The moon hangs low over the Palazzo Grimani, former palace of a former doge's daughter, and outside the shoppe Venice sleeps. Even the gondoliers are off the canals for the most part, letting the taxis keep the rest of the fat summer fares.
But no matter the hour outside, a warm glow eases from the lentils and windows of the Libri di Magia, Venice's most famous bookstore. There is no sign saying Open or Closed. There is just the glow. Just the scent of coffee...
After being let off near the shop, Darby's lingered outside for a few minutes, wandering from the water's edge towards the door and then back, once, twice, finally third time seems to be the charm and she slows to a stop at the door. She crosses her arms over her abdomen, staring at it for the moment, glancing at the windows, though she'd never be so forward as to peek in.
Finally, she draws in a deep breath, giving herself a silent lecture, complete with stern expression and the occasional nod of her head - with luck, no one is watching - and then reaches out to knock on the door. After the night she's had, knocking on a door is perhaps one of the least odd events, but she still doesn't seem quite sure what to expect in response. Still, her expression is fixed into a polite, almost apologetic smile, arms forced back to her sides.
A cup floats within the gentle grasp of a graceful hand, poised and paused just short of the blushed lips that sought to taste its contents. The coffee originates from her grasp, the bowl of the cup. It lifts as a rivulet of steam, and then becomes as heavy as incense.
The smoke taps against the spines of books as it passes them by, streaming from the back counter to the front door before finally snaking through the keyhole.
Albizzina quirks an plucked and shapely eyebrow and finally tilts her cup for a sip of the coffee. "You do not have to knock," she says in a normal tone, the warm and rather blasé voice rides the surface of the smoke and sounds through the keyhole like through an intercom. "The door is open. Come in."
A jeweled hand reaches out and strokes the surface of a silver cat's fur...
There's another brief pause, another quick pep talk, and then Darby reaches a hand out to turn the knob at the invitation. She squares her shoulders, stands up straight, doing her best to look at least vaguely in control of the situation and then pushes the door open, stepping just inside. And yet, despite her best efforts, her nervousness isn't all that well disguised as a hand comes up to self-consciously smooth over her dark hair. Which has, after a long, hot London day and a plane ride, admittedly looked better.
"Good evening," she greets with a nod of her head, a quick smile that seems almost a nervous twitch. "I apologize for calling so late." She pauses, trying to think of how to phrase her reason for coming, but after a long beat, just makes do with another smile.
In the alley outside, a small group of shadows darken and grow thicker, humming with irritation. It pulses once, and then a pale-haired man is spat violently out of the center of the mass, arms folded protectively over his face. He hits the opposite wall with a sharp cracking sound, bouncing off and falling straight onto his ass. Not that his clothes will mind; battered jeans, a white cotton button-up shirt, and a decrepit navy PolarTec jacket are made to more or less appear rumpled and not much else.
He straightens, narrowing tawny eyes at the dissipating shadows and shakes himself once with a grunt. "Next time, leave the hair alone! Bloody tossers..."
Turning, he examines his locale - the surroundings - the remarkable absence of anything remotely lifelike - the closed door and the warm glow. "Well, I know she WAS here a moment ago. Stop pushing, I'll knock in a minute." Whoever he's talking to isn't visible - but he doesn't seem bothered by that. The voices in his head must make a quorum, for he steps forward.
The woman may not be immediately seen. The store is surprisingly large, particularly long, with a second story with a marble balcony. But what is first and most apparent is the fact that inside the confines of this store it is a lovely sunny day, the kind that may be experienced in Venice in the spring. Before it gets too hot.
At the far end of the store is a black-haired woman. Her curled hair is tamed in a grand architecture tonight, very Roman in styling, with braids intermixed with coilings, held in place by invisible pins, one might imagine. She is dressed in a sleeveless sheath dress of red satin and gold embroidery with a Mandarin collar, though the embroidered design is not remotely Chinese. A long chiffon scarf drapes from her neck, back over her shoulders. Her legs are crossed, her black heeled sandals dangling from her feet. In her hand, a simple white porcelain cup. Beside her, a silver-haired cat, an old cash register, and an enormous book. To lift it would surely require two additional people.
The woman at the back of the store does not look up. "I imagine you are not here for a book. That could wait until tomorrow. But... if you would like a book, I am happy to oblige....miss...?"
The door is shut behind her rather absently, Darby's attention suddenly taken up by the likes of the store. The sheer size and stature of it get a look, and the books a longer one. At first the discrepancy in the space-time continuum isn't even noticed as first, though as it sinks in, her brow furrows slightly in mild confusion.
