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“A kiss,” he repeated, almost dumbfounded. But he was Niccolò Machiavelli, whatever else he might become, and he rallied, wiping the confusion off his face. “Signore,” he started, but the Elder shushed him, putting a finger to his lips.
“Ah, Niccolò. You have promised me your service, have you not?” the Elder asked, gazing curiously at him.
Perhaps he had made a Devil’s bargain, but he had gained still. “I did.”
The Elder smiled at him. “Grant me a kiss, Niccolò.”
He nodded once and leaned over, pressing his lips briefly onto the Elder’s.
“Very good. I’ll see you soon.”