The Romeo Catchers

by Arden, Alys

  “Welcome, Miranda.”

  And then he did this horrible thing where he went around the room making every single person introduce themselves. I quickly did the math. Thirty-two students. I sat back.

  On any other day I would have been genuinely interested in where everyone came from and how their part of the city had fared, but the cloud nine from the almost-best-first-day-ever had crashed, and now the sleepless night was catching up. On the plus side, I was now too tired to care about Annabelle and whatever she was up to anymore.

  I yawned, covering my face from Mr. Noah, but my eyes watered, giving me away.

  The sleepiness also broke whatever subconscious barrier was keeping me from thinking about how only the second story and some enchanted nails separated me from my undead mother and her clan, most of whom—all of whom—would be trying to kill me if not for a sleeping spell. I tried to focus on my classmates so my mind didn’t spiral to a dark place.

  “Mike Ferguson,” one of them said. “Mid-City. Warren Easton.”

  They were right upstairs. My mom . . .

  And Nicco.

  I looked out the window into the garden, where I would have plummeted to my death if Isaac hadn’t caught me that night.

  Even though I’d ended up with the bruises to prove it, it was still hard to believe that Nicco had thrown me out the window.

  The voices droned on in the background. “Sarah Flores. The Tremé. Ben Franklin.”

  My eyes fluttered.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sword, Cross, or Coin

  My feet dance forward, pushing León backward as our rapiers clank together in a familiar joust. The blades are sharp, but our moves are playful, mine far more aggressive than his, pushing him to swing at me harder as we cross the interior courtyard, the song of metal echoing up the arching stone walls of the palazzo to the sky. I spin and take a swing, changing the direction of the blade. He is just fast enough to catch it with his own, but I repeat the move thrice more, each time gaining momentum, our blades clanging with more force. By the fifth advance, he is close to the wall and has lost the full range of his swing. When his sword catches mine, there is nothing he can do but block. I push harder, waiting for him to buckle under the weight of the blades. After the last year, I know that León is a worthy adversary, but I have long suspected he holds back when sparring with me—a true sign that he isn’t a Medici.

  Maybe he isn’t my father’s bastard after all.

  But then, much to my delight, with a bout of sheer strength, he pushes my sword off. This can only mean one thing: Giovanna.

  Suddenly my feet are dancing backward, and I am the one deflecting his swings.

  As our weapons clang and clank, I glance around and spot her on the mezzanine, draped over the stone balcony, her head resting in her palm, her bosom displayed on the ledge. “Aha!” I say to him.

  León keeps his eyes on me just as he always does when my sister is near, which torments her, I’m sure, but pleases me. My tutors claim León to be one of the brightest pupils they’ve ever known, which I cannot deny, but he is an absolute fool if he thinks I fail to catch his stolen glances when my back is turned. It makes me smile, because I love him and I love my sister, and I love that this unrequited love now makes the fight more worthy of the exercise.

  He takes a swoop at my middle, trying to tear my shirt.

  “Finally,” I say as I parry his swing, his blade sliding the length of mine until it slams into the cross hilt. Both of our swings become faster, and we dance across the courtyard under my sister’s gaze.

  I am quite certain León will never do anything about Giovanna—his natural abstemiousness, also not a Medicean trait—for he is not a worthy match for Giovanna Simona Medici, who is so beautiful she was betrothed first at thirteen, and then, after the marriage contract was lost in a duel to a rat-faced Neapolitan prince, betrothed a second time at sixteen. Her marriage will mean more for the family than all of Gabriel’s diplomatic efforts and all of Emilio’s battlefield conquests, but it is a subject matter that, when discussed among three Medici brothers, can result in the kind of murderous plots that start wars between kingdoms.

  Regardless, it is a situation that will never end up in León’s favor. Emilio would rather have his head than see Giovanna marry beneath her position, even if that means our darling jewel of a sister ends up in the bed of a rat-faced bastard who is rumored to be suffering so severely from the Great Pox that he is unable to leave Naples. I pray, for the sake of my sister, that the disease takes him soon, leaving her with another dead betrothed.

