by Elise Kova
Jo couldn’t stop a blurt of laughter at his directness. She heard his own satisfied, amused, huff before he continued.
“Eternity is way too long not to get any when it’s wanted.”
“You’re telling me.” She turned her head towards the skyline outside the flat’s floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the faint oranges brighten into full-blown dawn.
“Which is why, if you want something casual, that itch scratched and nothing more, you can seek me out.” He paused, and Jo could hear the echo of his earlier statements. This was not just scratching an itch, but trying to fill a square-shaped need with a round peg. It was forceful, brash, and likely not to work. He knew it. She knew it. But Jo still wished they could both just ignore it and try anyway. “But feelings? They complicate things. They make things messy. And you don’t want a mess on your hands for eternity. Stay off that path before you get too far down and stick with casual, dollface.”
Jo tensed. Careful not to dislodge his arms from around her waist, she turned to look at him, taking in the kind smile and knowing gaze. He meant well, she could tell that much. Hell, she couldn’t even tell him he was wrong. Hadn’t she been thinking the same thing about the complexity of feelings in the recreation room? And yet. . .
“You think it’s a mistake?” she whispered, barely able to get the words out for fear of what they might mean.
“I do. And don’t misunderstand,” he added hastily. “This has nothing to do with wanting you all for myself or some other nonsense. I think we covered my feelings toward you rather completely.” Her face must have conveyed her easy belief because he continued without pause. “I just don’t think you want to get entangled with anyone here romantically, least of all our leader.”
Jo ducked her head into his shoulder. So it was that obvious? She should’ve guessed. Even if it wasn’t, Wayne would know. He knew better—and more intimately—than anyone else in the Society.
“I think I’ll just. . . head out then, okay?” Jo mumbled, though she made sure to punctuate the words with a soft squeeze to his arms, making sure he knew she wasn’t upset for being turned down. Wayne squeezed back, even going so far as to place a kiss on her cheek. Jo scoffed, making a show of wiping at her face. “Gross. Didn’t you just say I shouldn’t risk sappiness with people I was stuck with for eternity?”
He merely laughed, and Jo was thankful he spared her any further harsh, but valid, advice.
“Thanks again,” Jo waved from the doorway, waiting just long enough to watch him bow, maybe a little ironically, before closing the door behind her.
She made it about halfway to her room before slowing to a stop. The idea of being alone, of stewing in her own thoughts after such a blatant realization about her feelings, made an uncomfortable sensation prickle beneath her skin. Over the past few months, when she didn’t want to be alone, she’d seek out Wayne, but this was the first time that she’d felt this odd pull in her chest after leaving him.
Hesitantly, Jo glanced down the hall, past Wayne and Samson’s rooms, to the door marked with an intricate name plate and decorated with a beautifully painted bird.
Jo started for the door before she could convince herself not to, hoping everyone had dispersed from the common area; she didn’t think she could bring herself to drag another man from the group. Nico’s room was a place she already found herself associating with safety, warmth and calm and understanding. She could watch him paint or listen to him talk, or just sit next to him and read. She wouldn’t feel guilty for going to him right now either, like she would with Takako. Out of them all, he seemed to have the clearest picture on matters of the heart.
Yet, just as she was about to knock, the man in question spun out the door, nearly bumping into her.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there! I didn’t hit you, did I?”
“Just missed me.” Jo shifted her weight from foot to foot, trying to catch her balance after the quick dodge. “It was my fault entirely, I was the one right outside your door.”
“No harm, no foul.” Nico smiled and stepped away from the door and started down the hall toward the Four-Way. Jo hovered. She wasn’t trying to be awkward, it just sort of happened when the one place she’d been heading was now walking away from her. But Nico’s friend magic was the greatest of the group, for something compelled him to stop and look back at her, still hovering. There was a curious look about him that all too quickly turned kind and knowing. “Did you need something, Jo?”
“Oh. . .” Suddenly feeling very silly, Jo quickly shook her head. “No, I was just. . . I was. . .” Literally not doing anything at all and running from my problems, her mind finished.
“Well, then,” he said as if she had actually spoken a complete sentence and not just garbled sounds. “If you’re free, would you like to join me?”
“Where?”
“To my home.”
Chapter 20
Julia
HOME? DID SHE hear him right?
“Well, this is home. I’m going to my old home, technically,” he clarified as if reading her mind.
“Florence, you mean?”
Nico gave a nod in affirmation.
“Shouldn’t we stay here for the wish?” Samson had told her to take a mental health break, but just how much of one was really needed? “What if someone needs us?”
“We won’t be long and we won’t be using any time on our watches. Additionally, I already cleared it with Eslar.”
“Cleared it with Eslar,” she repeated. “It’s no wonder the elf has a big head, he practically runs the place.”
“Careful, or with those ears he may hear you.”
A laugh escaped her in the form of a snort. Nico’s easy way wore her down quickly. Samson had said to take a break, but all she’d done was run from one place to the next, hopelessly working herself up further. Really, she hadn’t taken that break yet, Jo decided.