Various thoughts tumble about, making her look even more serious than she usually does, and it takes a moment for her to remember herself, for the woman's presence to return to her conscious thought. There's another apologetic smile, wasted though it may be, and the question of her name gives her pause. "Er-" Her ID claims she's Marianne Casey, but she decides to opt for the truth: "Higgins. And, ah, no, I'm not here for a book. I'm ... honestly not quite sure what I am here for; however, I've been pointed in this direction and told you might be able to help me." A little hesitantly, she strays another step or two into the room.
The tawny-eyed man sniffs at the air, looking querulous. "Raspberries! No. No, not raspberries. Summer linen? What is with you women, anyway? Gah. Cross-breezes." He scrapes at his nose with one hand, then raps on the door - TAHtahthtTAHtah. "Bloody women," he mutters. "Why'd I come to Venice, anyway..."
"Could've been safe in bed in Glasgow..."
"Or dead in my bed in London..."
"Why do people knock on a shoppe's door," her voice intones, "when the shoppe is clearly open?" Albizzina lifts her cup of coffee for another sip. She seems untroubled by the world, by the knocking on her door, or the young girl and her problems. As if she were incapable of any sort of turbulence.
An Italian woman incapable of turbulence?
"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?"
Darby starts a little at the knocking, though she attempts to recover quickly with some grace. "Should I ... get that?" she offers, glancing somewhat uncertainly over towards the door, though at the woman's question, she gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Well, it is late. I, personally, didn't wish to presume," she explains. Her nerves seem to be slowly recovering, though she doesn't seem all that settled yet.
"Frankly, I'm not certain how you're meant to help me either, but I'm a bit lost and rather out of my element, so when someone pointed me in a direction, I thought there no harm in at least trying." She lets out a slow breath. "The problem is ... rather involved, I'm afraid. And perhaps unbelievable, depending on your point of view. And, er, yes, thank you, a cappuccino would be lovely." It's been a long day: she only just remembers about the door, reaching over to make good on her offer to get it.
Albizzina glances back down to the book, her hand lifting her own cup. Her other hand makes a wave, the jeweled bangles glittering and chiming. Another wide porcelain cup appears, floating outward to the young girl. "Most stories that lead young women to strange bookstores in the middle of San Polo are complicated. But... as I have nothing else to do but study the physical properties of Donna Angelina Monica di Sant'Angelo, please... tell me the story. I do not think I will know how I may or may not be of help to you without it..."
Albizzina does not glance up as the young woman turns to open the door. She doesn't seem to care whether it is opened or not.
The door swings open to reveal a casual-looking fellow, British as the day is long, tawny eyes sardonic and expression slightly cocky. "Evening, princess. Told you we might meet again. See you made it all in one piece. Mind if I come in?"
He isn't waiting for an answer, sauntering in and looking around alertly. "Nice place," he calls out, looking around for the owner. However, before he sees the owner, he sees the cat. And apparently he does not smell good to cats; the cat looks baleful and as if it might puff out and hiss, and he takes a step back towards the door.
"It had to be cats. Why did it have to be cats? Dogs, goldfish, canaries, alligators, hyenas, British au pairs - hell, especially au pairs - I could do with just fine. But it's always sodding cats, isn't it."
"Tssh, Nimue," the Italian woman speaks with the curl of painted lips. "Why don't you go upstairs and sleep on your magic pillow. Give my greetings to the Sultan..."
With a loud meow, full of opinions, the silver puss hops off the counter and bounds upstairs...
Darby's eyebrows lift slightly as the cup comes drifting towards her and she reaches out for it a little hesitantly. "Perhaps not so unbelievable then," she murmurs to herself, looking down at it then, back up to note in a clearer voice, "Yes, thank you."
The sudden appearance of the familiar young man takes her more aback than the floating cup, though she tries with mixed success to hide the surprise. "I ... didn't expect it to be so soon," she admits, moving aside a little. She takes a sip of her drink then, as much for an excuse to pause and collect her thoughts as anything, noticing but not commenting upon the cat's reaction or the complaint against it.
"Right, well, my story. I suppose to give the condensed version, I found myself stuck in London, with no immediate way to return home, in an alley of apparently questionable repute, when this gentleman here happens upon me." She gestures at the young man in question. "I'm still not entirely certain why but after learning that my parents met in Venice, he sent me here."
The stranger in the midst - that is, the male - lifts two fingers in a salute. "I had my reasons." He seems to relax as the cat leaves the room, leaning up against the doorframe and folding his hands in under his jacket in his armpits. "One which I think that belladonna here will be able to figure out - or know someone who can point you on the right track, at least."
