"Good, cheap coffee - now you're singing my song. Throw in a really good plate of crullers and I'd follow you anywhere," Damien declares with some enthusiasm. "When you start missing Tim Horton's, you know you aren't home, eh?"

     He sees you and he smiles with a rascal tilt. He doesn't say anything before he pulls you in for a hug and kisses you in fine Italian greeting. "Buona notte," he tries Italian on for size. "How was that? Is my accenting off?"

     "If only we poor human creatures could be guided by the Logic and Reason we crave. Your solutions are not new, they are simply not acted upon. Not so quickly. They say things are changing, more children heard playing in Venice these days. I hope it is so. At night, late," that mouth of his spreads in a smile as he lights up his cigarette, "...you can almost hear the collective breath of the city being held..."

     If I'd known that the last time I saw you would be the last time I would hold you, the last time I would be held by you, I would have done so much differently. But if I'd known, I wonder, would I have had the nerve to leave...

     "I think," Ian says softly, turning this face to you, "...there is a problem."

     "...All of this, it was built for you. For us. And we will invest in these things that make sense in a new age. For us. For me. So...that is what we are celebrating, oui? The start of a new day. The culmination of all my work, here and now. And the start of ... something new."

     Eyes flicker down towards the note, so carefully laid. All this blushing, all these statements, they make his curiosity unbearable. The frown starts as he gazes down the first paragraph, and it only settles more firmly in place by the end.
     "William."

     "When the time has come for me to empty myself of all of my tales, I swear to you, good gentlemen, that your stories shall not remain untold."

     William exhales slightly. "I know...we have been more open since returning from America. And I have needed that. And I appreciate how difficult it is for you." He adjusts your towel around your shoulder. "There's a part of me that ... wants to take the Directorate by storm one night. You and I... secret marriage... not so secret anymore."

     But this December, where water was expected (and by one particular visitor, actually anticipated) there is instead snow. And not just a dusting of snow. Several inches of snow hide the stones of the Piazza San Marco and icicles hang from the open mouths of St. Mark's golden lions.

     "Shall we talk about the hippopotamus in the room, or shall we continue to ignore it and make with more small talk?"

     "If you are not here for a book, then I do not know how I, a bookstore owner, may help you. But... tell me what the problem is. Perhaps there is something," Albizzina finally looks up, her dark eyes fixing forward, her lovely olive face tilting, "... I may do for you, Miss Higgins. Would you like a cappuccino?"

      "It is business, not love. You are Italian. You understand this. Do not forget what we are and are not, Paolo. Whatever you pretend for the sake of the children."

     "Notte," the Italian says, lifting his voice so that the person may hear it. "Excuse me... do you need a ride?" He tries it first in English. Has to be a tourist, right?

     "I am well aware of how pleased you are to see me growing fat. You need not think that I will be similarly pleased should you do likewise, no. You must remain hard and hard-working." She sniffs, turning her head away.

     "Venetian. From Venice. Your parents ... met there." One eyebrow raises quizzically. "And, of course, your parents met by some startling, astounding series of coincidences that made for a hell of a story in the retelling, didn't they."

     "You smell of adventure," Alire continues quietly. He closes his eyes and he sighs, making a sound of delight as he does. "Coffee... limonata...sunlight...you passed by a garden... I will say in the old quarter of Cannaregio. Hmm... and a branch of lilac brushed your shirt...I can smell it from here..."

     Paolo looks over to the voice to see a familiar face that has not been seen for some time now. He nods a greeting. It is as close to smiling as he gets. "What will happen when we fail?" He looks at you a moment more, then says succinctly: "We will sink..."

     His hands rest upon his thighs, his head bowing a moment, and then he looks up to the sky. "Yes, I am ready, Cosimina. I ... must hear it. There is no point running from fortune, fate or time. They will always catch you." Dark eyes turn to you, his face shown to you and his expression.

     The archangel does not ask how you are doing. That is evident. Nor what happened. He knows. Or what you might need. It is evident. Instead, he simply exists in the space, taking Time. Giving Time away to you. It is yours of his to do as you wish.