“Well, if you’re sure it won’t be an issue.”
“I’m sure.” Nico waited for her to catch up before starting down the stairs.
“So, why Florence?”
“I must see my muse on occasion. Furthermore, it gives me the opportunity to stroll through some art supply stores, see what artists are using these days, give me some ideas.”
“I thought you couldn’t take things back from the real world?”
“You can’t,” he affirmed.
“Then. . .”
“The mansion is very good to me.” The answer seemed mysterious, but Jo heard it for what it was: another “because magic” explanation. “I find often that after I go on these excursions, I’ll have some new supplies in my room with which to work, or the recreation room will take on a new shape for my practice.”
“Reality is what you make it,” Jo paraphrased one of the first things Wayne had said to her upon entering the Society.
“Well said.”
Jo pulled open the door to the briefing room, holding it for Nico. She hated being in there the instant her foot met the obsidian floor. The usually chilly air was now bitterly cold, as if the mansion itself was angry for the wishes being passed along to its occupants. While the idea of a semi-sentient mansion was somewhat off-putting, it was nice to think of someone standing up for them, even if that someone was a building.
Nico paused at the Door. Jo’s eyes fell on his hand as it began punching in the coordinates. He was three numbers in when the fourth button stuck. The man paused, staring at it in confusion. He pressed it again, finally freeing it from its depressed state. The motion reminded Jo briefly of the flickering monitor, but the thought vanished from her mind the second the Door opened.
Italy.
It was a country of postcards made real. They stepped into a shadowed street made of stone. Condensed buildings stretched up in walls of plaster and warm-hued paints on either side of them. Doorways, square and arched, indented by wooden doors with heavy knockers stood just off the street. Metal pleated doors, most bearing some sort of graffiti,
covered garages. Up ahead there was a sign with a big white P on a blue background; behind her a café was just beginning to open up, popping the umbrellas above the few outdoor tables in a fenced-off section.
“What do you think?” Nico asked, starting off in a direction only he knew.
“It’s lovely.” The way the buildings were built on top of each other, clearly constructed and renovated at very different times, had her thinking of Paris. Yet this was wholly different. “Quieter than I thought it would be and it seems. . . I don’t know, real?”
“How so?”
Jo tried to think of the best way to rephrase her odd statement. “Like the people here aren’t. . . I don’t know, fake?”
“How would they be fake?”
“Not touristy, I mean.” She finally landed on what it was. “This feels like a real street where real people live.”
Nico laughed loudly. Yet the sweet sounds of his amusement did not resonate or echo. They existed only for her ears. “Of course it is. And, I will say that the people who live in touristy areas are also real.”
“Obviously.” Jo shook her head, laughing a bit at herself. “I don’t know what I was saying.”
“It’s inviting?” he suggested.
“Inviting, that may be a good word for it. . .” Jo half-mused, half-agreed. He held up his right hand horizontal, so his fingers stretched parallel to the ground. Nico pointed at the base of the line between his middle and ring fingers. “If the Cathedral is here—” Jo had seen the famous Duomo of Florence from Nico’s room back in the mansion. “The Ponte Vecchio is here.” He moved his finger down and to the left. “It’s a very famous bridge, I’m sure you know of it.”
She gave a sort of non-committal hum and a nod. She hadn’t heard of it, but didn’t want to risk discouraging the man.
“Up here—” he moved up from the initial placement of his finger to the base of the line between his ring and pinky fingers “—is the Palazzo Medici.”
“And that’s where we are?”
A chuckle, though Jo didn’t know why the question was funny. “No, this humble little street is not the palace of the Medici.” He moved his finger to the right some—east, if the top of his hand was north, from the Palazzo. “We’re right around here.”
“I guess I see why it doesn’t feel too touristy, then.” Jo wasn’t sure what else to say, though she didn’t want to give the impression of not appreciating the quick geography overview. “But it’s lovely here.”
“This was to be my street.”
Jo nearly stopped mid-step just as they had begun walking again. His street, his home. She tried to imagine Nico wandering the stone pathways of Florence in a very different time. Even though she knew next to nothing of the Italian Renaissance, she had an easy time conjuring up notions of Nico bustling from place to place, struggling with canvases nearly as big as he was.
“In fact, that building—” He stopped at a cross-section, pointing down an alley. “The blue one, was to be our home. In my time, it was owned by the Medici family and was to be my atelier. We would’ve been comfortable there. A better life than most of our status, certainly.”
“We. . . You and Julia?” Jo clarified delicately. Even if she felt closer to the man now than ever, his past was still a topic Jo would tread on lightly.
“Just so.” Nico nodded, a faraway look overtaking his eyes. “She was my muse, my inspiration. A woman whose outer beauty could only be matched by her inner.”
Jo remembered the last time she’d been in Nico’s room, the portrait he’d been composing so carefully. She had no doubt that it was still out on the easel where he worked, waiting for its artist to return. “Your muse. You said we were going to see your muse.” She’d thought he’d meant the city. He must’ve, surely; there was no way Julia was still alive. Unless she had some modern-day descendant that Nico kept tabs on.
