Most of the children of the castle ignored Jacopo, which was how he liked it. He almost jumped out of his skin when he sat back on his knees, glanced up and found a young girl staring at him with enormous blue eyes. He hadn't even heard her enter the greenhouse.
“Your flowers are pretty,” she said in a vague, happy sort of voice. The words were muffled because her thumb was tucked into the corner of her mouth. Jacopo eyed her warily.
“Esci,” he grunted.
It had no effect. He didn't really expect the little girl – who couldn't have been older than eight or nine – to be able to understand Italian, but most people got the message from his tone of voice. She just carried right on sucking her thumb and staring at him with those startling blue eyes, which made him think that she must either be a moron or just terrible at reading people. She was cute, and definitely had some Mediterranean influence somewhere, judging by her skin tone, which was a very pale olive. Her hair was coppery brown and curled into tight ringlets which bounced off her shoulders. A periwinkle blue ribbon adorned her hair, but she wore old dungarees instead of the lavish dresses which most of the courtiers' daughters floated about him. A servant's daughter, perhaps. She crouched down to sniff at the pansies he'd just planted.
“I'm visiting my Uncle Thoth,” she informed him, a definite note of pride in her voice. Jacopo had no idea who that was, but the name Thoth rang a vague bell. “Do you know him?”
“No.” He paused. “Pansies don't smell. Try the roses over there.”
She turned to follow his pointing finger and smiled, dimpling. Jacopo felt sorry for anyone who had ever had to say no to this kid.
“Thank you,” she took her thumb out of her mouth to wave goodbye. “I hope Prince Tristan likes your flowers.”
I hope Prince Tristan likes your flowers.
That was it. That was the target. It had to be.
Since arriving on Shaman, Jacopo had thought his mysterious employer's plan had all bit fizzled out. He'd received no communication, not even when he tried to ask for the name of the target again, which he'd long since forgotten. All Jacopo could remember from the description was that he was supposed to be watching a boy of about fourteen, with brown hair. For the Aurans (it had to be them) to be so interested in a kid, it had to be someone important. The prince fit the bill. Why the Aurans wanted to know what a prince from another world was up to, Jacopo had no idea, but it made much more sense than an interest in a random teenager.
It played on his mind all the rest of the day. He had his purpose back. File a few reports and he'd never have to worry about money again, if this deal was as big as he thought it was.
At nine p.m., Jacopo was just putting the kettle on to make a coffee when a loud thud echoed through his cottage. The front door? But most people knocked more than once... He checked the boiler, found no unusual activity there and headed towards the front door suspiciously. There was no figure through the frosted glass. After flexing his fingers over the door handle for a second, Jacopo ripped the door open and presented his best glower to... thin air. It was snowing heavily, but there was no one there.
He wasn't sure what made him look down, but it was a damn good thing he did. The sight of Birch slumped on his doorstep, clearly unconscious, cooled his blood faster than the weather ever could. Jacopo dropped to his knees without a second's hesitation and felt her neck for the weak pulse there. The subsequent wave of relief did little to slow his pounding heart.
What should he do? Jacopo was an archivist by trade, not a first-aider. He could sort papers and navigate libraries, but reviving unconscious women was beyond him. He hesitated, briefly, before scooping her up in his arms and carrying her across the hearth, where he hesitated again. Bedroom or living room? The living room was closer, but his two-seater sofa was too small to make a bed. Bedroom it was. As he carried her upstairs, Jacopo tried desperately to think what to do. Victims of the cold had to be warmed slowly – right? Should he get a hot water bottle, or was that too hot? What if he didn't warm her quick enough? Her clothes were damp from the snow... should he change them? A ruddy flush crept onto the Italian's cheeks as he kicked back the covers and carefully lowered his neighbour onto the bed.
His bedroom was tiny – just big enough for the double bed, with not much room to walk around it. It took the definition of bedroom literally. A small room like this should stay warm, especially at the top of the house where the hot air rose to. Jacopo pulled the curtains across the only window to help keep the heat in, lit the lamp next to the bed and tucked Birch in with the same care he applied to his pansies.
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