     "And when they have found you, you shall find that while you may have done with Venice, Venice has not yet done with you."

     It must be why her shades are pulled down, her windows shuttered, the daylight pouring within the chamber subdued and tea filling a cup instead of espresso. Albizzina wanders from the backroom to the front room, kettle in hand and pouring yet another cup of orange tea. In it, she grinds nutmeg and drops three drops of vanilla into it.

     That is the name of your husband this night. As the excitement of the early morning fed into the furor of the afternoon and the frenzy of gossip, gossip of orgiastic proportion -- Caligula-like gossip, fitting for the event itself -- and now spills into the torrent, the whirlpools of the evening. Like the Scylla and Charybdis, he churns in epic proportions.

     "You must decide on what this means, gondolier. Anything which I say at this point will seem to you now or later to be intended to guide you for my own dark purposes. Your conclusions must be your own. You have been played false..."

     Apart from the birth of his children, each of them, he cannot pinpoint a happier moment. Not even the knowledge of its...mirage nature, ephemeral and unlasting, can strip it from him tonight.
     Here, in front of all these people, Paolo smiles...

     Albizzina moves to stand before you, she reaches to take your hands. "Blessings on your children, Cosimina. All new children in this City are blessings. Visible and tangible agents of this Hope. That all is not lost. That we may salvage the future. I believe it. If We believe it, it is possible... hmm? Even love between you and Paolo is possible..."

     "Why do you dwell on how it happened, Paolo? Are you hoping that I will suddenly sigh and rest my head upon your shoulder, gaze into your eyes and say, 'oh, my darling Paolo, how very handsome you are, and I adore you with all of my heart, and if only the sea could rise to cover me so that we could forever be together'? I am not a schoolgirl, and I do not think either of us have very much interest in each other's hearts."

     "I am doing the best that I can," he protests it quickly. Always, the arguments. "Do you think that it is easy for me? I should be twice the man that I am, just to get around." He sighs. "And I feel that with everything and the sea, I am less than half of what I should be." There is frustration there. With this, with Rosalie, with Venice.

     You speak. He writes. "I do not think it is so simple. Your gifts are your gifts. Your skills, your skills. You should not compare yourself to Nathaniel," the way he speaks that name. An obvious attempt at being civil, but he does not hide the partial frown.

     "I think that I am bored," Ian laments, filling the air. His eyes look up above, gazing there. A careless rest, filled with his usual thinking. "Well," Ian exhales, somewhere deprecating his inaccuracy, "...I find myself, not really looking to do much of anything. Very odd," he says to himself. In truth, he's probably talking to himself more generally.

     "We will figure it out, and piece these things together with logic. There has to be an order, a pattern. You and I will find it, Giancarlo."

     You may think that I am not paying attention to him. I am, really. You might not believe it, but it's when we are like this, that he has my full attention and I often have the best epiphanies. What is more important than now?

     The kiss is accepted as tenderly as given. Giancarlo smiles weakly and nods, hearing the words from you, but perhaps not yet taking them to heart. Brown eyes still look slightly downcast. "God...does not care for us...does he, Alire?"

     "I know what has happened to your Darius, and who was responsible."

     "So, to friends, yes?" He lifts the glass again and turns back to the kitchen. Who would know the enmity that exists beneath the pleasant smiles and genial conversation? Who would know indeed.

     "You...don't like him..." Cesare observes, saying it directly. He smiles though.
     "No, I don't." Nate's honest answer.

     Paolo looks to the passengers in glances timed with the stroke of the oar, in rhythm of the motions that make the gondola sail forward. "Ah... so you, too, are bound by a destiny, a fata," Paolo says.

     "You are close to Il Dignitaro. There are those who would use that - use you. Or they would try to harm you, to get to him, or out of jealousy, frau. That is the way of our existence. I have been... trained well to note such, and avoid it."

     One fingertip taps on the table absently, the lone drummer of a vanished army. "If Il Dignitaro will permit, I will examine - however, some materials for initial examination will be required."

