The last month had been nothing short of agonizing for Matthias, a mixture of harsh pains and abrupt, unexpected torture. He had survived it in the only way he knew how: by enduring it by his lonesome. And of course, having spent so much time alone in the shadows only reminded him of a before-time, of funeral planning and mourning, and bitter vengeance, and the realization that all of life is spent suffering in cycles.
Still, the sight of the girl is one he welcomed. He had treated the auction at the Dark Lady the way one might treat a scorpion or a viper (or perhaps even Lucrecia Falco): with extreme caution. Not only because of uncertainty and his own injuries (and it was so unfortunate that a cast and suit clashed horribly), but because of temptation. Because he had betrayed his ideals, but the sight of the girl reminded him of a moment at the museum, of art, of better things.
“I wouldn’t say that.” He lifted his right arm as best he could, the plaster gaunt in the light. “I’d give it a spin but I’m afraid my hand-modeling days are in the past.” A mild attempt at a joke, but it’s better than any of the garish thoughts that course through his mind.
“Anything worn with pride suits the wearer,” he said. “You should bid– especially if your heart desires a little sparkle.”
Oh — it is the naked man. Her eyes betray her, the way they flit nervously down his frame. Grazie Dio, he is clothed. But he is injured. She’s heard whispers and rumors of a Montague tied to a hospital bed; the taunts and jeers and i’ll-wishes of Capulets fall upon even the closed ears of a shunned soldier. But the man she’s stumbled into on the most arbitrary of circumstances speaks of art and Paris, the dreams hidden in the lines of a sculpture and the stroke of a brush; the man she recognizes standing before her now is best suited for living amongst the clouds, and not the near-dead.
What a pity it is, to see anyone with a limb unusable. She can certainly relate; does her heart not feel disarmed and disabled?
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about hand-modeling, but there must be some opportunity for cast-modeling?” Maeve smiles faintly, a ghost of the warmth she once radiated.
“Oh, I don’t know if it’s my heart that desires sparkle.” No, the heart is reserved for kindness and affection and the purest of loves; it is her flesh that craves luxury, some small token of worth that might make Maeve feel like she belongs in the pit of greed and betrayal and smoke. She is a girl of flowers; but to survive, perhaps she ought to become a sapphire, a cold and hard jewel that can withstand the storm.
But she can never wear it with pride; his words only remind her that she does not belong — not right now. “Perhaps in a few years, I can wear it like I deserve it. For now, I think I ought to stick to my humbler tastes.” She turns a pleasant smile back at him, realizing — that she still doesn’t know his name. “Signore, I believe we’ve met before, but I never got to hear your name. I’m Maeve."
