Venetian Sunrise

The slumber of Venice ceased as the clouds released the sun, unfolding it in the sky and suspending it on the horizon. The stars glinted their last goodbyes and the moon arced across the sky, delving behind the caramel buildings topped with foamy, milk coloured stone. The rays that dipped in through the windows of the Venetian structures were warm in a way that visitors to the city knew not from their own countries. The light was teasing, the art of waking people almost a game to it, and as it touched at the skin of those abed, the caress only served to deepen their sleep further. But the sun was not so easily put off and tickled and teased until the sleepy hearts could only do but wake in a bluster of laughter and sheets. Smiles touched at the lips of all of those awaking to that Venetian morning that brought the promise of summer and as Venice woke, so did its people with greater joy than the day prior and the day prior to that. Yet it was not the light that woke one of the residents of the Hotel Danieli, rather it was the calls from the river below, from the men on the gondolas.

Rising from her bed, having disentangled herself from the sheets, Cerelia Avery moved to the small balcony that the windows of her room opened out onto. It was not a true balcony just a jutting alcove in which to stand with a railing that prevented her from falling. She stepped up barefoot onto the soft stone and her fingers curled around the railing already hot with the sunshine. Her hair slipped from her back over her shoulders and the knot pendant that she wore on a skinny silver chain joined with it and hung from her neck, seemingly as eager as she was to greet the morning. Her smile rose upon seeing the people of Venice wandering the streets. Flower girls flirted openly with the men that owned the gondolas and many joked in Italian that there was enough privacy beneath the bridges for them to get better acquainted.

“Hey! Hey! Bella signora!” Cerelia’s eyes were drawn down to a waving young man stood on his gondola and she smiled shyly. “Ciao!” He continued. “Buongiorno!”

After returning the sentiments, Cerelia pulled away from the window and drew the soft, light curtains across. Her hands found her upper arms and she smiled to herself as she dug her toes into the soft carpet beneath her feet. It had all seemed impossible before. In the darkest of hours she had thought her dreams had been dashed completely, that come the morning of their leaving she would have to write to Augustus and beg of him his forgiveness. Yet here she found herself, in the enveloping warmth of Venice, knowing that in the next room over, her companion was there and excitement, the promise of adventure, had dawned with the sunshine. Cerelia knew who she had to thank and it was a long list of meddlers and well-wishers. Above all of them she knew she had her brother to thank for it was he that had truly saved her and had seen her well enough to go.

Adolphus Avery had put his foot down and his declaration that his daughter would go nowhere, even if it was with his old friend, went heard by all that had dined with them when Cerelia had broached the subject. The girl accepted his decision, knowing the argument to be a loss and lowered her gaze back to her food. But the action was taken as insult and though that was not the intention, that was how Adolphus read it and his temper worsened when his wife spoke, commenting that he should let her go, that the Rookwoods treat their whores well. That was more than enough to see Adolphus fly and before any of them had realised what was to happen, the Avery household dissolved into carnage that had not been seen for many years. The women had lain broken, destroyed by those who were supposed to love them and Caius and Adolphus joined them on bloodied tiles by the wand of their brother and son, Bastien. It was he who saw the safety of Cerelia and turned back the memories of his brother and father. It was he, with Aceso Goyle, who ensured the survival of them all.

Cerelia had woken days after, her skin a scarlet mess of infection. Aceso had loomed over her and wiped the sweat she did not know she had expelled from her forehead. The girl had lapsed in and out of consciousness afterwards until the fever had broken and the wounds had truly begun to heal. She could recall Aceso complaining to Bastien of the scar tissue that was splayed across Cerelia’s back that refused to wholly heal. She had wanted at the time to tell them not to waste the dittany, that the scars there would never heal they would only close and lose their redness. Yet she could not find the voice and so continued to sleep fitfully until finally she woke, her skin as icy as ever and her body left feeling fragile but no less healthy than it had always been.

To Aceso, Cerelia owed her life and she told the woman this though the Goyle would take no such debt. She merely took her leave and left the potions needed to ensure there would be no scarring. But she did not leave without giving warning to Bastien. He needed to look after his sister properly and truly and if he did not do the same for Erica, she implored with him to ensure that Caius found a different plaything, for her body was a shrine to the betrayal of her trust. He did not treat her as a lover, merely a doll. Such an environment was one they all wished to remove the young blonde from, lest she eventually receive a similar treatment, and though they were right to thrust her into the possession of a Rookwood, it was Bernard Avery who decided that was the chance they had to task for Augustus Rookwood knew the difference between men and women and the way to treat them. She would be safe with him; or at least, safer than she was with her father.