“Yes, in due time.” He began walking again. “I have two other stops first.”
“The art store, and—?”
“The Medici archives.”
That sounded familiar to her, and not because he’d just spoken about a Medici palace. But Jo stilled her questions for a while. Nico was patient, and had already displayed a tolerance for them, but she didn’t want to wear him out. Furthermore, there was something to be said for simply walking through a new place and letting her mind be distracted by all there was to take in. Even if the sounds were dulled and the smells were muted outside of time, there was still much to see.
“This is my favorite art shop in the city.”
They ducked into a small doorway that led into a narrow hall before quickly unfolding into the densest collection of art supplies—anything supplies—that Jo had ever seen. Every square inch of space was taken up by boxes in storage, some with the fronts ripped off to display tubes of paint within. There were cases and cases of brushes in every shape and size. Most of them looked identical to her, but the way Nico inspected them informed her that they were far from it.
“How did you become an artist?” Jo asked, running her fingers over a series of markers precariously perched, zero fear of actually knocking any over.
Nico paused, thinking a moment. “How much do you know about artists in the fifteenth century?”
“Assume I know nothing.” Jo grinned. “And even if I did, who’s to say it would be the same between your time and mine, with all the wishes separating us?”
“Fair point.” Nico chuckled, continuing along. “I find that modernity has idealized the notion of artist. In my time, we were seen as having little difference from any other craftsmen, like tailors or cobblers.”
“But art requires so much talent.”
Nico paused at this, bringing a knuckle to his chin. “Do you think so?”
“Of course,” Jo insisted. “And you must, too, otherwise you wouldn’t have laughed at the mere notion of my picking up painting.”
He laughed and something about the sound reminded her of a sun shower—an impossible delight. “Much of art can be learned, despite what one may say in jest. It’s a technique. Just like a musician learns their instrument, I learned the canvas.”
Jo remained skeptical that it’d be so simple, but she kept the thoughts to herself, allowing him to continue.
“Apprentices would work under the master, whose name usually went on the majority—if not all—of the work. He’d also oversee commissions, and tend to the shop duties. I was one such apprentice, until my work caught the eye of one of the Medici daughters and I earned a patron outright.”
“Apprentices working under a master, huh. . .” Jo looked at a wall of markers. She’d never imagined there could be so many colors. Her eyes were drawn to one on the upper right, a soft, gray-bluish white. On the colored cap were a number, letter, and the name of the color: SNOW.
Just like that, she was back to thinking of him, completely distracted from whatever else Nico was saying. Wayne’s warnings rang loudly in her head. Everything with Snow seemed confusing at best, agonizing at worst. How bad could it get if she pursued something and was rejected? Unless she already had been rejected, and was willfully ignoring the fact?
“Not unlike us, hmm?”
“I’m sorry, what?” Jo blurted, startled. Nico was suddenly at her side.
“Apprentices working for a master.”
“The Wish Granter’s Apprentices. . . sounds like a movie or something.”
“I suppose it does.” He started for the door. “Speaking of masters, on to our second stop.”
“Did you get what you needed?” Jo asked as they rounded the corner on the way out.
“I believe I did.” Nico beamed. “Some positively stunning new colors are being produced. Now, there’s something you may enjoy, the science of paint colors. . .”
The conversation on the way to the Medici archives remained light, and mostly focused on Nico and his extensive knowledge of art supplies. Jo wasn’t usually one for museums, but she found the experience to be much more
palatable when there was no ticketing process, security screening, waiting in line, pushing around people, or ropes to keep her from getting close to the art.
They strolled to the Da Vinci wing, out of time and completely unhindered. Nico spent several minutes studying the recently discovered sketch, critiquing it in more ways than she would’ve thought imaginable for what looked to Jo like a scribble on a piece of ancient notebook paper—a very very talented scribble, but scribble none the less.
Seemingly satisfied, Nico led their departure, heading away from the Duomo and further north. The longer they walked, the quieter Nico became, until he hardly said anything at all. Usually, Jo would assume it was a result of him talking almost all day, mostly at her. But this felt different. There was a solemn weight to his silence, like someone in a deep meditation. Jo’s lips remained still as well, not wanting to jar his thoughts.
They stopped before a small iron gate wedged into a tall wall, barely wide enough for a person to slip through. It wasn’t locked, but it looked as though it hadn’t been opened in some time. Through the bars, Jo saw the wall of a church—characterized by stained-glass windows lining the stone.
But the stone she focused on was on the ground.
Nico plucked his watch from his pocket, holding it out and clicking a nob.
“I thought you said we weren’t using time.”
“Just a minute. . . only for the gate.” He ushered her through, closed the gate. But surprisingly, did not click out of time. Jo followed close behind him, curious.
The courtyard felt like it was another world altogether. Jo had walked through realities, but this was a different sort of magic. This was a power she couldn’t comprehend or wield, even if she tried.
