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***
The flame doesn’t flicker, doesn’t smoke. The finest wax, of course. Only the very best, for the bishop of Pamplona.
Miquel lowers his head on his arm on the table. The room and the world tilt as he watches the candle burn down. Cesare is assisting Riario with the Christmas Masses, and he, Miquel, spends Holy Night in solitude.
He has tried to read, to tune a lute, to sharpen a knife, but he can’t concentrate. How many candles, in the Cathedral? How many jewels, on the over-the-top vestments Don Rodrigo sent for his son? How many people, who wish Cesare ill?
Before the flame dies, he hefts himself up, grabs a fresh candle from the chest. He could light more, could bathe the room in the sheen of Venetian mirrors, but he feels the darkness is his, tonight.
He’d risk a nap, if he didn’t worry so goddamn much.
***
The light on the horizon is pale and thin. It has snowed all night, and Pisa is asleep underneath a soft white blanket. All sound is muffled, and Cesare holds his breath as he tiptoes in.
He’ll admit, he was angry when Miquel didn’t show up to escort him back from the Cathedral, but then Cardinal Riario invited him and Giovanni for a nightcap, and besides, his guard had been on the alert.
It was just that… he had wanted to see Miquel right there, once the „ite“ was spoken. He wanted to breathe his relief into his hair, or the fur of his collar. „Thank God it’s over,“ he wanted to say, so Miquel could reprove him for his lack of respect.
But Miquel sleeps, looking sweet and ruffled. His head rests on his arm, on the table. That must be uncomfortable. „Come to bed,“ Cesare whispers. „I’m home.“
***
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