In the end it was her grandfather who escorted her to Rookwood Manor while her brother dealt with the bags that her grandmother insisted she take – which were plentiful beyond all kind of sense and reason. They had moved up the drive slowly, Cerelia still rather unsteady on her feet and the gravel unforgiving of her imbalance. Bernard had kept his arm around his granddaughter’s waist, determined that she would not fall, while his other hand kept hers tucked in his palms. He was a large man indeed and certainly dwarfed many of those around him. He was far taller than his son who was like a rat by comparison, and his height matched his girth. To Cerelia, he was the picture of the perfect grandfather and while his wife was harsh and coarse, much like their son, he was kind and attentive but tragically taken advantage of. Truly it was perhaps only Cerelia who he truly loved of all his children and grandchildren and he kept a special eye on her because of this.

The man had let go of his granddaughter with excusable reluctance though it was Bastien that had done the excusing, explaining hastily that the man was doddery and old and did not like the idea of his granddaughter leaving him. Bernard had played along, though only in silent consent, but had seen that the Rookwood did not believe Bastien. The boy was far too hasty, the man far too intuitive and the delicacy of their ward far too obvious. Yet Cerelia was breathless and had exuded charm that masked the ill that had befallen her and for a moment, Bernard wondered if it had happened at all but her smile was worn down at the sides of her lips and the effort was then obvious as her eyes glinted with pain at the skin of her neck which was no doubt tugging taught over her bones as she smiled, pulling without regret at the skin that had not yet, and would never, healed. But Bernard believed the charade and he was sure Rookwood would unless he had observed Cerelia long enough to see her habits and her hands were already groping for her neck, soothing the smarting skin.

The girl had recovered soon enough, though. She had straightened her dress and embraced her kin before taking off with the Rookwood who they were all truly grateful for. Friend of Adolphus or not, Bernard Avery knew that the man was his own beast and the self-loyalty over the loyalty he felt for his friend was something that Bernard had once sworn he would never feel just or honourable but for this he was very glad for it protected his granddaughter. In his ignorance, Adolphus had been complacent and had allowed her to go, not privy to his prior anger. Bernard knew as well as the rest of them that the choler would return within a few days and he would slap around, finding no solace in the absence of his daughter. So for now, Bernard allowed the girl her freedom, hoping just as Bastien did that by tasting it, she would be less inclined to let go of it like her mother.

With a dogged smile, Cerelia ran for the queen-sized bed that dominated her room. She thrust herself under the covers and giggled as she hugged the pillow to her chest. The heat had slipped into her bones like a second soul and made her mood buoyant. Her limbs tangled with the covers and she snuggled down into the softness of it all before rising easily as if she had not settled herself at all. Her hands found her hair and she fluffed it up a little before spinning on the spot. She let herself fall back on her heels and pivoted briefly before making her way to the door of her room which she had left ajar the night before but had at some point been pulled to a close. Her hand found the brass doorknob and she twisted it before pulling it open.

The light that had aired through her bedroom joined that which had engulfed the main living area of the suite and Cerelia’s smile returned. She stepped out onto the rich, venetian rug and moved fully into the living quarters only to see an employee setting out what she could only presume to be a mistaken room service as she was sure, from the feel of the room, that Augustus had not gotten up yet. Cerelia crept out from behind a partitioning wall and smiled briefly at the man when he turned around. He appeared apologetic for a moment before remembering himself and gesturing towards the spread that fanned across the breakfast table before the balcony doors. At the sight of it, Cerelia’s stomach rumbled and she smiled shyly in response to the man’s knowing chuckle.

“Eat, signora.” He assured her before taking his leave, the rattling trolley of food muting as soon as he shut the large doors behind himself.

Once the man had left, Cerelia darted across the carpet towards the table. Again, her fingers found her hair and she ducked a little so she could get more of a look at the food that was spread out across the table. She laughed despite herself and reached for a piece of toast that had already been buttered and given the strawberry jam treatment. Cerelia bit into the food, delighting at the crunch of the bread in her mouth, and made her way past the table and out onto the balcony that opened up before her the city that was hers to explore. A smile settled upon the girl’s the lips and her eyes began to flit across the skyline of Venice, taking in all the sights that there were to see from the basilicas to the streaming flags that were all that remained of the mardi gras of the year before.