     The look on the German's face is one of discomfort, insufficiently masked by politeness. It is the expression of why are you telling me this combined with exactly how much trouble am I going to be in for now knowing this.

     "Why," William begins, "... are you here then. At all?" He leans his head on his hand, fingers propped up against his temple. Maybe he has a headache? It is a thoughtful pose, perhaps. And indigo eyes do focus on you. Peer at you. You are a strange creature.

     Another swallow is hurriedly downed, and Cesare looks into the glass of white. "We...haven't talked much about it of late. Those memories," he says softly. "I...don't know sometimes," he admits nervously, "...what they all mean."

     Karoly's gaze is hidden - perhaps she glares daggers, but she does not weep; no tears become visible at the veil's edge.

     "Perfectly alright, " The voice is Spanish accented, "It is not possible to win everything that one might want. It was a worthwhile night, none the less."

     I am not toying with you, my dear, I am only delaying you... Karoly, murderess of Johannes Arnaul of Saarbruken. My name is Toreador, and I have come for the blood you owe me...

     "That's not what has you upset, dear Victoria. That's not it at all. What has you upset is that that decision is so far out of your hands, you can't even imagine what it would take to make it come about." Mick watches her evenly.

     Girault looks between the two of you for a moment and then he exhales, "I will apologize for my tone. I do not wish it to seem that I am some Svengali, keeping Ms. Whitethorne in a gilded cage, not allowing her the freedom to move, or to visit friends..."

     Pastoral delights, indeed. Why, sir, do you mean 'country matters'? Why now, all of the sudden, Shakespeare? You are too much like the Dane, perhaps. Yes, sad over the loss of a father. That's it. And no uncle, not even Villon, can pull you from your mourning.

     Yes. Well. Nothing makes a better first impression than a pratfall.

     "Anything strike you?" comes Raymond's voice from nowhere. He was not in the shop before the staring into the cases. And there was no alerting of his presence. He simply, suddenly, Is.

     The hand belongs to the slender arm that is attached to the slender figure of Albizzina Contato. The proprietress of Libri di Magia e di Mistero is reputed to be a true witch. There are many legends about the bookstore, some more fantastical than others. Some even say that she is hunting for the Doge's lost treasure of gold.

     There is the delicate rise of vanilla in the air, with a hint behind it of something more exotic, Eastern. Ceylon Vanilla, it is called, and distilled by the hands of only one woman in Europe, Constanz deWitt.

     The most elaborate and the most exclusive of Carnivale events awaits you all, each of you traveling there. You may see it around the bend of the Canal...

     Faith has seldom failed him, though gods and priests and popes have come and gone...

     And the colorful cherub drifts downward, solitary, to one of the grottos in this great maze of glass and gardens, the best of what would become Venetian palazzi and their hidden, grotto gardens millennia later...

     Your nights are spoken for. You are risen gently just past sunset. You are led into a great hall and made to sing scale after rising scale, stretching your vocal chords, working your vocal chords. Sometimes with Girault there correcting you.

     London. Is everyone going there? What is going on anyway? Well, you may know. A front of a battle only beginning to make itself known. Kit. Going to London.

     He closes his eyes and he listens as you speak, his mouth brushing your forehead, kissing your eyelids. An amorous benediction.
     I am your protection and your shelter...

     In the coalescence of dust and light, there is the faintest of outlines, a presence asserting itself. There is a shimmer near the doorway, something like the shine of sunlight against the gold of hair.

     And for all of that time, Alire did not move. He did not move at all. He did not breathe. He did not twitch. He did not shift in his sleep. There was Nothingness given shape. He became a statue. Sleeping Adonis on the riverside. Until the slipping of the sun...

     "I'm over 600 years old," he murmurs, the warmth of his hands on you, as they have been all the while. The touching does not end. The fingers curl and uncurl against your skin. He wonders what you shall do. "I was a knight, a... guardian of Pope Clement V."

     ...it is not then, Alire...we are different now, you and I...and we have all the Time in the world...

