The next evening doesn't dawn, as evenings are incapable of the act. Thus, with the setting of the sun, a renewed amount of activity sweeps through the villa, preparations for master and guests' awakenings. Samuel is, comparatively, an early riser, and as is his habit, the first hour of his wakefulness is spent in contemplation of the Talmud, within his library - as opposed to his study, another chamber entirely.
     The smell of baking bread fills the villa completely, the days of the week specifically ordered for specific things at the Magister's command. Today is the day that bread is baked, though as to what he does with it... One hour passes, and the scroll is rerolled, carefully, and he rises, sweeping the skullcap from his head as he goes forth to find his guests, gaze redolent with thought and secrets.

     Alire's early rising habits were well ingrained during his early years at this very villa. Prior to your arrival into his story, Giancarlo, his life was measured out in habits, in mundane tasks, in ritual so practiced it took on the appearance of natural phenomena. He would wake. He would pray. He would read. Then he would spend time in further study in his greenhouse. He would have a glass of wine and then, after all of this was done, he would leave the house for dinner.
     This is how he filled the centuries. A sea of experience created one painstaking drop at a time...
     How things have changed. Though he rises early yet, he does not immediately enter a conversation with the Almighty. Instead, he speaks to his lover, he adjourns to the bath to refreshen. He smells the baking of bread and suddenly wishes he were in Poitiers. It reminds him of his city.
     One hour passes, and a handful of minutes after, and then there is activity at the guest chambers. Alire pauses in the hall, pauses to breathe the smell of baking bread. "What is it about that smell," he quietly wonders. Who is not stopped by it? Alire is clothed rather simply for Alire. A pair of grey trousers, a white sweater over it.

     "A home. Hearth." Cesare speaks softly, as if to speak any louder should crumble the world. His brown hair is disheveled slightly, but his black slacks and white shirt are neat. His eyes appear a little watery, but a smile is given to Alire anyway.
     Cesare's feet tap softly on the floor's runner. He twists, then runs a hand through his head. A blink attempts to clear the fog away, but it is unsuccessful. Watery eyes are also glassy, when inspected in brighter lights.
     "Did you...get the present for our host? Well, my host," Cesare murmurs, a little confused. He's not sure where he's left his gift.

     There's the discreet sound of a door opening, footsteps - the door closes again. It's not loud, but it doesn't need to be, and Samuel has his own way of announcing his presence - an announcement made to forestall any discomfort or embarassment, as a good host must.
     "Gentlemen. I apologize - but I see you are coming out, and my timing, if not excellent, could be far worse." The lines of his jaw work, a smile quirking behind the salt-and-pepper of his beard. "The night is upon us, and I will shortly go to light the candles. You may attend, if you wish," and it's said more to Cesare than to Alire, as if conferring a signal honour upon the man, "though there is no requirement, either." The smile again, quiet and companionable, secure. His home. His place, and himself at the centre of it, within himself.
     He turns to Alire, then, and addresses him quietly. "I have a book for you, for when your hours will allow it. It is one of my own creation, and I believe you may find use for it, though it is not to be read now." Not now. Not here. For when in another place, where rulership is the order of the day, and this place's refuge flown.

     "Ah, it should be in the room with the other things. Was it not there?" Alire's eyes turn from the hallway and the direction from which the smell of bread eminates to Cesare. "Gian," quiet. He starts to ask him: What is the matter? For he can see the shine of his eyes, he notes every small detail. The speaking of Giancarlo's name conveys it all. "I will get it," Alire murmurs, just as Samuel appears.
     He bows his head a little, his smile warm, if somewhat distracted. And there is a rush of coloration at the quiet, humored implication. Worse timing! Ah! He looks from Cesare to Samuel, the smile remaining, slim but warm. "I thank you, magister. You know, I am always in search of text. I look forward to it..."

     "Good...evening, Sir," Cesare murmurs, giving a bob of his head to the arriving host. The subject of the host's nature hasn't come up. However, Cesare knows better than to ask, and knowing Alire's particular trait, he assumes similarly of his teacher. Cesare shook his head negatively at Alire's question, and looks between the two men as Alire speaks of fetching something.

     "If you will excuse me... just a moment," Alire says. "We have left something behind." He looks to Cesare, smiling. "I will be right back..."
     Alire turns toward the guest chamber. He can hear everything behind him, and he is listening...

