Floote snorted in a most un Floote like manner. “She was born.”
For the moment, Alexia decided to follow the Templars’ lead and so ignored them in turn, eating her meal with gusto. The infant inconvenience and she appeared to have reached an agreement. She was now allowed to eat in the mornings. In return, Alexia was beginning to think upon the little being if not with affection, then at least with tolerance.
At the sound of a second bell, all of the men rose and began filing out of the courtyard, going off about their business without a by your leave. Even the Bible reader departed, leaving Alexia, Floote, and Madame Lefoux alone in the massive courtyard. Although Alexia managed to complete her meal before the staff were done cleaning up, no servant took her now twice dirty trencher. At a loss, Alexia began to gather up her eating utensils herself, thinking she would take them into the kitchen, but Floote shook his head.
“Allow me.” He picked up the trencher, stood, took three quick steps, and hurled it over the courtyard wall, where it shattered loudly in the city street beyond. Then he did the same with Alexia’s cup.
Alexia stared at him with her mouth open. Had he gone completely mad? Why destroy perfectly good pottery?
“Floote, what are you doing? What has the crockery done to offend?”
Floote sighed. “You are an anathema to the Templars, madam.”
Madame Lefoux nodded her understanding. “Like being one of the untouchables in India?”
“Very like, madam. Anything in contact with a preternatural’s mouth must be destroyed or ritually cleansed.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Then why bring me here?” Alexia frowned. “And one of them must have carried me down the Alpine pass and then put me into bed.”
“A professional handler,” answered Floote curtly, as though that were explanation enough.
Madame Lefoux gave Floote a very long look. “And how long did Alessandro Tarabotti work for the Templars?”
“Long enough.”
Alexia gave Floote a stern look. “And how long did you?”
Floote came over all inscrutable at that. Alexia was familiar with that attitude; he got it when he was about to clam up and become his most cagey. She faintly recalled from her nightmare time locked away in the Hypocras Club, some scientist saying something to the effect of Templars using soulless as agents. Had her father really been so bad as that? To work for a people who would have regarded him as not human. No. Could he really?
Alexia did not have an opportunity, however, to try and crack Floote’s hard, curmudgeonly shell, for someone came out into the courtyard and began walking purposefully toward them. A Templar, but this one seemed perfectly capable of looking Alexia full in the face.
The man wore practical middle class dress twisted into absurdity through the presence of a white sleeveless smock with a red cross embroidered on the front. This absurdity was somewhat mitigated by the sinister presence of a particularly large sword. At his approach, Alexia and Madame Lefoux extracted themselves from the bench seats. Alexia’s nightgown ruffles got caught on the rough wood in a most annoying manner. She tugged them away and drew the robe closed more securely.
Looking down at her attire and then back up at the man approaching, Alexia grinned. We are all dressed for bed.
This Templar also wore a hat of such unsightliness as to rival one of Ivy’s more favored investments. It was white and peaked, boasting yet another red cross emblazoned on the front and gold brocade about the edge.
Floote stood at Alexia’s side. Leaning over, he whispered in her ear, “Whatever you do, madam, please do not tell him about the child.” Then he straightened to his stiffest and most butlerlike pose.
The man bared his teeth when he reached them, bowing slightly. It could not possibly be a smile, could it? He had very straight white teeth, and a lot of them. “Welcome to Italy, daughter of the Tarabotti stock.”
“You are speaking to me?” Alexia said dumbly.
“I am preceptor of the temple here in Florence. You are considered a small risk to my eternal soul. Of course, there will be five days’ cleansing and a confessional after I have terminated contact with you, but until then, yes, I may speak with you.”
His English was simply too good. “You are not an Italian, are you?”
“I am a Templar.”
At a loss over what to do next, Alexia resorted to politeness and proper etiquette. Trying to hide the fuzzy slippers under the frilly hem of her nightgown, she curtsied. “How do you do? Allow me to introduce my companions, Madame Lefoux and Mr. Floote.”
The preceptor bowed a second time. “Madame Lefoux, I am familiar with your work, of course. I found your recent paper on the aerodynamic adjustments needed to compensate for aether currents quite intriguing.”
Madame Lefoux looked neither flattered nor inclined to make small talk. “Are you a man of God or a man of science?”
“Sometimes I am both. And, Mr. Floote, how do you do? I believe I am familiar with your name as well. You are in our records, yes? You have maintained an unwavering connection to the Tarabotti stock. An intriguing display of loyalty not normally engendered by preternaturals.”
Floote said nothing.
“If you would all please follow me?”
Alexia looked at her companions. Madame Lefoux shrugged and Floote appeared only slightly more stiff than usual, but he was blinking apprehensively.
Alexia figured there was nothing for it but to play along.
“With pleasure,” she said.
The preceptor led them through the temple, all the while talking to Alexia in a mild, silky voice.
“And how do you like Italy, My Soulless One?”
Alexia did not like his use of the possessive, but nevertheless tried to answer this question. Since she had not, as yet, seen very much of the country, it was difficult. Still, from what she had glimpsed out of her window that morning, she had formulated one ready opinion. “It is very orange. Is it not?”
The preceptor gave a little chuckle. “I had forgotten how extremely prosaic the soulless are. Here we sit in Florence, the most romantic city on God’s earth, queen of the artistic world, and she finds it orange.”
“Well, it is.” Alexia gave him an inquisitive look. Why should she be the only one on the defensive? “I read somewhere that the Templars have an initiation ritual involving a dead cat and a duck made from a rubber tree. Is that true?”
“We do not discuss the secrets of the brotherhood with outsiders. Certainly not with a soulless.”
“Well, certainly, you would like to keep that a secret.” He looked dismayed but did not rise to the bait. Apparently, he was unable to. He could not refute her statements without discussing the very secrets he hoped to hide. Alexia relished her small victory.
The rest of the temple, as it turned out, was just as richly furnished and religiously decorated as the parts Alexia had already observed. There was a certain sparseness to the design and a complete absence of personal items that gave the place the unmistakable aura of a monastery despite its luxuriousness. This feeling of piety was helped along by the general hush and quiet all about.
“Where have all the other gentlemen gone?” Alexia asked, surprised not to have encountered any of the many men they had seen in the dining courtyard.
“The brothers are practicing, of course.”
“Oh?” Alexia had no idea what their host was talking about, but he clearly believed that she ought to. “Um, practicing what, exactly?”
“The fighting arts.”
“Oh.” Alexia tried a new tactic after that, asking about some of the artifacts on display in an effort to get him to reveal more about his agenda.