  We all have our duty to bring greatness to the Medici name and to Florence, but I hate how Giovanna is traded to the highest bidder, though she is not the only one expected to advance the family fortune via marriage. My father has been trying to convince Gabriel to propose to an Austrian princess for the past year. It is most certainly the reason Gabriel constantly travels, not to visit her, but to avoid our father. Gabriel would travel to the earth’s edge if it meant shirking the marriage bed.

  León’s eyes give away his next move, making it easy for me to parry. Giovanna laughs girlishly as we increase the tempo. Although she is barely a year older than me, the girlish way she poses herself is the most playful I’ve seen her in ages, which makes my lips curl into a smile. Charming, sì; cunning, sì; but “playful” is not a word I would have ever associated with Giovanna, until this moment.

  I tap the tip of his sword away but make no move to counterattack, letting his blows grow stronger with his momentum.

  “You’re not fooling anyone, Niccolò!” Giovanna yells. “You’re letting him win!”

  “Mi dispiace, fratello,” I say to León with a sympathetic look, and I return his strike with a quick riposte—the undercut is so sharp he loses his grip and his rapier goes flying across the stone floor.

  “Bravo, fratellino! Bravo!” a familiar voice cheers from the sideline, whilst someone else claps slowly.

  “Gabriel! Emilio!” Giovanna yells, springing up. She runs to the stairs, her shoes leaving a trail of echoing clicks as she descends. “You have finally arrived!”

  She jumps into Gabriel’s arms first, but she lingers for longer in Emilio’s as she speaks. “All of us here at the same time. This brings me so much joy. It feels like my birthday rather than Niccolò’s!” She kisses his cheek over and over.

  Emilio embraces her with a tenderness he shows toward no other living creature. Giovanna is our jewel, but for Emilio, she is especially precious, the one person who brings out the slivers of humanity buried deep within his soul. One of our parents must be an angel to have borne a creature that could work such divine magic upon him.

  “Brother!” I hug Gabriel with near equal enthusiasm. “You’ve stayed away from Florence for far too long.”

  “Never have words been more true, little brother.”

  Gabriel greets León in a fraternal way, but Emilio only nods at him as he sets Giovanna back onto the floor.

  “Tanti auguri, fratellino,” Emilio says to me, stepping close and pulling me in. His embraces feel like moves learned on the battlefield. He then wraps his arms around my head and says into my ear, “Now let’s see how you’d fair in a real fight.” He kisses my jaw and throws me backward. An onlooker might have thought he was being playful, but a swordsman who heard the way the metal hisses out of his sheath would know he wasn’t.

  I draw my rapier and ground my stance, knowing Emilio is always serious when weaponry is involved. We all have the scars to prove it.

  “Else how would we test this beauty?” He tosses me a bundle of leather.

  Within the hide is a dagger of the finest craftsmanship I have ever seen.

  “Happy birthday, Niccolò.”

  Before I can respond, his rapier crashes into mine, and I am barely able to position the gift in my left hand before we are swinging four blades. A look of victory already glows on his face, and it is not unearned. I have never beaten Emilio in my fifteen years. Very few h
ave.

  Luckily for me, one of those who had defeated him has been training me for the last three years—every time he comes home to give Father reports.

  Emilio would rather fall on his rapier than admit that Gabriel is his equal when it comes to wielding the sword. Emilio’s reputation on the battlefield precedes him so far and wide that only the master swordsmen of Florence know how worthy of an opponent Gabriel is—except of course for me and Father. Gabriel’s lackadaisical attitude toward war and weaponry makes him appear the lesser fighter. This works to everyone’s advantage, for it leaves Emilio’s ego unthreatened and catches Gabriel’s opponents off guard. No man has been challenged to more duels of honor than Gabriel Medici, but because his swing is as sharp as his wit, no man has won as many either. Nor has any bed seen more victory celebrations, and this is a fact no one in Florence—perhaps no one in all of Tuscany—would dispute.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  My sword moves fast, blocking each of his advances. Despite being on the defense, my feet plant firmly with each step back. This is always the most difficult part of fighting Emilio: he charges without fear and without mercy, so getting into a position of offense requires equal commitment to the fight.