He seems to be settling in now, though no less awake for his relaxed stance. "And if I'm not wanted, I can always leave. But you don't have any idea how many favours I've used up, getting you here and then getting me here." He winces. "I'm not traveling by Spirit Airlines again."
Still the smooth waters of the witch's face do not so much as ripple. "It is your story," she murmurs. The plain white porcelain cup she has held lifts from her grasp and floats over to her red espresso machine. Milk steams and the grinder runs. It's useless to speak during all of that racket.
"I'm not really sure what I should explain, or even at this point if I care to help. Do... someone... tell," Albizzina speaks in her selfsame even tone, melodic and dry in humor as the sandstone in summer. "The suspense is killing me."
Albizzina lifts her hand, palm to the sky, and the cup slowly glides back to her, refilled with the froth and the coffee...
Darby glances back over at the young man, shaking her head slightly. "For my part, I didn't mean to imply that you're not wanted or that I'm not grateful for what you've done. But it's been an exceedingly long day, and I'm still not sure what it is you /have/ done, so I beg your pardon if I seemed a little short." She takes another sip of her drink, waiting out the noise of the machine.
"And I apologize to you, for being unclear," she directs now towards Albizzina, letting out a bit of a sigh. "I realize the half-told story must be trying on the patience, but I'm only being vague because I don't have many answers myself. This morning I set out from my home to do some research in London proper, and now I find myself here. The gondolier - Paolo, is it? - and the woman with him, they seemed to believe this was the proper place for me to come as well."
"Sometimes things have a way of being that they want to be. Other times, someone steers it the way it's supposed to be, or it's wanted to be." The man shrugs easily, staying in his position in the corner. "I'm hard to offend. All I know is I had a hunch - a little bird whispered to me, if you want to put it that way - and I did what I did and said what I said. I don't have much to add to that."
He waves one hand, then closes his eyes. "Why don't you show her the locket, Lucky Lucy?"
Albizzina merely lifts a plucked and shaped eyebrow as she lifts her cup for another sip. She's going to let both of you work this out amongst yourselves.
For now... at least....
"Yes, but I'm still not very clear on what that hunch was," Darby protests one last time, though even in her tone there seems to be an acceptance that this is never going to get her anywhere; by now, it's more about proving a point than expecting a straight answer. "The locket?" She seems a little surprised by that suggestion, considering a moment, before shrugging. What could be the harm, really?
"It was my mother's," she explains, fishing out the silver locket from where it rests under her blouse and then setting down her drink a moment so that she can unfasten it rather than try to show with it still around her neck. "My father bought it for her when they met, here. Though he won't talk about it, so that's all I know." Holding it by the slender chain, she steps forward to offer it to the woman. It's a simple enough trinket, expensive but tasteful: a heart-shaped locket that opens to reveal a tiny picture of her mother on one side, her father on the other, and an engraving on the back with the name of the city and a date about twenty years ago.
Still unintroduced, the man just nods once, seeming satisfied as he leans back against the wall. He doesn't even open his eyes.
Do you have anything else to add? Her gaze asks the question as she looks to the tawny-eyed man. "And you sent her to Venice. Hmm... well," Albizzina sets aside the coffee. "I am afraid you were rather mistakenly informed. I myself am no... practitioner of the Fates or Fortunes, no cards no runes. But if you need a place to stay for a night until you may settle into ...whatever you believe that locket has to show you and what part, if any, this city might play in its past, you are welcome to a room here. I apologize... but the locket's significance is really lost upon me. After all, how many lovers had their love started here? Millions, over the past thousand years..."
Albizzina shuts off her espresso machine, her scarf hovering on the air around here where it drapes over her shoulders. "And you are?" she directs to the young man. "I am rather curious as to how you convinced a rather sensible-looking British girl to go off on a whim to a strange Italian city. You must be...quite persuasive..."
With a shrug of defeat, Darby steps back to replace the locket about her neck, glancing down at it briefly before tucking it away inside her blouse again. Despite her cynicism and wariness, clearly she had gotten her hopes up, at least somewhat, and now they fall again. "Yes, well, thank you for humouring me, all the same," she replies politely, with a succinct nod of her head, now looking over at the nameless young man.
"When you have no one to trust, perhaps you simply trust the first person who allows you to do so," she suggests absently as to how she was convinced, though it seems more an aside than an actual contribution to the conversation.
"If I'm a saint, I'm strictly of the plaster variety." The man shrugs easily, rubbing at one smooth-shaven cheek; despite his air of scruffiness, there's a certain well-kept air to him, as if the shabbiness is more due to some haste on his part than preference. "And I don't have a name, or I have a thousand - call me Nameless, it'll do, and it'll get us all in less trouble."
