hot gas as Longfellow could manage one of the most sophisticated criminal enterprises west of the Nile? For that matter, how did such a man have so much ample free time for leisurely dinners and meandering summer hunting trips? On the other side of the coin: a butler’s role was to provide the most hospitable comfort for guests possible, so why had Mr. Hampton lurked so suffocatingly in the corners whenever they were in the house? Nicolo has chalked it up to odd English customs, but what member of any country would want an additional ear around at all times to listen in on private conversations?

Longfellow has had a partner all along, in Mr. Hampton. 

A rather underserved partner, if Mr. Hampton’s red face is anything to go by. 

“Here now, Henry-“

“Don’t talk down to me, James, you have no right! Have you got nothing but cotton betwixt your ears?”

Longfellow switches strategies, bristling at that. “This is still my house, Henry! You’re a far cry from ordering me around!”

“You addled blunderbuss!” Mr. Hampton explodes. “You just promised your daughter to a man who has lied about his identity every moment that he has been here!”

Nicolo can feel himself pale. He had been trying to think of a way to angle himself into this newfound dynamic between Hampton and Longfellow, but if Hampton has caught onto their ruse, all of the careful wheedling in the world will not help. 

“Wh- Henry!” Longfellow splutters. 

“What straight truths have he and his company given you?” Hampton stares Nicolo down. “Vagaries and implications, all. Did you even think to check any of his story?”

“The disrespect!” thunders Longfellow, likely to disguise some embarrassment. 

Nicolo says, with as much calm as he can muster, “I am sure there has been some misunderstanding-“

“I wrote to Yarmouth!” Hampton cuts him off. “Do you know what he told me, James? He had never heard of a Mr. Smith from Italy, let alone in art smuggling!”

“Ah, we are very discreet-“ Nicolo pipes in helplessly. 

“You spoke to Yarmouth before raising your concerns with me?” Longfellow asks, irate. 

“He and ‘Jones’ were talking in the hall the other night about being honored by the London police force for bringing you down!” Hampton eyes Nicolo. “What is your excuse for that?”

Nicolo is very good at calming people down. Once upon a time, he had been a priest—his primary purpose had been soothing the souls of men and leading them down a wiser path. He could flash his big blue eyes, as Yusuf might say, and provide some careful explanation, or suggest that Hampton, with his elementary Italian, may have misinterpreted.

But Nicolo has a suspicion that whatever he might say would be about as useful as glueing together the pieces of the broken tea set. It might pass for a time, but you would not trust the cups to hold liquid again. You certainly would not trust them to marry your daughter.

This is the explanation he will give Andromache so that she will not hang him upside-down by his toes as punishment for going rogue. In truth, Nicolo is also sick of Longfellow, of the country, of cravats, and of sleeping cold. 

So when Longfellow, a seed of doubt finally planted in his heart, turns to Nicolo and asks, “what explanation can you offer for this, Mr. Smith?” Nicolo shrugs, smiles his most priestly smile, then grabs Longfellow about the shoulders and drives him headfirst into the liquor cabinet. 

Nicolo feels his shoulders relax for the first time in what must be weeks.

For all his quarrels with Longfellow, Hampton does not stand for this, and puts his fists up in a boxing stance. Nicolo kicks him in the groin—seven hundred years, and still the most effective move by far. 

Nicolo has killed men in far less time than this, but his aim is not to kill them, which slows matters down. He wants to restrain the both of them, but he has only two hands and no rope.

“What happened to being subtle this time?” Nicolo looks up to find Sebastien in the doorway, no doubt summoned by the crash of the liquor cabinet. 

“We’ve been found out,” Nicolo pants. Longfellow has recovered somewhat and is coming at him with a letter opener. “You could lend a hand.”

“Fine,” Sebastien saunters into the room. “But only because we are about to have company. That was a loud crash.”

Sure enough, the valet comes in next, but freezes in the doorway at the sight of them. Not every member of staff is involved, then. Or perhaps he sees no use in joining the brawl. 

Mrs. Longfellow, however, is a feisty woman who does not take the sight of her husband in a headlock lightly. She rushes forward and seizes Nicolo’s arm. “What on earth are you-“

Andromache, only steps behind her, ducks down, catches Mrs. Longfellow about the waist, and rises again with Mrs. Longfellow thrown over her shoulder like a sack of reluctant flour. 

Yusuf and the Longfellow girls are next. Mary shrieks at the chaos, which distracts Nicolo for just long enough that Longfellow can slip free and grab the letter opener again. He charges for Andromache. 

Longfellow doesn’t know that Andromache could kill him with one foot, which makes him an ungentlemanly scoundrel for targeting a woman. Nicolo retrieves him before Andromache has to jostle Mrs. Longfellow. 

Still, Longfellow must have been a brawler in his younger days, because he feints, then twists, catching Nicolo by surprise and slashing the letter opener across his throat. 

