The almostness of it is driving me mad—nearly as mad as Percy’s fingertips brushing mine between us and not being permitted any more of him than that—coupled with a desperation bordering on panic to not be parted from him at the end of this tour. I have lost years of my life loving him from afar and I’ll be damned if I’m robbed of him as soon as we realize we’ve both been admiring each other from a distance all this while. I’d fight Death himself one-handed to get the panacea for him.
Scipio has been tight-lipped about asking us what our business is in Venice, but considering our brush with the French navy, he’s likely deduced it’s not particularly savory. He might prefer ignorance to sharing the weight of a secret, but I cough up the truth with no prompting, while he and I are together on deck slopping a new coat of paint over the sun-weathered rail. Partly because I expect we’re going to need further assistance from our piratical allies in getting to the island itself, but mostly because I’m starting to get twitchy about reaching Venice before the duke and hope the captain might have some sort of hidden sails he will offer to roll out for increased speed.
I expect he’ll contest it—alchemical compounds and sinking islands and coded puzzle boxes are rather fantastic when said aloud—but all he says is, “You’re very impressive, you know that?”
“Who, me?” I laugh. “I’m the deadweight. It’s mostly thanks to Percy and Felicity that we’re all still alive.”
“Do you truly not see it?”
“See what?”
He drags his brush along the rail. “You’re worth far more than you seem to think. You have value.”
“I’ve no value. None at all. My best attribute is getting into scrapes I need to be bailed out of.” As though to prove my point, a string of paint drops off my brush and splashes across the canvas we’ve laid. “And the dimples.”
“Be kinder to yourself. You saved us from the navy. You saved yourselves from the navy. And you’ve clearly had some hand in defending your crew.” He points his brush at my jaw. “You’ve the scars to prove it.”
I scrub a thumb up over the spot where the thief-taker struck me. It’s still sore to the touch. “Thought my cheeks needed a bit of color is all.”
“Didn’t you fight back?”
“I’m not well practiced at fighting back. I’m far less gallant than you seem to want to believe me.” I give the rail a zealous thwack with my brush. Paint sprays from its bristles like the powder from a cannon shot. “Has she a name?”
“Who?”
“Your pirate ship.” I knock my fist against the rail.
A glop of paint drips onto his bare foot, and he scrubs it against the back of his leg. “The Eleftheria.”
“What does it mean?”
“It’s Greek,” he replies. “The word for freedom.”
“Did you name her?”
“When we stole her, yes. The men who’ve agreed to buy the VOC goods from us are all in Oia, so a Greek name helps us there. And we all needed a new start. It seemed fitting.”
“How long have you had her?”
“You’re changing the subject, your lordship.”
I flick a bit of paint at him as I bend to load my brush. When I straighten, he taps me upon the cheek with the back of his hand in retaliation. It’s hardly a glance, and all in fun, but I flinch so badly I drop my brush. It falls to the deck with a clatter, leaving an ivory stamp on the wood between my feet.
“Dammit. Sorry.” I go to scoop up the brush, trying to wipe the paint off the deck with my foot and instead smearing it. I expect he’ll chastise me for it, but when I look up, he’s watching me, his face sober.
Then he sets his own brush across the rail and climbs to his feet. “Come here.”
I don’t move. “Why? What are we doing?”
“I’m going to teach you something. Stand up.”
I toss my brush into the trough, wipe my hands on my trousers, then stand and face him.
“Put your hands up,” Scipio instructs, holding his own forward with the palms flat toward me.
I don’t move. “Why?”
“I’m going to show you how to swing at the next man who strikes you.” He pushes his sleeves up, then raises an expectant eyebrow at me. “I mean it, put your hands up.”
“I don’t think—”
“Hands up, my lord. Even a gentleman should know how to defend himself. Especially a gentleman.”
It feels futile, but I shake out my shoulders, then pull my fists up close to my chest. It’s so unnatural that I drop them straightaway. “I can’t.”
“Course you can. Get your hands up.”
“Isn’t there a way I’m meant to stand first?”
“When you’re in a proper fight, you’ll be lucky if you’re standing at all. But put a foot forward. Your right one, if that’s the arm you swing with. Come now, square up. I know you’re taller than that.”
“I’m not.”
“Get your arm back. And cock your knee there.” He hooks his foot around my back leg and tugs until I sink into it. “It comes from the knees. And keep your other hand up, to protect your face. Come on now, give me a swing.”
I swat at his hand with my fist, flimsy and loose like a wet cloth flicked through the air. I give it a few more tries, too self-aware to ever get much power behind it.
“Like you mean it,” Scipio says. “Like you mean to protect yourself.”
I think of my father—not of him swinging at me, but of all the times he’s told me how pathetic I am. How useless and hopeless and embarrassing I am, good for nothing and will amount to nothing and nothing, nothing, nothing—reason after reason until I had begun to believe it wasn’t worth putting up my hands.
And here’s Scipio, telling me I’m worth defending.
I pull back and swing harder this time—it’s still not a good punch, but there’s a bit more enthusiasm behind it. Less of a defense or an apology. It feels like my bones crack in half when I make contact, and I double over. “Son of a bitch.”
Scipio laughs. “Get your thumb out of your fist. That’ll help. That was a good swing, though. You meant that one.”
He sits down on the step, flicking the sweat off his brow, then takes a flask from his pocket and offers it to me. I can smell the vinegar tang of gin, and I want nothing more than to snatch it from his hand and down it. But I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
Scipio takes a drink, then picks up his paintbrush. I think he’s going to start in on our chore again, but instead he turns, looks me straight in the eye, and says, very seriously, “Now, next time someone takes a swing at you, you swing straight back at him, all right? Promise me that, Henry.”
We’ve both started back into the painting before I realize it’s been a long while since someone’s called me Henry and it didn’t make me flinch.
Venice
27
From my first sighting, I fall in immediate and passionate love with Venice.