     One eyebrow crawls upwards, as Samuel looks between knight and magician. My timing may not be bad, but it could, perhaps, be better still ... "It is an anniversary," he says simply. "I go to light candles in memory of that anniversary - an hour after sundown, to burn until the next night. It is our way." And, after all, there are so very many Jewish alchemist vampires who attempt to practice their religion after their deaths.
     He takes a slight step back, as if to allow air to rush forward into the increased space between himself and his guests, smiling carefully. There is a wealth of care in his movements. There is no point in wasting motion, wasting energy - there is too little of everything to be wasted, or so suggests his stance. "Of course," the Magister murmurs. "Perhaps I shall go to the ceremony, and we meet after, in the room with the tiles?"

     The ceremony is intriguing. But mention of the tiles, and Cesare's brow flutters. "Ceremony?" he wonders, looking back to Alire, but taking steps to follow Samuel. "Which...anniversary is this?" he asks, certainly interested. "Unless...I'm sorry, am I intruding?" by asking, that is.

     "It is an anniversary..." It is a question that floats upon the air, wavering like a standard in the midst of Alire's departure. It is not like him not to remember. But he does not. It is as it is.
     Alire disappears from view for a moment, entering the chamber from the hall. Vampire ears can detect him looking for something. Finding something. Turning to return...

     "We light candles to remember." Samuel's expression remains unchanged, that almost kindly smile still focused on his guests, but there is, for a moment, a light that has died behind the shrewd gaze. "Those who have passed before us, never to return. In a long life, there become many such." A long life, and a longer unlife ... "There are many memories to be honoured," he says simply. "But, I do not expect others to accompany me in my remembrances."

     There's an Oh from Cesare, but he doesn't understand. Judaism is only known academically, and in this case, he can only guess how it is practiced here. Signs are here and there, certainly, but what brand? So, without knowing, Cesare works to be polite.
     "A day of the dead..." Cesare nods, coming up with the most generic 'anniversary' honoring those gone that he can think of. Something common across all theologies. "I would be glad...to participate...if it's not...a problem..."
     Once more, Cesare twists, looking for Alire. Connection needed. "To..accompany you, I mean."

     "Of course, magister," Alire says, quiet reverence overlying the cadence of his words. In his hands he bears a wooden box, rather book-like in shape, but it is not a book, nor does it contain a book itself. He turns to Cesare, he smiles.
     Connection...
     We make a geometric connection, triangular focus: me upon you, you upon Samuel, Samuel upon you. The intersecting angles of our evening.
     "I think you should give it of your own hands, amice," Alire says to Cesare, turning to look to Samuel as he gives the box to Cesare. "I would very much like to accompany you, magister. Those who have come before us are no less among us."

     There is no surprise in his eyes, no challenge, not even sardonism, merely a silent acceptance. Nu? This is the way it is, the shape of the world as it reveals itself. "Then," Samuel says aloud, "if you will follow me, gentlemen? All ritual may reveal itself, but the dead have, I think, waited on me long enough. I would not wish to disappoint them, and leave them thinking I have forgotten."
     The full lips quirk up again, at that. Where the dead have passed, my dead have no memory, no life left, to think of me, thinking of them. But this is ritual, and it is a comfortable thing, shaped to my existence. And ritual must be obeyed, whether or not it acts as a conduit. He politely ignores the existence of the box, for now - to ask For me? seems too precocious, to look expectant, impolite. "It is," he tells Alire, "in the smallest room, to the west."

     Cesare nods, taking the box from Alire. As he touches Alire's hand -- no secret kept there -- Cesare seems to lean gently forward. There is a smile, and he shuffles to turn back towards Samuel.
     "Just a moment? For my host," Cesare says softly, "...thank you for your generosity and kindness. You have a lovely home and I am honored," a glance to Alire, "...that you would have me." In your house and with the man you cared for. "It is...a small thing. But I hope you find it...useful." With that, a rosewood box is offered forward. Plain it is, cut squarely. "The finest of my city. A friend...she carries beautiful things."