  But no one knows him better than Gabriel after their years of training together, and I feel the rhythm of his swings just as Gabriel has taught me, just as we have practiced a hundred times. I count them off in my head, and on his next strike, I increase my pace by a hair and catch his blade higher. With our arms overhead, Emilio’s chest is open to my dagger. After only a second’s strain, he pushes down hard, breaking my parry, forcing my blade back into submission. My feet step backward even faster than before while fire dances in Emilio’s eyes.

  Gabriel steps closer. As do Giovanna and León.

  I can almost hear Gabriel in my head: You have two hands, Niccolò. Use them always. In battle. In bed.

  Clank. Clank. Clank.

  This time I don’t count, and I don’t think—I just feel. When I pull back my blade, I thrust my dagger in its place, blocking his sword, holding on as he tries to crush my weaker wrist. It is all I need. My rapier hisses through the air to him.

  He stumbles back and tries to parry with his dagger, but off balance, he misses. I lunge again, carefully planning where each swing will force his feet. Two more quick steps move him in front of a small gargoyle. This time the kiss of my blade knocks him into the little stone monster and sends him to the ground. I think we are in equal shock when the tip of my rapier meets his throat.

  He grunts.

  “Un miracolo,” I say, sheathing my sword, wondering if Emilio was simply caught off guard by how much I’d grown since the last time we’d fought. “Grazie, fratello,” I say, moving the dagger in front of my face. “If it can beat you, it is the most exquisite gift I’ve ever received.”

  “Glad to know it will be put to better use than I expected.”

  Still catching my breath, I offer my hand to help him stand. He reaches up with a quick blur of motion, and I hear Gabriel yell before I feel the dirt hit my eyes. A swift kick to the back of my legs knocks me to the ground, and suddenly our positions are reversed. Emilio stands over me, his blade at my throat, eyes twinkling.

  “Never trust a Medici,” he says, thoroughly pleased with himself. He sheathes his sword as I turn on my side, coughing and spitting mud.

  “Sei un bastardo, Emilio!” Gabriel yells. “It’s his birthday!”

  León fetches me some water from the fountain while Giovanna kneels beside me, tending to me like I am a child, which makes matters even more humiliating. I should have seen it coming.

  “Emilio!” she scolds him. “You don’t have to win every single time.”

  “Sì, sister, I do.”

  “But at what cost?”

  “At any cost. You are all too soft on him. So is Father. He’s weak because of it.”

  My dagger whizzes past his head, slicing his ear, silencing him, and causing all heads to flip my way.

  “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to!” In truth, it was such a fit of fury, I couldn’t even recall the dagger leaving my hand. How could you be so reckless, Niccolò!

  Sometimes I worry that Emilio and I aren’t so different after all.

  Gabriel and León step in front of me, as if in preparation for his retaliation.

  Emilio pushes them aside. “That’s more like it, brother!” He clasps my hand. “Let the festivities begin!” He pulls me up, tousles my hair, and for once I am glad for Emilio’s polarizing personality. “Gabriel hasn’t even given you his gift yet.”

  “A birthday hat for the birthday boy,” Gabriel says, pulling a red cap from his cloak and flicking it open. Before I can get a good look at the garment, he is tucking my hair underneath it and everyone is laughing; even León is shaking his head.

  “Oh, Niccolò,” Giovanna says. “My beautiful brother. You’ll be the youngest pope in the history of the Vatican, an accomplishment greater than our achievements combined.”

  I snatch the cap from my head, now recognizing the crimson. “How did you even come by this vestment? It’s property of the Church. It’s sacred.”

  “Now it’s property of the Medici,” Gabriel says, smiling his infamous smile.

  “Gabriel!” Giovanna turns to him. “You stole a hat from a cardinal?”

  “Not exactly,” Emilio answers for him. “His favorite courtesan did.”

  “Gabriel!” she yells, as if she is too innocent for the thought, but we all know better than that. “It never ceases to amaze me the things women will do for you.”

  Emilio smirks. “Oh, sister, you have no idea.”

  “There is a simple way to avoid your path to priesthood, Niccolò,” says Gabriel. “Come on tour with me, and I will show you all the secrets of Medici investment.”

