Introducing...

Eduardo had a servant placed a mile away to give warning of House Renaud’s arrival. We turned out onto the front steps to greet the incoming swarm of carriages; the children were perfectly behaved without any prompting that I could see as they stood before their father. I stood at his right hand. My aunt and Tiago were, of course, still abed to rest and recover and so Oscuro stood at Eduardo’s left, while Prevot stood to my right and a few others stood where they chose. Vito was not in attendance.

The carriages stopped and a flock of servants from within and from the steps behind us rushed to care for the horses, remove luggage, assist the guests, and anything else that needed immediate doing. My eyes darted here and there – I wanted to see Renaud at last, with my own eyes, and take his measure in person.

Finally, I saw him descend from the third carriage and join with his wife, who exited the second. They took hands and kissed each other’s cheeks, and I saw him take her hand through the crook of his elbow in the Phasi’ian manner. It was not often that nobility managed to marry for love, or that an arranged marriage managed such closeness. From the fifth carriage, the Renaud heirs fell into step with their parents. When the family stopped a precise distance from our gathering, Eduardo stepped out to meet them and I followed a pace behind.

Marchese Saverio Cirocco Palani Tadanori Renaud was not as I expected him to be. Instead of a weasel of a man or a large and imposing specimen with an evil mustache to twirl (as I’d imagined him in various scenarios over the years) he was… plain. He had dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee to match, both lightly sprinkled with gray. His wife was a little taller, though he was not especially short, and she had the golden hair and thick build that was favored in the nobility.

They bowed politely and we returned the greeting. He said nothing, but I saw Renaud taking note of the shallowness of my bow and his eyes traced my features.

“Marchese Renaud, welcome to my home. Please let me introduce to you my nephew, Pietro,” Eduardo said.

Renaud smiled thinly. “Pietro. A delight.”

I nodded. “It is, Marchese.”

“Your wife, Conte, is she well?” the Marchesa asked. Her voice was deep and velvety soft.

Eduardo smiled. “Yes, thank you. I’m sure she would adore the pleasure of your company when you have suitably recovered from your arduous journey.”

“How many children does that make?” Renaud asked with a lopsided smile.

“Our fifth,” Eduardo answered with a proud grin. “Let me take you inside. Can I bring you wine before dinner?”

My uncle led the way and courtesy demanded that I walk behind the guests. The twins eyed me curiously as they passed, but said nothing.

I seethed. I wasn’t sure what reaction I’d wanted or expected, but a polite greeting, feigned ignorance at who I was, and then to be ignored was certainly not it. Some of my irritation was directed toward Eduardo – he certainly could have done more to explain my presence. And he’d ignored my title entirely, which certainly hadn’t helped.

My eldest nephew was grinning and fixing his hair from where Renaud had ruffled it. Prevot fell into step beside me, the rest of the family following.

“Easy, Pietro,” she said softly, tucking her hand into the crook of my arm in mimic to House Renaud. “Patience is your greatest ally.”

“I thought that was you,” I said after a calming breath.

She winked.

Traditionally, it was not kind to bring your guests straight to table after travel, but to entertain them in the eshoù for at least an hour. But Renaud insisted that the meal would be welcome after the long journey, and they needed only enough time to change out of their travel garments, so we all did the same.

Prevot was dressed in half the time it took me, her hair styled and her face painted with deft hands and without the help of a servant. She kissed her gloved finger and placed it against my lips, then left the room, seeming to take half of the air with her.

When I finished dressing and descended to the eshoù to wait for the other guests, I saw no sign of Prevot, and took up position in front of the window my uncle often favored. I was not alone for long, however – Renaud’s son, Paolo Angelo, entered the room adjusting the cuffs on his shirt and jacket. He took after his mother with her blond hair and height but had inherited his father’s aquiline nose.

A cursory glance gave him the lay of the room and he crossed to run a finger down the neck of a beautiful t’ukand.

“Do you play?” I asked.

He nodded without looking at me. “Most instruments, yes.”

We both looked at the door to see his sister enter. She gave the room the same look he had, and then made for the rows of bottles, opposite the room from the instruments. I felt flanked, but neither of them looked in my direction. I tried to maintain an air of comfort, of disinterest, but I wasn’t comfortable, and I was interested.

Sofia Elena turned to face the room, a drink in hand. She took after their father as much as her brother took after their mother. Her black tresses were curled and twisted through long golden loops. It wasn’t a style with which I was familiar, and she must have caught my curious glances.

“Do you like them?” she asked.