He straightens, reopening those amber eyes and looking from one woman to the other. "She had nowhere else to go," he says reasonably. "Why not here?"
"Of many places I can think of, Venice would not top the list," Albizzina dryly responds. Her expression is expressionless even as the name of the man is Nameless. "I shall then have to make up my own. I shall call you Capricious Copernicus, Convincer of Young Women."
The young woman is given a level look. "No woman should simply trust the first person she meets, particularly when he has no name and no stated reason for his purpose with you. Ending up in a strange city without contacts and with plenty of its own dangers is the least that could happen to you. I would caution you to be more cautious in the future."
Albizzina breathes across her cup of espresso, cooling it before she sips. "I have a room. Tomorrow I can put you in contact with others whose business it is to find the paths that cross our own. Perhaps they can be of more help to you."
Darby shrugs her shoulders, looking a little sheepish but at the same time resigned. "I'm afraid I simply didn't see many alternatives. Staying in that alley was clearly not a good idea, and, well, I suppose it was rather impetuous, but I can hardly deny that I was curious." A hand comes up to rest lightly over where the locket now rests beneath her blouse. "I'm not usually so rash. But I will bear your advice in mind, should I ever wind up in a similar situation, though I certainly hope it's never needed.
She casts a glance over at the Nameless one, studying him again with a quiet solemnity as if trying to decide for herself if she really would behave differently given another go around. Her attention returns to Albizzina at the offer, a relieved smile gracing her features, for once more warm and sincere than strictly polite. "Thank you. I - wouldn't want to be a burden, but it would be appreciated ever so much." It's not exactly gushing thanks, but there's a definite edge of true gratefulness to it.
"Copernicus? Well, at least I've got a nose." Nameless touches his nose with both hands as if to be reassured that it is indeed still there, leaning against the wall as he does so. "It isn't as if I took her virtue from her," he adds indignantly, straightening up with a glance between the two women. "I sent her here, didn't I? Not to my bedroom with instructions to wear a maid outfit with frilly knickers!"
He shrugs, settling back with a touch of two fingers to the side of his head. "Besides, she has the key around her neck. She's holding it right now, in fact - want to know why I sent 'er here? Ask her." Nameless grins raffishly, slipping his hands into his pockets and meandering forward towards the door at a casual, sidling pace, one foot foppishly in front of the other. "She's in the right place. I'm not sure of it, but some people are."
"And who would these people be?" a delicate eyebrow lifts as she returns to her seat, to her book, to her coffee, as blandly as she would if you were customers. "Please... enlighten me..."
Her dark eyes turn to the young girl. "Yes... there are always options. Going for the policia is only one of them. But... yes... lesson learned, no harm," she looks to the Nameless one, "...no foul..." Not yet.
"It will help her tomorrow when she speaks with the daughters of Fate and Stygian Sisters. Any information she has at her disposal... and for her aid... will help her sort out her new... direction. Pieces do her no good. And... if you are truly interested in her prevailing then you will say it..."
Albizzina locks her eyes on the young man, an eyebrow lifting. "And if you are not, then you have come to the wrong shop, in the wrong city..."
"Pardon me, but I would appreciate it if the matter of my virtue did not become a topic of discussion." How perfectly British. The mysterious young man gets another look, Darby's hand lingering a moment longer over where the locket hides before she drops it back to her side again. "I'm afraid, I don't entirely know to what it is meant to be a key. I ... was largely just looking for a way home. And while it may seem rather roundabout way to go about it, coming to a strange country, if I can just get word to my father, I'm sure something can be arranged. But I don't know that it will be any easier to do that here than back in London." She gives a sigh, looking down for a moment as she lapses into contemplation.
"Lesson learned, yes," she agrees in a slightly more subdued tone as she breaks off her thinking to look back up. Her expression turns slightly more wary as her tasks for tomorrow are put in a little more detail, not sounding entirely cheery. A little more imploringly, she turns back to the nameless man. "Yes, do please have out with it. You said that you had a hunch..."
"They. Yes, well, 'they' wouldn't like it if I told you too much about them, and," Nameless winces, "they're not entirely too happy with me right now as it is. I had to call in a few favours to get the papers and the money for the ticket for Miss Thing, here." He gestures towards Darby, pausing en route to the door. Who, me? Going somewhere? Haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. He scratches his back, then continues.
"Look. The answers I have, they're not answers - they're riddles, alright? I don't know what they all mean, but I know enough to know that that," Nameless points at Darby, and more precisely, her cleavage, "belongs here, and that means that the girl wearing that," another prod of the finger in the air surrounding Darby, "must as well. I just do what the voices tell me, and try to pull myself out of the trouble I keep getting into and the debts that keep racking up."