This, she decided, this was much, much better.

The woman stirred, sensing the awakening of her city, as life responded to the first rays of the sun. Yet, even as the orange glow flirted with the white curtains of the room as it surely was doing to the face of Venetian luxury, she squeezed her eyes shut. The memory caught up with her, again, as the grief of loss struck her with a violence that reflected nothing of the gentle caresses of the Venetian sun. The smell of another man surrounded her, but she was weary from fighting the card that the universe had dealt her with. Instead, she closed her eyes, willing herself to fall back to sleep. Waking is better than dreaming, she remembered his words. Why go on dreaming when my reality is the beauty of all the dreams of my life put together, he used to say as he brushed the hair away from her face gentle, before pulling her in close to hold her safe and tight against his body.

His body. She stifled a sob that threatened to escape her lips any moment now. His body was cold, pale, and laid in the ground, now. Never ever would it offer the warmth she knew to be fleeting, but which she could not prevent her heart’s utter surrender to anyway. It was doomed, from the start. She was kept; she should have known. She knew. She knew. But who knew when one was falling in love? No one chooses to fall willingly. Biting hard on her lips to keep from revealing her sorrow, the woman brought her hands to her chest, placing pressure at where the sobs seemed to originate from. There was no doubt that it wasn’t going to last. Her life wasn’t hers to own. Yet, the way that he was robbed from her, the violence of it all, still killed her every morning; every mourning.

Still, she was to smile and bow to the wishes of Vittore. She hated the men who paid for her body. Yet, she hated no one more than the man who had taken her in, when she was but a destitute orphan roaming the fascinating streets of Venice, with the promise of a better life. It was all too late now. Her lover’s body was not hers to own now, even as her own was not hers but Vittore’s to deploy for the treasures of his business. With hands pressed even harder against her chest now, the woman relished in the little bit of privacy of her emotions she would get when the men were still asleep. For the rest of the day, and night, she was a smiling beauty. Yet, in the first few minutes of morning, there was privacy to be the grieving lover of Pirlo. She kept his memory, refusing to forget. A tear forced its way down, pass the bridge of her nose, to the tip of her cheeks, and down to the fabric of her pillow.

Once again, the morning breeze flitted past the white curtains, arousing the smells of the room, bringing to her the scent of a man who was but another stranger. Cautiously, she reached for his hands and removed them from how they held possessively over her breasts. Fortunately, the man barely stirred. With a sigh, she began to rub at the places where he had made her sore. He, like all the others, was not particularly gentle. Granted, there were worse ones. She remembered the tenderness of Pirlo, who tried. Then, shaking her head, she reminded herself of the poison of those memories. Sure, nothing in her lot was sweet. Yet, in remembering the sweetness of the past, she could not feign strength and indifference in what was only available to her. In this way, she gave up, and fell back to sleep.

When she next stirred, the woman woke with a start. Unbeknownst to her sleeping self, the man had awoke and, for his own amusement, stood the glory of his self right before her face, before reaching out to shake her out of her sleep. She blinked, coming to from the rude shock greeting her. Smirking, Augustus inched himself closer to the Italian woman, so that he was nothing but inches from her face. Then, without shame, he reached for her hands and brought them to him. In response, she mustered a smile that she assumed he would be pleased with. Then, shaking the dream off her head, she took him in.

“Hey, beautiful,” she turned around to his call, numb by the words that were so often thrown meaninglessly to her. Slowly, he slid into a dressing gown and secured it before looking back up at the woman. Like most of the men before him, there was a swagger about this man that spoke of his inflated construction of self. Amazingly, there was even more of it in this man. She wasn’t surprised. After all, Vittore reserved her for the best, for the richest, and for the ones who mattered. He was somebody, but it didn’t matter to her. She was merely summoned to do her job. In response to him, she offered him a smile of seduction that was taught to her to ensure a repeat of business. It must have worked. Augustus sauntered over, pulled her in for a kiss as he slid his hands once again to places on her body that the other men loved, too, before pulling away with a wink. “I’ll see you again tonight, …” The moment of confusion was quickly solved. “Leila,” she repeated the name she used the night before. “Leila,” he repeated, before he smirked. And then, she left. But not before she spied breakfast, and a girl who looked too young to be travelling alone with a man like the one she slept with the night before. Shrugging, she took her leave and left the suite.

