“Not you I’m worried about.”
I make a face at his back, then take one of the mugs from Percy—the one he didn’t half finish between the bar and the booth—and down most of it in four swallows. Percy is still staring at the notice, folding and unfolding its corner with his thumb. A black crinoline crushes up against the other side of the window beside our table like the wings of a raven as a woman stumbles, the crowd pushing her from all sides. His gaze flits up. “Sounds like a gay occasion on the street.”
“Sounds like the sounds of . . .” I give up halfway through that sentence—too many versions of the same word and not enough of a preliminary idea where I was going with it—and instead put my forehead against his shoulder.
Percy laughs. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Mmm. Some.”
“Some?”
“Some of the drink.”
“Well, there’s my answer.” He slides the glass he just brought me out of my reach.
“Ha, I already finished that. Wait, where are you going?”
“We are going up to bed. You’re bashed and I’m shattered.”
“No, come here.” I grab his hand as he stands and pull him back down onto the bench beside me. He nearly lands in my lap. He laughs, but doesn’t let go of my hand, instead tucking his thumb against my palm and giving my fingers a soft squeeze. Recklessness rises suddenly inside me, like flotsam disrupted from the seafloor, at the feeling of his skin against mine and that terribly fond smile flirting with his lips. “I want to go out.”
“That is a terrible idea. We are being hunted, remember?” He pokes at the notice.
“It’s a large city. And a party.”
“Are those meant to hide us, or are you listing things you enjoy?”
“What’s the use of temptations if we don’t yield to them?”
“That’ll be chiseled upon your tombstone.” He presses his shoulder to mine. “Come on, bed. Scipio told you to stay in.”
“No, he said stay out of sight. They’re entirely unrelated. And we’re not sailing until the morning, so he’ll never know. And we shall wear masks like everyone else and be out of sight entirely.” I blow at a strand of hair that has come loose over his ear. “Please come. I feel like we haven’t been together in a long while and I want to be out. With you. Specifically. Out with you.” I bring our still-clasped hands up to my mouth and deal a quick kiss to his knuckles.
Even before he speaks, I know what his answer will be—it’s written in the way his whole being melts like tallow when my lips touch his skin. He lets out a dramatic sigh, then says, “You are an enormously stubborn pain in the arse when you want to be, you know that?”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes, I’ll come out.”
“Really? No, don’t answer—I shan’t give you a chance to change your mind. Let’s away!” Our hands fall apart when I stand, but he keeps his fingers upon the small of my back as I lead him from the booth, across the packed barroom, and out into the steaming, raucous night.
The rain has taken a recess, though the clouds are still coffered and low. Percy and I follow the masses to the square of Saint Mark’s, which is a riot of people. Everyone’s drinking—a creative array of libations are being sold from carts, and we taste some fine wine from silver tastevins and then some less-fine wine from less-fine cups, sharing a glass between us like we’ve done our whole lives, though suddenly it feels strangely intimate to put my mouth where his was just a moment before. Someone hands us masks made from stretched animal skin and dyed black-and-white, and Percy ties mine for me, his hands twining in my hair before he draws me back for a look with his fingers linked behind my neck. I laugh at his mask, and with a wide smile he flicks at the long nose of mine. As we shoulder our way down the street, we walk close enough that our hands sometimes knock.
The air is full of colored smoke, drifting from firecrackers and bottle rockets set off from the bridges and over the water. Music is playing from so many different places that all the notes tangle into a strange, dissonant symphony. People are dancing. They are standing and singing and arguing and laughing. They are lounging on the bridges, packed into gondolas and hanging off the prows, shrouded in the light from lanterns and firecrackers and torches, on balconies and in doorways, touching each other like the whole city is familiar. I see a ginger-haired man lean over the rail of a bridge and lift his mask so he can deliver a quick kiss to another man with a thick beard, and, zounds, I never want to leave this place.
I glance over to check if Percy saw that, but beneath the mask I can’t tell. It’s hard for me to think of anything other than what he might be thinking, and what this night means to him, and if it’s the same as for me. Here, in the bellow of this music and the torchlight dyed as it flickers through the Murano glass that lines the shop windows, it’s easy to pretend we’re sweethearts, ordinary as anything, out for a night together in a brilliant city we have never known. Though I could have done without any of it—the drinking and the partying and the revelers in a whirlpool around us—so long as Percy and I were together. The world could have been a blank canvas and I still would have been exactly this livid with happiness, just to be with him.
The crowds thin as we wander from the Grand Canal and the square of Saint Mark’s. Revelers stumble in pairs and small knots, their faces still covered, and most heading for the basilica square. When we cross the next bridge into an empty alley, I make a snatch for Percy’s hand, and he laces his fingers with mine and gives them a squeeze.
Fetch me a couch, for I nearly swoon.
“Aren’t you glad we came out?” I say, swinging our hands between us. “It’s like being back home.”
“Except not at all and so much better.”
“Better because the gin doesn’t taste like piss.”
“And no one wants to play bleeding billiards.”
“And there’s no Richard Peele.”
“WE HATE RICHARD PEELE!” he shouts, which gets me laughing so good I have to stop walking.
“See, this is what our Tour was meant to be like,” I say as he drags me after him down the street. “There have been far more thrilling heroics than advertised.”
“Thrilling heroics suit you, though.”
“You know what suits you?”
“Hm?”
“That bit of a beard.”
I snatch his mask off so I can get a better look, and he laughs, one hand flitting to the scruff along his jawline like he might wipe it away. “Go on, mock me all you want.”
“No—I mean it. I like it. You look good.”
“So do you.” He tugs the mask off my face, that fond smile again curling about his mouth, though it slips as he qualifies, “I mean, you always look good. But now you look . . . not good. Wait. I mean yes, good, you always look good, but you don’t look good so much as you look . . . better? Dear Lord. Ignore me.”