     Alire nods and smiles, the smile growing with the passing touch, the exchange of the box becoming as affectionate and intimate as the exchange of an embrace, a kiss, or quiet and shared laughter.
     As Cesare offers the box, the gift, to his sire, Alire's expression softens. He has great love, and great admiration, for you both. To see this exchange -- it is a ritual of its own.
     Alire glances toward the west and nods to Samuel's direction. But just now he makes no move. He watches. He smiles. He slides his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

     A minute bow, a curve of the lips which would do Machiavelli proud - it gives nothing away, save grace. Samuel accepts the box in both hands, a formal gesture that implies more than mere etiquette. I have nothing to fear from you, you, from me, nothing in return. See, here are my hands.
     "It is kind of you, to bring such to me - I always have appreciated fine workmanship, wherever I may find it." Indeed, Alire might remember Samuel pausing, on one rare out-of-doors walk at night, to examine the joinings of a carpenter's dresser, laid out while the varnish dried, and the resulting conversation with the man that lasted half the night - knowledge and appreciation of knowledge, sought and found in all things. Gently, he moves to lift the lid, expression placid and grave all at once.

     Within the box, a velvet lining. Smooth, it has a high shine. Whatever's within, will not stick.
     A shake to the left and right, beneath a little velvet coverlet, is a box full of gold leafing. Made for illuminating books and other hand-crafted items, like spines. No foil... a hand has lifted gold and rendered it in an essential form. The thinnest flakes, demanding a perfectly calm hand and the tiniest of tools to lift each flake out for use.

     Cesare smiles, but he is weary. Each passing moment is a labor. The flu, perhaps. Once the box is gone, Cesare's arm slips around Alire's, though Alire's hand rests in his pocket. He waits to see if the gift is acceptable.

     Alire turns at the touch and at the touch he leans in. A kiss placed at Giancarlo's forehead -- nothing is hidden. Not here. Were there a greater bond, a connection of blood, he would be able to feel Cesare's weariness. He cannot. He can only note his quiet.
     And at the moment, he considers it out of politeness.

     A pause, and then another smile, almost secretive with the knowledgable light in his eyes. Samuel knows how to use this, a myriad of uses for this. The box is again closed on its precious contents, and another wordless, small bow is given to Cesare.
     "Kindness and wealth beyond my expectations," the Chasid informs the Italian, "and my thanks must, accordingly, go to you. I only hope that my hospitality is sufficient, to earn such praise, and such prize."
     The keen gaze sweeps over both men opposite him as he straightens, and he continues. "Come then, if you would - the dead have waited, and I fear their pique if I longer wait. And after - we will adjourn to another room, for some small repast, and ... to discuss matters."

     Matters? Cesare's face shows some flush of emotion. Perhaps worry. He nods though, and turns to accompany both of you to the remembrance ceremony.

     There is no blush from Alire, nor is there any motion or desire to break the arm's embrace. Instead, as knightly escort, he places his hand upon the joined arms and follows Samuel, arm in arm with Cesare.
     A smile lingers on his expression, more an indication of warmth than motion of mouth. Cobalt eyes look from magister to lover. Still, nothing is said. In the silence of the journey, Alire revels, he rejoices in it.

     Without smiling, now, Samuel turns away. He is not displeased - there is simply no need to smile, and movement wasted is energy lost. He paces down the hallway, leading a winding trail from guest room to the western side of the villa, and the small room therein. There is no door to the room.
     Within, there are sloping openings in the plaster walls, niches everywhere of varying sizes, to make up for the utter lack of furniture. Well - not utter. There is a single mahogany chest from floor to ceiling in one corner, which he goes to and opens, and inside are shelves with rows upon rows of white beeswax candles.
     "I still make my own," he comments quietly, as he selects one fat pillar and three smaller candles. "If you have those you wish to remember," Samuel adds, meditatively, "you may make use of my supplies. You need not participate, however, if you do not wish."

     Curious tradition -- the white candles stored for the dead -- not the tradition itself. Cesare is unsure of himself, wondering still if he is intruding. He's not so sure Samuel would have said if he were. He leans gently against Alire, not too much, and simply waits.
     "Oh," Cesare thinks, moving to untangle his arm from Alire's. He might have people to remember, and may be used to this ceremony.

     People to remember...
     Alire withdraws slightly. "I only have two hands, and you only have so many candles," he murmurs. How many? One and sixty, I would need. "But I will light one, one for all... singular in my mind." Each brother lost becoming Brother in his mind. Each life a symbol of a time, of a past. One candle to be lit to represent them all.
     Remembering...
     One for Michele... one for Beauchamps...one for sixty others, packed in the dunjon. Forty of them felt the flame. The rest tortured. Then forgotten. But not by him.
     Alire straightens, glancing to Cesare. He gestures for him to go ahead, to take a candle. He will follow.

