Niccolò remembered a lover he had many years agoâa painter, wild-eyed and starving for want of anything but truth. His hands had always smelled faintly of linseed oil and tobacco, and his studio had been a cathedral of dust where light struggled through stained windows thick with smoke. The canvas had stood unfinished upon its easel: two boys carrying the body of a wounded angel.
He had first seen it through the curling haze of his pipe, the figure emerging between veils of grey like an apparition reluctant to be born.
âWhy do the boys help him?â he had asked.
âWrong question,â the painter answered, and stole the pipe from his fingers as though it were his by right. âWho would dare to wound an angel?â
Even now, across the gulf of years, Niccolò found he had no answer to give.
His hand rose of its own accord, drawn toward the crease that troubled the ladyâs brow, aching to smooth it away as though sorrow itself could be erased by the brush of gloved fingertips. Yet he halted inches from her face, the impulse dying beneath the weight of propriety. The hand retreated, settling instead upon the brim of his hat.
Could angels be Irish? The thought arrived with absurd solemnity. He knew devils could be Italian, he had been raised on the proof of it. Surely Heaven could afford Ireland a few saints.
âThe⌠Whistledown paper?â he echoed, foolish as an owl in daylight. Had he misheard? Paper? What dominion could paper hold over a soul? And who, in hellâs bewildering creation, was Whistledown? âI confess, my lady, I have not the honourââ
His governess had wielded its name like a rod. Mind your conduct, or Lady Whistledown shall write of you!
Was this unseen woman tormenting her? Threatening an angel? The thought alone stirred something violent beneath his ribs.
âForgive me,â he said, and sat beside her before he had given his legs leave to move, tilting his head to hers as though he might read her face by a different light. He was not studying her, he told himself so, and did not believe it. This was the face that had haunted his sleep these many nights; why, then, did it sit here now in flesh and blood, breathing, vulnerable to every wretch with a quill? Why should such a face be reachable at all, by gossipers, by liars, by the whole grubbing world?
âTell me, is this Whistledown person persecuting you, my lady? It is not to be borne. We shall have the authorities called.â
Such a dangerous word. He knew nothing of her. He had obligations that waited elsewhere, darker purposes that tolerated no distraction. The road before him was already stained with choices from which there would be no absolution.
And yet⌠she looked so sorrowful, sitting there. Did she not?
âI will help you, my lady,â he said, and put out a gloved hand as though the moor itself had opened between them and he meant to pull her across it. There had to be a reason she haunted his sleep.Â
The bishop had once told him that angels scattered souls across one anotherâs paths as lanterns in the wilderness, that salvation was rarely found alone, but reflected in anotherâs suffering.
Perhaps she required saving, or perhaps she had been sent so that, in saving her, he might still salvage whatever remained of himself.
âMy name is Niccolò Salvatore,â he said, bowing his head ever so slightly. âAnd I am at your service.â
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