  “Or come to the battleground with me,” Emilio chimes, “once Father lets me lead the palace guard.”

  “I’ll find my own path, grazie.”

  “Just think, Niccolò,” Emilio continues, sliding his arm around my neck. “When you’re a cardinal, you can have your own private quarters at the bordello, where Gabriel’s whores can steal your vestments.”

  “I am not interested in the priesthood; I am interested in medicine, and in anatomy. In the human spirit.”

  “Perfetto,” Gabriel says. “Your anatomy lessons are going to start tonight.”

  Emilio snickers.

  “Cosa?”

  “You’re fifteen, Nicco. It’s time you become a man.”

  “No,” Giovanna says, catching on before I do.

  Emilio pulls my dagger from the wall. “Sword,” he says, then stuffs the hat back on my head. “Cross.” Lastly, he takes my hand and drops a pouch of ducats into it. “And coin. You’re going to need these tonight. Try not to fall in love with every girl you see, fratellino.”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “That’s your problem, Niccolò,” Gabriel says. “You think entirely too much.” He hands me a wineskin. “Drink up.”

  With mixed emotions, I drink a gulp of vino. My chest swells with joy at no longer being excluded from my brothers’ escapades, yet I am scared silent by the idea of going to the bordello. I cannot deny that I too have secrets I don’t confess to the priest—unmentionable dreams about Giovanna’s handmaiden—but this is not the way I envisioned first touching a woman.

  “You too,” Gabriel says to León. “I’m not leaving you here with my sister.”

  They push both of us toward the exit. León links his arm into mine, taking the pouch of wine. When he twists slightly back to look at Giovanna, Emilio smacks his head forward. I am glad to have León’s company, although I am quite certain he wants to go even less than I do.

  Maybe this is best for León. Loving my sister will only lead him to despair.

  León hands me back the pouch. “It’s okay to fall in love, Niccolò, just not tonight.”

  “Not tonight,” I say, taking a healthy swig. �
��So I should leave my poetry at home?”

  “Sì!” all three of them yell in unison.

  “Don’t let them corrupt you, my beautiful baby brother!” Giovanna yells behind us. “Don’t go, Niccolò!”

  “Don’t go, Niccolò, don’t go!” I shouted, bolting awake at my desk.

  Where the—? What the hell?

  Everyone around me snickered, and I slunk into my seat, pulling my cardigan sleeves over my fingers, covering my face with my hand.

  That was not the history lesson I was supposed to be having. Annabelle leaned on my shoulder from behind, looking out to the rest of the class.

  “You’d all be tired too if you had exclusive access to the hottest club in town and had the night we just had.”

  Le Chat? Is that why Annabelle’s being so nice to me?

  It didn’t add up, considering how miserable she’d made my last few weeks at Sacred Heart after I dissed her on Halloween.

  Her words silenced the room, and one by one our classmates faced forward, whispering about how cool they’d heard the club was, and with that I was rocket launched into the social stratosphere.

  Mr. Noah, however, seemed less impressed. “And what name do they call you at the clubs, Sleeping Beauty?”

  “Adele Le Moyne. French Quarter. Formerly of NOSA.”

  “Well, Miss Le Moyne, I hate to have to make an example of you, considering it’s the first day of a brand-new semester, but I’m really in need of a research assistant, which might be the only thing more boring than detention—”

  “What? No. I can’t. I have a mentorship. And a job.”

  And a descendant to find!

  “And now you’ll have another.”

  This is not happening—

  “Mr. Noah,” Annabelle piped in. “Can’t you cut her some slack this one time? I’m sure Adele is truly sorry and embarrassed enough over the disruption. And really, students falling asleep on the first day? You might want to revisit your syllabus.”

  “Annabelle,” I shot around. “You’re not helping.”

  But when I turned back to the front, Mr. Noah was stroking his beard, as if considering her reasoning. “I guess we could make an exception this one time. Good suggestion, Miss Drake. I’ll look into revising the syllabus. Okay, class, since we only have five textbooks for the room to share, we’ll take turns reading the first chapter out loud. The War of 1812!”