     "You go," Cesare whispers to Alire. He'll just stand and watch. "I am...alright." No candles for parents or friends gone in a century and a half. Perhaps he's simply fatalistic. They're gone. They'll not come back. They're remembered in actions and stories, when recalled. Nothing more.
     Cesare pats Alire's arm and takes a step back, out of the way.

     There is a smile again, rising from the quiet, lighting upon Alire's mouth and in his eyes. He nods and he moves toward the cabinet of candles.

     For Samuel, it is different. He does this ... often. Perhaps not every day, but the dead, they are marked by the days of their deaths, and it is on those days he remembers them. The fat pillar, first, then, is reverently set into one of the largest niches, and his lips form a word - no, a name. It is almost a prayer. "Rosa..."
     He steps back, and then to the side, and the remaining candles placed in their respective spots, and the Magister takes up a taper, lighting it, and approaching the candles once again. Fluid Hebrew passes his dark lips, a melodious rise and fall that bears no resemblance to the modern cantor's often whining tones. "Baruch a'tai Adonai..."
     God is great, God is good, let God remember us and bless us, and let Him cast His eye over us without seeing us when He is displeased. A moment, then, eyes closed in prayer, and open again. Time enough in that moment to call up memory of the dead, one by one, calling them forth to live again in the mind's eye, the memory that does not cease merely because one is undead, preserved in time past time's due.
     And he steps back, smiling as patiently as any saint or murderer, turning to Alire and Cesare, to allow them their turn, as it were.

     Cesare holds his position, hands folding together at his lap. He watches both of you, reverent in his quietude. Eyes glance left and right though, as if nervous.
     In this moment, it's difficult not to think of his sainted parents, who kept it to themselves that their child was unlike others. It was a burden really, to hide what the village would so easily call dark and demonic. Yet it was something they bore as best they could. Until the day that their Giancarlo could defend himself, or, as he chose, leave the village. But by then, all of his parents' excuses for strange events had worn so thin.
     They were buried in a family cemetary, near their kin. There was a plot for their beloved Giancarlo, but he died elseplace, it was said, his body never returned to be near his parents.
     Just as well, much of the town thought at the time.
     A smile crosses Cesare's lips. It's nice to think of them. The humor of their tales. The sweetness with which they raised me.
     Ah well. Cesare exhales and steps towards the cabinet as well. His feet do not lift far from the floor, and so he walks with a slight shuffling noise.

     Alire could not place the faces of his family if put to a test of fire. He recalls them only vaguely. Mother's blonde hair. Father's blonde hair. Furs. Horses. Not much else.
     He takes a candle in his hands. He thinks of a small stone cottage in the foothills of the Alps. A secret spot, so he thought. A stone cottage that was once a shelter between the great manse in Switzerland and the flowered plains of Provence.
     He had gone there. It was his suggestion to meet there. To seek shelter from Phillip the Fair's wrath and the weak pope's weakening constitution. They were followed. When Michele came, they came too.
     That was it. But in the moments before they came, there was glory.
     His fingers pad softly upon the beeswax. Candle taken. His remembrances are silent. So are his prayers. He focuses upon it, he looks to both men with him. This is his family. This around him now. These are the ones he loves. There is a smile for this. That is it. And in the moments before the candle is lit, there is glory.

     A moment only. Were he alone, he would perhaps take an hour, or longer - but Samuel knows that the dead will still be here next year, and they will not think of him any less for not dawdling over their meager remains this year. Nor will he think less of himself - he knows himself too well for that to happen, without hesitancy, without irresolution.
     "Then, gentlemen," his voice is quiet, serene, "when we are ready, we shall leave the dead behind us, and proceed to the present, and future, in the company of the past, mm?" His lips twitch again; he amuses himself, no matter how obscure others may find him.

     Cesare turns about, a single candle in his hand. One candle for parents joined. He shuffles over, finding a place for them. "For mama and papa. They were kind." In an age when they did not have to be. There's distance from their memory, for no tears are shed. Instead, he smiles as he places their candle in a spot and lights it.
     Cesare takes a step back to admire his work. Maybe it is not so terrible to remember the past.

     The candle is lit. Alire looks at it for a time, silently. His prayer carried in an exhale. That is all. And then with an inhale, the past is set down even as the candle is set down. He turns to you both, his demeanor more quiet, introspective, than previously.
     He is ready. Alire turns from the candle, he returns to Cesare, his hand at his back, lightly touching.

