As night settled on the town and the moon came out over the palazzo, the woman in black stepped out of her carriage.
She was tall and pale, her long black hair pouring down her back where it commingled with the black brocade of her gown. A single strand of pearls formed the headband above her hair, and other small pearls accented her dress to form tasteful patterns on the rich fabric. She smiled, feigning never having seen the place before. The Duke need never know that her unseen wanderings had brought here many times indeed.
The servant came fumbling down the steps, wringing his hands as much as his brow on his approach. "Mi dispiace, signora, se avessi saputo che venivi sarei stato qui a salutarvi."
She nodded kindly, accepting his words with charm. "No, è stato scortese da parte mia di venire così tardi," she replied, and he smiled back. She raised an eyebrow of inquiry and gestured torward the front door with her delicate hand, asking "È il vostro padrone di casa?"
The piddling little man, balding early in life, appeared concerned at fulfilling her request. "Egli è, ma di solito non riceve chiamate così tardi ..."
She laughed, lightly and practiced. "Sono sicuro che non mente, siamo vecchi amici," she said, reassuring him, and confidently brushed past him toward the door. The little man looked at her footman, who glowered back, and he was left with no choice but to follow her into the house.
Once inside, she sat down on a receiving couch and prepared herself to wait. "Digli che sono qui e che doveva vedermi subito," she said, reclining slightly while dismissing him with a smile and a wave. Flustered, the little man scuttled off in search of his master.
After a few minutes a young boy of 13, dressed in servant's silks, entered with a tray bearing wine, fruit, and an empty cup. He set the tray down on the table by the guest, and asked "Sarebbe la signora come qualche ristoro, mentre si attende?"
Her smile grew sly; here at last was the real opportunity she sought. Conspiratorially, she gestured with one finger until the boy came over. Reaching into the folds of her dress, the woman in black pulled out a florin. The boy's eyes grew wide at the sight of more money than he made in a month. She pressed it into his hand.
"Il tuo padrone, il duca, egli è un uomo buono?" she asked.
The boy nodded slowly, but the colors dancing around him said he was lying. He was uncertain what she wanted, why she would question his loyalty, and he feared a trap. Her smile grew warmer, and somehow so did her skin.
She nodded. "Ho un lavoro per te," she said. "Riesci a tenere gli occhi aperti? Riesci a vedere le cose e non dirlo? Se io vengo a voi di tanto in tanto, mi vuoi dire che cosa succede in questa casa?"
On realizing what she was asking of him, the boy's eyes betrayed his fear. To his credit, he thought a minute before answering. But eventually he nodded again, as she already knew he would.
The sound was too far away for the boy to hear, but with her well-trained ears she could hear the little man returning. The woman in black sat up abruptly, causing the boy to stumble back from her. "Bravo," she said. "Ricordate sempre la prima regola: vedere tutto, non dire niente." The boy nodded one more time, and hurried off back into the house. The woman in black smoothed out her dress and her smile, but her inner grin could not be stifled. Whatever the results of her meeting, her visit had been a success. She had her spy.
Monday, June 10, 2013
2013 - Bread and Water
What's the connection. There must be a connection. Simply find the connection.
Quinn started over. With bandaged fingers he gently pulled the pieces of newsprint down from the wall. Placing them on the floor before him he shuffled them and spread them out.
"Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba closed by health department."
Letters lit up before him, jumping out of the headlines, but refusing to arrange themselves into words.
"Water contamination at Kingston Mines."
He turned to his left, from the articles to the large map of Chicago that occupied one wall of the small, dark room. A dozen red pins stuck out of it, marking each location. The sites were clustered into a small part of Chicago, but nothing tied them together.
"Customers outraged at Mia Francesca."
Photos were no help either. Looking over the articles spread before him there was no pattern of connection. Just the same shot over and over of whatever little eatery had suffered that night.
"Chilam Balam Closed by Police."
Turning to his right, he read the police reports and others from his own people. Each one told the same story in frustratingly different words. "Bad food" here and "contaminated water" there.
The spots on the map are all clustered in that one area. If it was someone's intentional attack, it was also surgical. The reports moved North as the evening progressed, against the river, which supports the theory that it was intentional. But what motive? Poisoning the Daeva's food supply would be the obvious answer, but what the hell is the point of poisoning the Daeva's food supply? And where do the Nosferatu come in? Why was DiParma discussing it so urgently with Augustus?
The whole thing made no sense, and where there's no sense we fall back on the basics of the trade. He reached out, staring at the map but fumbling for the spool of twine, and began to wind a cord around the first red pin where the first report was made. As he pulled the white thread through his fingers it caught, roughly, making paper-thin tears and cuts through the bandages on his fingertips. The thread came off the spool white, but was a dark, rusty maroon by the time it reached the map. He tied the end off around the pin, and moved to the next one.
There has to be a connection.
Quinn started over. With bandaged fingers he gently pulled the pieces of newsprint down from the wall. Placing them on the floor before him he shuffled them and spread them out.
"Cafe Ba-Ba-Reeba closed by health department."
Letters lit up before him, jumping out of the headlines, but refusing to arrange themselves into words.
"Water contamination at Kingston Mines."
He turned to his left, from the articles to the large map of Chicago that occupied one wall of the small, dark room. A dozen red pins stuck out of it, marking each location. The sites were clustered into a small part of Chicago, but nothing tied them together.
"Customers outraged at Mia Francesca."
Photos were no help either. Looking over the articles spread before him there was no pattern of connection. Just the same shot over and over of whatever little eatery had suffered that night.
"Chilam Balam Closed by Police."
Turning to his right, he read the police reports and others from his own people. Each one told the same story in frustratingly different words. "Bad food" here and "contaminated water" there.
The spots on the map are all clustered in that one area. If it was someone's intentional attack, it was also surgical. The reports moved North as the evening progressed, against the river, which supports the theory that it was intentional. But what motive? Poisoning the Daeva's food supply would be the obvious answer, but what the hell is the point of poisoning the Daeva's food supply? And where do the Nosferatu come in? Why was DiParma discussing it so urgently with Augustus?
The whole thing made no sense, and where there's no sense we fall back on the basics of the trade. He reached out, staring at the map but fumbling for the spool of twine, and began to wind a cord around the first red pin where the first report was made. As he pulled the white thread through his fingers it caught, roughly, making paper-thin tears and cuts through the bandages on his fingertips. The thread came off the spool white, but was a dark, rusty maroon by the time it reached the map. He tied the end off around the pin, and moved to the next one.
There has to be a connection.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)