“No!” Catherine gasps. Yusuf holds her and her sisters back at the door, watching carefully. He knows that Nicolo and Sebastien can handle Longfellow and Hampton on their own, but Nicolo can tell that it makes Yusuf twitchy to keep to the sidelines. 

He wishes Yusuf didn’t have to see him with his neck slashed open, though. Not because of the goriness of it—Longfellow gouged deep enough to catch an artery, which means Nicolo is spraying blood across the room like a macabre fountain—but because it is embarrassing to have been caught out by the old man. 

Nicolo clamps a hand over his neck and presses down. Hopefully he will heal faster than he bleeds out, and avoid the inconvenience of dying. Worrying about such concrete, life or death equations again is a pleasant change of pace.

Helpfully, Andromache sticks out a foot and trips Longfellow, who slips in some of the blood and falls to the ground. This makes Nicolo’s task easy: he kneels on Longfellow’s back and pins his hands to the ground. 

The room, briefly taken over by shouting, is now quiet, filled only with labored panting. Sebastien has Hampton in a similar hold, while the Longfellow women are more politely restrained. The valet continues to cower in the corner. Nicolo hesitantly removes his hand from his throat to find that the bleeding has stopped, which is a pleasant surprise. 

The only casualties are the liquor cabinet, smashed, the carpet, soaked with Nicolo’s blood, and any chance of slipping away unnoticed.

“So,” says Yusuf dryly, “our plans for being subtle fly away with the midsummer wind.”

“I already said that,” grumbles Sebastien. 

::

Nicolo leans back into the grass, letting the warm Spanish sun soak into his skin. After England’s mild weather, the feeling of sweat gathering in the small of his back is a relief.

A shadow falls over him, and Nicolo opens his eyes. “Ah, stay just there and shade me.”

Yusuf cocks his head in disapproval, but indulges him. “Sebastien just left for town—he’ll post your letter.”

Nicolo threads his hands through the strands of grass absentmindedly. “Good.”

“You know, technically you only promised Catherine that you would look after the Longfellow women in the event of your marriage, and then death,” Yusuf points out. “You have grown soft-hearted in your old age.”

Nicolo laughs. “I have you to thank for that.”

“Nonsense, I am harsh and unforgiving. Watch me-“ Yusuf moves slightly to the side, letting Nicolo be blinded by the sun.

“Scoundrel.” Nicolo squints his eyes shut. “I nearly died, and we were nearly married. I consider that close enough.”

Yusuf is only poking fun. With Longfellow rotting in a cell and his assets seized, they had voted to provide for his remaining family in a quick and unanimous decision. It had been Yusuf’s idea to sell off a handful of Da Vinci sketches and put the money in a trust. His sense of humor could not resist the irony of their group smuggling fine art, just as they had claimed.

Behind his closed eyelids, Nicolo feels Yusuf’s shadow move again, then disappear completely as he settles down by Nicolo’s side.

“Something has troubled me, though,” Yusuf comments.

“Hmm?”

“When you told us of how Hampton found us out, and you were forced to resort to fisticuffs…you are better at peacemaking than anyone we’ve ever known. Why could he not be persuaded?”

Nicolo should not be surprised that Yusuf has noticed this. But they have never kept secrets from one another. He turns onto his side to face him. “You must promise not to tell Andromache.”

Yusuf quirks a smile, intrigued. “I promise.”

“I considered that I might be able to talk the two of them down…but in truth, I wanted to hurry the completion of the job. I chose the quicker path, no matter how ostentatious it might have been.”

Yusuf gasps, mock-scandalized. “Nico! Bastion of responsibility, what happened to you?”

Nicolo brings a hand up to cup Yusuf’s face. He is growing back his beard, and the incoming fuzz drags against his fingers pleasingly. “You know what happened.”

Yusuf tilts his head, pondering. “Truly? You could hold out no longer?”

“This is why you must keep this a secret from Andromache,” Nicolo confesses. “I am weak. A few weeks without you and I dissolve into impulsiveness.”

Yusuf smiles conspiratorially. “Which of the two of us was sneaking through corridors in the night like an impassioned youth?”

Nicolo laughs softly. “You have me at that.”

Yusuf shrugs. “Though it was not our original plan, I am glad you did it. We did not end up imprisoned, and now we are here, enjoying the last dregs of summer, together by the sea.”

He gestures at the rolling hills, pristine and sunny.

A thought sparks. “Yusuf…did you just say that Sebastien left for town?”

“Yes?”

“And Andromache remains at the cottage over the hill?”

“Yes?”

“And that we are alone together, on this lovely soft bed of grass?”

Yusuf grins wide like a cat. “Why Nicolo, I am to understand that you do not wish to fraternize before marriage-“

Nicolo pounces. Perhaps he is spoiled—he might as well enjoy it.

Art by Hereforlou