     The Talmud has many lessons. Life is so many sheets of onion skin; memory, the layer between the front and back of the onion skin. And, of course nothing of the sort; Samuel would say this. He has said it, and it has confused more than one of those few he has taken as student in the past. Now, he says nothing. He turns, and leaves.
     Down the corridor, again, and back, then, to the room where the incomplete fresco has been set up - in, and to seat, and Samuel makes himself comfortable, beckoning to the other two men with one hand. "Come," he invites, "sit, and we shall ... speak, no doubt, of many things."

     Cesare was quiet during the walk, his arm snaking once more around Alire's. His breathing matched his pace, and a hand touched his forehead as you all arrived into the room with the fresco.
     "Interesting...I...don't recall the seats." No, Cesare didn't expect to -sit- in the room. He looks about and finds a spot that would hold two. When he settles in, he decidedly faces you, Samuel, not the whole of the fresco.

     A hand to the forehead. That gets Alire's attention. "Amice," he wonders. The headache has returned? He pauses, waiting for Giancarlo to sit before him before doing the same.
     He is still quiet. Concerned for Giancarlo, waking from the reverie of remembrance. His blue eyes lift, drifting around the room, the tiles. He looks to Samuel, as if waiting for the first topic.

     "I had the seats moved in, as I thought it might be preferable to standing." Samuel is amused, and he allows the amusement to colour his voice with warmth. There are not so many seats. A chair, for himself, a cushioned bench, for the others - facing the fresco, as it happens. No escaping it, as it predominates.
     Samuel is seated to one side of it, facing the bench, but able to easily see the colourful tiles without more than a minute tilt of his head. "Please ... be comfortable and at ease. I believe there are things which must be spoken of, are there not?"

     Not by Cesare. His flu-like symptoms: paleness, clammy skin, general lethargy, are evident. He's getting something. But such is life, yes? He inhales and sits back, angling himself to look, as best he can, upon the two of you present.
     Cesare looks to Alire for speech here. His mentor, his home. He is but a guest.

     "Where to begin," Alire wonders. He looks to Cesare. No, you don't look like you feel well. "It is more than a social call," their arrival here, "... when I came to Provence on my way to Venice... I mentioned to you," his eyes focus on Samuel, "... the headaches Giancarlo was experiencing... in my home. We have looked at the house, I have had it inspected," he motions with his hand. I have told you all of this. "I was hoping you could shed some light, perhaps. Offer some advice..."
     Alire glances to Cesare then. "And you, amice, you do not look as if you feel well now... do they happen even here, the headaches?" Blue eyes alight on Samuel again. "I am... hoping it is not me," a corner of his mouth twitches.

     "Don't be silly," Cesare says softly. He smiles wearily. "And yes, my head hurts, but...then again, so does everything. I think I am getting a cold." Hand holds Alire's, at Alire's knee. Cesare looks to Samuel, as advice would be useful.
     "I know...that Alire...has told you, Sir...of my abilities? I have done several things to the house, to...try and ward off...well, eliminate...the possibilities." What you know of magics, Cesare does not appear to be aware. But he trusts Alire's suggestion that you know many things.

     "It would be better to say what it is, rather than what it may be." Samuel smiles politely, then there is a subtle alteration in his tone as he focuses his gaze onto Cesare.
     I have known magicians before. I am wary of them, and chary of my own secrets. But there are ties beyond this, now... "I do not know," he shifts to the Italian, letting the syllables roll off of his tongue, "how much you do or do not know of who and what I am. I would imagine your own intelligence to be sufficient to have gleaned that I have some ... small knowledge, because of my relationship to your heart's coven," a glance and small smile to Alire, and then his attention returns to Cesare, "but beyond that..."
     "I am a student of the universe," Samuel says simply, as if it needs no further explanation. Then : "I have long since given up formal introductions, and I have no titles which would mean anything to you. I belong to no orders, nor do I seek to. I am ... in essence ... a scholar, no more, no less. However, there was a time when I was known as Levias Radrama, and under that name, I penned a treatise which only a few have become familiar with, called The Seal of Solomon's Locks. Written some eight or nine hundred years ago.
     "In summary," Samuel's voice is polite and precise, quiet as he winds down his explanation, "I believe I can assist you - if you are willing to be aided. But it will require truth, and truth, sir, is a mirror you may not yet be prepared to gaze upon."

     A cold. Ah. I do not remember what those feel like. The hand that holds his own is lightly squeezed, and strong fingers make smooth and soft lines against the joined skin. Alire says nothing. He listens. His eyes focused ahead, yet not on anything in particular.
     He does not offer what he has said or not said. The alchemist and the magician are speaking. They do not need his assistance to do so. For now, his silence and his presence are enough.

