The wine, red and rich and darkened with hints of smoke, loosened her limbs. She moved more freely, her hips swinging, her gait lengthening as she walked to the center of town, where villagers danced in rounds to the lute and lap drum. The music soared. The women laughed, fawning into their dance partners as they looped around the dirt clearing. Lena watched, her head light and effervescent with wine, clapping one hand against her wrist in time to the rhythm of the drums. Her foot tapped, her hip jutting on the downbeat.
Yellow lanterns, hundreds of them, decorated the square. They pulled on the hemp lines strung between houses, sagging the ropes until the taller men had to duck them to keep from lighting their hair on fire. Magical, she thought, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Fantasy. Lena stared, entranced, the music, the wine and the dazzling lights conspiring into a warm feeling that centered over her chest and dissolved the anxiety still rooted in her heart. An assassin’s greatest weakness was the light and there was no lack of it here. The lanterns swayed, bobbing, their pools of light so numerous that they bled together, creating one immense halo around the dancers and tables.
“Una danza, señorita?”
Lena turned at the voice, nearly upsetting her cup from the start it gave her. A young man of twenty or so stood waiting, his hand extended. The laces of his shirt had come undone, a sheen of sweat along his brow from dancing in the warm corona of the lanterns. She glanced at the revelers, their feet and arms weaving intricate patterns as they formed chains and circles, came together, parted… Lena had never done much dancing. At festivals in Rome there was nearly always an assassin who overindulged early in the night and injured themselves in an impromptu duel or fell and bloodied their knees. She would be called back to the Order to tend to them and soon that one clumsy, drunk assassin was joined by others until she had a queue that kept her busy long into the night. Still, the offer was tempting, especially accompanied by the man’s sparkling brown eyes.
“One,” Lena said, smiling. “Yes, I’d like that.”
He took her hand and her wine cup, passing it to a breathless friend. He introduced himself as Gasper, brushing a chaste kiss across Lena’s knuckles as he led her to the dancers. She, apparently, needed no introduction. Everyone in town had heard of the little blonde woman who could perform miracles with her medicines and hands. Lena blushed at his description, flattered, and tried to recall the steps of the simple reel the musicians began. She listened more to the fiddle and the lute than the numbers and configurations tripping through her head. The rhythm never deceived her, free and tumbling, and Gasper was a fine leader, holding her tightly in his strong, farmer’s hands and deftly guiding her through the whirling villagers. Lena felt the braids in her hair loosen, one of the flowers tucked there flying into the air and spinning to the ground. She glimpsed, dizzily, Michelangelo on the fringe of the tables, his arms crossed under his great batwing smock as he smirked and observed the dance. It felt good to move, to forget Lucio and Cesare and just enjoy the presence of another living, breathing human. She might have spent most of her days holed up in the cottage away from the larger business of the town, but in that fleeting moment she felt part of the village, one of the townsfolk, just another campesino relieved to be away from the fields or the forge.
As they careened to a panting stop, Lena accepted another quick kiss on the hand from Gasper, remembering to curtsey and thank him. How fortunate, she thought, that these country folk wouldn’t notice her fumbling manners or ungainly dancing.
In Name Alone 71/?
Yellow lanterns, hundreds of them, decorated the square. They pulled on the hemp lines strung between houses, sagging the ropes until the taller men had to duck them to keep from lighting their hair on fire. Magical, she thought, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Fantasy. Lena stared, entranced, the music, the wine and the dazzling lights conspiring into a warm feeling that centered over her chest and dissolved the anxiety still rooted in her heart. An assassin’s greatest weakness was the light and there was no lack of it here. The lanterns swayed, bobbing, their pools of light so numerous that they bled together, creating one immense halo around the dancers and tables.
“Una danza, señorita?”
Lena turned at the voice, nearly upsetting her cup from the start it gave her. A young man of twenty or so stood waiting, his hand extended. The laces of his shirt had come undone, a sheen of sweat along his brow from dancing in the warm corona of the lanterns. She glanced at the revelers, their feet and arms weaving intricate patterns as they formed chains and circles, came together, parted… Lena had never done much dancing. At festivals in Rome there was nearly always an assassin who overindulged early in the night and injured themselves in an impromptu duel or fell and bloodied their knees. She would be called back to the Order to tend to them and soon that one clumsy, drunk assassin was joined by others until she had a queue that kept her busy long into the night. Still, the offer was tempting, especially accompanied by the man’s sparkling brown eyes.
“One,” Lena said, smiling. “Yes, I’d like that.”
He took her hand and her wine cup, passing it to a breathless friend. He introduced himself as Gasper, brushing a chaste kiss across Lena’s knuckles as he led her to the dancers. She, apparently, needed no introduction. Everyone in town had heard of the little blonde woman who could perform miracles with her medicines and hands. Lena blushed at his description, flattered, and tried to recall the steps of the simple reel the musicians began. She listened more to the fiddle and the lute than the numbers and configurations tripping through her head. The rhythm never deceived her, free and tumbling, and Gasper was a fine leader, holding her tightly in his strong, farmer’s hands and deftly guiding her through the whirling villagers. Lena felt the braids in her hair loosen, one of the flowers tucked there flying into the air and spinning to the ground. She glimpsed, dizzily, Michelangelo on the fringe of the tables, his arms crossed under his great batwing smock as he smirked and observed the dance. It felt good to move, to forget Lucio and Cesare and just enjoy the presence of another living, breathing human. She might have spent most of her days holed up in the cottage away from the larger business of the town, but in that fleeting moment she felt part of the village, one of the townsfolk, just another campesino relieved to be away from the fields or the forge.
As they careened to a panting stop, Lena accepted another quick kiss on the hand from Gasper, remembering to curtsey and thank him. How fortunate, she thought, that these country folk wouldn’t notice her fumbling manners or ungainly dancing.