{ venice; -- }
@dominusromanus
He’d gone to a campanile earlier in the day -- that hour or two where the world was not yet dark, but not quite light anymore -- soft, cool gray slithering through the streets of their City. Up so high, stair upon stair, Amadeo thought maybe he’d be able to see past the lagoon. He’d been able to see the first stars peeking through thin clouds, and he’d been able to see other bell towers across the city -- but the rest of the world was at once too large and too small: he’d hoped to see Him, before he arrived. See where his Master came from at dusk. Perhaps figure out where he went by knowing where he came from.
Voices slapped and smoothed along the narrow stone of alley and canal just as the water itself against the pilings -- evening life, evening work. Amadeo sat, near the gondola mooring, kicking idly at some barnacles crusting along the last step before the water. Careful, Vincenzo had said. Flames danced in the lantern overhead. Careful. Amadeo jammed his heel down to break off a chunk of barnacle, watched it crumble down into the black water. Someone, somewhere, singing. Cool air slithering under his cloak. The Master was to be home tonight: from some direction, he would be, leaving more ripples in the canal than the barnacle dust.