     He does not seem the most trained or mentored sort, this magician. Cesare does not respond to the treatise's title or the name, but nods politely in deference that you are...were...someone of note.
     "I don't understand," Cesare admits. "I guess then...you do think it is the house? The headache...it goes with me. And I cannot see a physician. Not these doctors of this age."

     A faint smile. "No," Samuel responds quietly, "I do not think that it is the house. Tell me, have you tried focusing," and he leans forward, "past the headaches?" Alire is not forgotten. He is simply there, and a piece to be remembered, but at the moment, not needed 'to hand'.
     "I do not ask to cause you undue pain, but..." The answer, it is undoubtedly there. The scholar leans back and steeples his hands to his bearded chin, bristling with grey. "If you have not done so..."

     The expression on Cesare's face indicates that he's not sure -- again -- of what you mean. "To not think about it? Or to keep with my work...life...despite the pain?" That sort of focus, he understands. "I have done this, yes..."

     Though he is silent, he is not drifting in thought. Each word, each speaker, each point is absorbed. And Alire's fingers are forever in motion.

     "No," answers Samuel, regarding the magician, "I mean to concentrate on the pain, until you pinpoint the cause. It is within you, and until you confront it - you will not resolve it. You may run from it - or to it. It is a wall, and you must find your path around it. I cannot do it. Alire cannot do it - only you can decide, and choose - and act." And therein lies the rub. "It is the magician's duty," he adds quietly, "to act - the act of will, therein lies your power. It is not inconceivable that this blocks you."

     Cesare's eyes close, then open. "I can't. There is something. I have not had this before." Not until meeting Alire.
     Unnecessary information.
     Cesare's hand comes up to massage his eyes. The other remains firmly in Alire's hands. "Is there...something I can take...or read?"

     His thumb moves along Cesare's hand. Blue eyes lift and Alire tilts his head. He looks to Samuel. Golden eyebrows lift. He wonders. Something beyond the simply esoteric? What can be done...
     What can be done...

     A minute pause as Samuel gathers the reins of his thoughts, drawing them inwards behind the high brow, the pale, scholarly features immobile and giving away nothing, for the moment. "What you must read lies within you. Confront it, and you will find answers. Externally, your cues are set, but you must choose to read them."
     And with slow deliberation, he turns his dark gaze to focus on the fresco.

     And I thought Nate made little sense.
     You speak in the abstract. Too sublime. Too subtle.
     Cesare frowns. Confused and not feeling well, he sighs in exasperation. He doesn't turn his face to the fresco. The little pieces -- he can see each shard, it feels like -- give him a headache. The detail gives a headache. Sitting, gives a headache.
     "Maybe...I think I am too tired." And sick. "This cold." Cesare lifts his hand to feel his brow and his neck for a fever. "I should...lie down. I am sure you both have much to catch up on..."

     Alire does not study the fresco closely. He glances to it. His eyes skim the surface. He feels he is missing the point. What is so significant about the story this fresco tells? Or is that not the point?
     "Some tea, some honey and lemon," Alire suggests, turning to look to Cesare. "I will get it for you," he murmurs, "... and...yes, you should rest I think. Change of climate, hurried trip..." and voila, a cold.
     Alire turns to Samuel. "I appreciate your help, magister," he says. "... in talking of this matter...I... wish there were more I could do..."

     Samuel lifts his eyebrows, but does not argue. "Very well. I will be in my library for some time, then, if you should have need of me." He rises, bowing slightly. "I am willing to help ... with what I may."

     If Cesare glances at the fresco again, it's done only in a blazing blink. He stands up, ball of his palm at his eye. "Thank you," he offers softly. Stubborn thing. Cesare looks to Alire, expecting his company at least to the room's door. "I will," Cesare swallows, hand lowering to reveal his face once more, "...think on your words, Sir."

     Alire rises, hand still in Cesare's. "I will come with you." At least until you fall asleep. He bows his head to Samuel. "Magister..." I will find you perhaps later. That said, that felt, Alire turns, "I will see if Charles has some broth as well..."
     He seems to remember that being a good thing for a cold...

     "Of course," the antique relict of a wandering Jew, however well-preserved, responds with a small smile. "Until then, gentlemen, I take my leave of you. Good rest to you both."

Posted by rowan at June 03, 2003 12:55 PM