He rubs his nose again, then adds plaintively, "But really, I'd think you'd figure it out. You've got all the answers. Girl - Venetian - meets boy - English - about twenty years ago. Boy and girl fall madly in love. Magic in the air - literally," he twirls as if dancing with an invisible partner, "summer strains... summer turns to autumn, lovers find they can't part," he dips the invisible dance partner, stroking 'her' hair back and puckering his lips, "there's only two choices. Either break things off..."
Nameless opens his arms wide, still leaning forward as if bending over that invisible someone; he lets out a low downwards whistle, as if to indicate someone falling to the floor. "...or get married and live happily ever after." He spins round, hugging himself.
"What happened after that? Your guess is probably better than mine." He shrugs, still hugging himself, blonde hair bristling with the motion. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say baby made three, and that baby got mama's genes more than dada's. And baby's just come of age and Fate's overriding the old locks."
"You are a most peculiar man," Albizzina remarks, lifting her cup of espresso for a sip. "I am certain if it is Fate indeed that brings her here, as it brings us all in time, that We may find out what sort of Fate it is. I wouldn't be surprised if yours has changed as well..."
She is retired, isn't she?
"It is late," she notes. "And more cannot be known tonight. You may go," she murmurs, her hand straying across the page of her opened tome. "You directed her to Fate and Fate is here to receive her."
Albizzina looks to the young woman, closing the book after another moment. "I expect that you are tired. A flight from London to Venice is not short, particularly when it is unplanned. I have some left overs, pasta..." what else, her look says, "...I will show you to your room upstairs. In the morning, we will answer Copernicus' Riddle..."
"I suppose that explains what happened in the alley," Darby murmurs to herself, looking down at her palm as if remembering her wand simply splintering apart in it. But it's a daydream cut altogether short as she's quick to return to the here and now. "And one to whom it is, apparently, quite difficult to say no," she adds to the idea of the young man being peculiar, her own statement coming with a faint ghost of a smirk, though it is quickly subdued and she stands up a little taller, posture once more impeccable.
"It has been a very long day, yes. I'd never ... flown in a plane before. And it was just one first of many, clearly." She gives a gentler smile then, nodding her head with a grateful look. "Thank you again for your help and hospitality." She glances over at the man, giving him a nod as well. "And thank you for your aid as well." She pauses, and then almost as if in spite of herself, adds: "Will I see you again?"
"I am," Nameless agrees, relieved apparently that Albizzina's said something that he can agree with. "If mine's changed, well," he shrugs, "roll with it, right? A rolling stone gathers no moss. And I, baby, am as moss-free as they come."
He scratches the back of his head, then pivots towards Darby. "Yeah, the locks got changed." Back to Albizzina.
"I'll head off, then," Nameless begins to stroll for the door as if half-expecting the door to slam in his face on his way out. He glances over at Darby cautiously, paused upon the very doorstep. "What? You want to? I mean - I guess." He straightens, adjusting the collar of his jacket in a brief attempt to recover his cool. "You're welcome. Her, I mean," he points to Darby, "not you. Since you just view me as trouble, anyway." He smirks at Albizzina, then moves to step across the threshold, as if finally convinced the door won't slam in his face.
"All men are trouble," Albizzina smirks, her painted lips curling with it in a sly, sardonic look. "We all have our Fate, si? I thank you for sending her safely... and helping her get to Us. We will take it from here... go well..."
Setting her cup aside, Albizzina rises, coming out from behind her counter and toward the young girl. "So...we will rise tomorrow for tea, the picking out of a mask, and the learning of your Fate here..."
His surprise brings another small smile to Darby's lips, one she's not quite so quick to subdue. "I do want to, yes. I don't know many here. In this world, I suppose you're actually my oldest friend." Though it's said lightly, there is a certain sadness underlying that, a loneliness that's heightened by pointing out aloud just how alone she is at the moment. "Goodnight," she bids to him, before turning back to Albizzina.
"Sounds like a busy day," she comments demurely, though her expression hints that it might sound a little more overwhelming than she's letting on. With a nod, she moves to follow the woman towards the upper levels. "And thank you again for your generosity. If there's ever anything I can do to repay you..."
"I'll be around," Nameless answers nonchalantly. "You'll see me. Or maybe you won't. But I'll find you. For now, let the scary Italian woman mother you. She doesn't look it, but she's a softy under the skin." He then ducks out very hurriedly, as if expecting something to be thrown at the back of his head.
The next sound is him crashing into the garbage cans, and some proper Anglo-Saxon verbs...
Posted by rowan at June 23, 2005 01:39 PM