I inclined my head. “They’re very striking.”

A slender eyebrow rose, cutting a new angle in her features – she was all angles. The redness of her drink had to have been on purpose, the way it popped with color in her black-gloved hands.

“Do you drink pinèt’i?”

I blinked, surprised to hear the name on the mainland. “I’ve had it before.”

“Too strong for your liking?”

I smiled thinly.

Prevot entered the room, the marchesa’s elbow crooked through her own. She said something in a low voice, and the marchesa laughed freely, her golden curls tumbling back and forth around the curve of her shoulder.

“Still waiting on the men, are we?” she asked. She observed her children and then met my eyes with a bright smile.

I returned it without thinking – if I’d had a mother, she surely would have brought her memory to mind. And while she looked nothing like the tanned and calloused women I grew up around, I could imagine her laughing at our bonfire dances.

“Pietro, yes?” she confirmed and smiled at Prevot, who still held her arm. “Your Emeline has told me something of your journey here – quite something!”

I gave a slight bow. “It is thanks only to her that we arrived as well as we did.”

“And your poor boy,” she tutted, patting Prevot’s hand tenderly. “How brave he must be. When he is recovered, you must let him come to our estates – we have several guardsmen with similar injuries, and I expect they will have some encouraging words for him.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely. My mind skittered away from Tiago more often than not, shame filling my chest until I felt my heart would stop from it. “We would be glad to accept.”

“I expect the Marchese and Conte are speaking in some private affairs before dinner. If we knew how long they would take, I might suggest a game of ansil, if it didn’t encourage too much of our competitive natures.” She smiled at me again and gave her twins each a significant look that they ignored.

She released herself from Prevot but invited her to sit on the couch at her side, then gestured to me as well. “I’m afraid I know little about you, Pietro,” she lamented.

I sat on the edge of the cushioned chair and tried to interpret Prevot’s narrowed eyes, but her look was too quickly gone.

“There is little to know,” I assured her.

“Oh, certainly not,” she batted a bejeweled hand at me. “What are your hobbies? Where were you raised? Who are your parents? I only the names of your wife and son, but that hardly makes a House, does it?”

I chuckled in agreement. “I love to fish and swim. I was raised near the sea and I love the smell of citrus. As for my parents, their names were Lorenzo Fabrizio and Benedetta Camilla. Of House Ricci.”

Her expression didn’t change, which itself was telling, but I saw movement at either side of the room. The twins converged unsubtly to stand behind their mother.

“My family name is Pietro Leonardo Ambrogio Giuseppe Dario Ricci. Principe.”

The Marchesa eyed me for a long moment, and then said, “There are rumors of your death.”

“Are there?” I smiled. “What manner of death have I suffered, by these rumors?”

“Oh, all sorts of ways,” she smiled back. The brightness had not faded, but I felt scrutinized instead of warmed by it.

“I heard drowning,” Paolo Angelo offered, looking to his sister, who nodded.

“In a water bucket,” Sofia Elena agreed.

“Or poison,” he suggested.

“Hemlock,” she confirmed.

“Children,” the Marchesa interrupted. “There is no need for such morbidity.”

I grinned at them. “The Ricci line is not so easily drowned or poisoned, it seems.”

“Why did you not live at court, then?” Paolo Angelo asked. The question sounded sincere. “We’re near of an age – we might have been friends.”

“I expect we might have,” I said. “But my father believed it to be in my best interest to reach my majority in the outer isles and elsewhere.”

“Ah, so you’ve traveled?” Sofia Elena asked. “E’u tucen du madecci?”

“What language is that?” Prevot asked. She didn’t try to turn to face Sofia Elena, but the woman looked down at the back of her head.

“Phasi’ian,” came the tart reply.

“Oh, yes,” Prevot laughed lightly. “I didn’t recognize your accent – gami’er fultòn baxuta la.”

I held Sofia’s gaze wondering what they’d said and hoping Prevot could fill me in later. It sounded like some sort of fight had been won.

A servant stepped inside and announced, “The Conte and the Marchese have invited you all to the dining room. Dinner will be served momentarily.”

“Ah, wonderful, thank you.” I stood and offered my arm. “Would you care to join me, Marchesa?”

She stood and smiled down at me, nearly half a foot taller, but took my proffered arm wordlessly.

Paolo Angelo offered to escort Prevot, and she accepted, leaving Sofia Elena to bring her own self, at the rear. I imagined I could feel her glare on the back of my neck, but when I glanced at our party, I saw her finishing her pinèt’i in a single, burning swallow.