     Then a knock on the door. Perfect to the ticking of the clock. The man is out there, waiting. A small slip of paper in his hand on which is written this address. And a name.

     ...The news of Johann Arnaul's death spread quickly from the borders of Germany and France to Italy...

     "Finding the Doge's Gold," the one across from you says in all seriousness. "Maybe..." he smirks, turning around to see you, "...I can become wealthy and you can haunt me in better surroundings," a smile growing.

     The spear gleams. It is not made of gold but seems gold. Not made of bronze but seems bronze. Not made of earth but is as easy to hold as one hewn from the wood of her trees. "When London is ours," Michael intones, "... embed this in the center of the city." And the lines of battle will move forward at your command. You are the standard bearer now.

     But then, there is you. In his flurry, Soldekai pauses to see you and give a smile. "My love is true, Christopher," no matter of yours or how this began. "I believe yours is as well," the soldier talking. And whatever he had planned between you two this day is left in tatters. He has to go to Heaven. Soon, they will all know that he knows, that you know, and that all is clear. They, on the other hand, should know - the Archangel of Brilliance is his own being.

     Kit lifts his cup in a little salute to you. "Purity... that is something we can aspire toward, hmm? Some choose purity, others truth, others honor. We all have an ideal that we chase, like birds chasing after a comet. But it is the effort, I think, that is rewarded. Not the capture..."

     We all have our sorrow. We all have our joys. We have our reasons to smile and our reasons for tears. The Song of Solomon still rings so true. I was once a poet, too. I wrote psalms. But in the ash and in the fire of the birth and death of stars, I have not had a moment to do so since. Not since the time of David of Israel. Strange. Why did I let that go? To whom did I surrender it...

     "Maybe... we have been... because I had to realize it. Sometimes..." his voice goes soft. "...sometimes I have heard it happens that way, Brother Hope. Would it be wrong of me to say I was hoping for something a bit more... dramatic?" Kit tries to laugh, but he cannot. It's not funny.

     While your little feet sounded out the measure of your steps until they ended...well, wherever you stopped... the cherub -- for that's what he is -- quickly closed his eyes. Not attuned to you, he knows nothing about you, nor can he grasp who... or better yet what... you may be, little girl who moves quick like swallow. But he can, and therefore does, trace his Master's sigil on the nearest wall. Finger dragging the stucco and plaster in quick calligraphic swirls. "Just in case," he whispers to the stucco there...

     He is quiet for a moment, then you feel a little smile. "It is a good dream." And with it, he will ride from thoughts of captors and guards. From thoughts of leashes and cages and flesh and clay. It is a good dream.

     Brilliance has left Venice. Soldekai off on Heavenly errands, those as archangels have -- whatever they are. The sun hasn't been seen in days, and all of the record-breaking snow has turned to rain.

     The man at the door turns around, light brown hair falling into his green eyes. "Buoa mattina," he chimes, smile radiant. Beauty incarnate. Rather lithe, he looks like a dancer, despite the obvious clues of dressing in spandex pants and a sweatshirt. He's recently come from practice, it seems, and in his hands is a dish, covered in a towel.

"If you wanted to go to the church I would've taken you there in the morning, Christopher. This cloak and dagger shit isn't going to fly..."

     I have taken the back ways, the maze of small walkways and smaller bridges. Past the smell of bread baking -- truly, the very best definition of 'warmth' -- and the sound of a television set as I move past a cafe. I have come to speak with the ghosts of Monteverdi and Vivaldi. And to listen to the dreams of children. This way... the only way... to find my own...

     ...The lights of candles sparkle in multi-colored glass votives. Surrounding a window overlooking a small canal. The sounds of the Grand Canal are not far off, no. Wafting like the wind through the narrow passages of this old city. This old 14th Century gothic house, now separated out into various flats and spaces for rent, boasts some of the loveliest arched windows in all of the city. They are opened now, to let the breeze flow in.

     He pushes himself from the support, letting the breeze blow him your direction. "I should convince you to go to Copenhagen with me one night. Or how about Capetown..."