The smell of breakfast wafted to him. Yet, he was accustomed to the luxuries that were part of being Augustus Rookwood. Collecting himself from the pleasures of the morning, the man strode out of the room, only to be greeted by the sight of a blonde that he had no idea why he had asked along. This was supposed to be business, and he was sure that he could cope with that aspect successfully on his own. There was supposed to be pleasure, too. And that, he found in the dark-haired specimen of an Italian woman he had woken to in the morning. Perhaps, then, it was for the surprising company of someone he could think aloud and speak to. Whatever it was, Augustus shrugged and made his way over to the girl, ready for Venetian Day One to unfurl itself to him, and her.

“Buon Giorno, Signora,” he began as he neared Cerelia, noting how she had already begun to eat, and looked satisfied with whatever that she was amusing herself with. Comfortably, Augustus settled himself into another chair at the breakfast table, reaching for the jug of milk as soon as coffee was poured into his cup. Then, reaching for the array of plates, he brought to his own a wide focaccia bread that held the luxury of good red bacon and a rich-looking egg on it. At the same time, he reached for slices of tomato and placed them on the same piece of bread. Satisfied, Augustus took a first bite, grunting in satisfaction as the taste of breakfast finally greeted him. Once he got the first bite out of the way, he placed the bread down and reached for the cup of coffee. Happy, he then turned to the girl.

“I hope your sleep was good, Cerelia.” He started, then continued. “You’re early, aren’t you? Excited for the day?” He set the cup back down. “I’m afraid the agenda of the day is business. While I do want to see the city, we have lunch due at the Montolivos. I have a courtesy call to make. Tomorrow, we meet the men, and we present our proposition. Today, we meet with an old friend of the Rookwoods, and the Averys, of whom you represent in our call.” Augustus smirked in amusement at the mental image of the meeting. “There will be little time for much in the day, for these two days. You will have to contend with the evenings until Friday, which isn’t bad, is it?” The man smiled, pleased with himself. “I hope you’re ready.” Then, he added, “I’m sure you are. Besides, the Italians are very entertaining. You’ll like them.” With that, he stopped to begin again with his breakfast.

Anyone who said that Venice stank was right but what they had not been accurate about was the fragrance that saved the stench. Overflowing tumblers of flowers spilled out blooms of every colour known to man and they sent up in the air this smell that Cerelia did not have the vocabulary to describe. But she gulped the scent, filling her chest with it as she found that the more she focused upon the sweet smells of the flowers, the less she noticed the foul stench of the river. Perhaps indeed, the city was romantic. What Cerelia could not wait to see were the lights that would twinkle into life at night that danced between lampposts and buildings. It was something she had been yearning for and she was almost disinterested in business but she had to remember it was no holiday.

Taking another bite of her toast, Cerelia cast her eyes in a different direction, down once more to the gondolas that were floating in the water, kept stationary only by thin pieces of rope attached to the boardwalk. It was only then that Cerelia heard the calls that she could only assume were for her. Dancing on the breeze was the familiar drawl of someone who had taken a liking to her during one of her explorations into Florence and then again in Pompeii during the prior summer.

Angelo Campenni was a trickster, a conman and anyone with enough crowns could buy his fleeting loyalty. Yet at some point he had taken a shine to the young blonde and had been on her case ever since. It was but a game to him, to find Cerelia and she enjoyed the chase. It was a task that had set him all over southern Italy in the summer and each time she had thought she’d won, he’d caught up with her. He was not particularly favoured by her father. He boasted his own private wealth and had a taste for whores, like any man, but he had the potential to keep Cerelia should she have chosen to marry him and that was something Adolphus was not keen to allow and so he had always been rather crass about the man.

“Signoraaaaaaaa....” Angelo’s voice was musical, neither high nor low but an even tone that rose and fell with his mood.

Cerelia leaned over the balcony and watched as Angelo climbed with surprising ease the side of the building. His hands found the jutting of her own balcony and he brought himself up but did not dare climb over – he merely trusted that she would not push him. With a smile that made Cerelia wish she was brave enough, Angelo took her in. He whistled lowly, knowing well enough that it would annoy her, and Cerelia huffed, crossing her arms and managing to get jam on her arm. Angelo leaned forward without a second thought and swiped the jam off, bringing his fingers to his mouth to take it off.

“Angelo, what? Go away. What do you follow me around all of Italy now?” Cerelia asked, her tone that of a woman amused but she still managed to look unimpressed. Angelo took the toast from her and bit into it before shrugging. He swallowed and handed it back to her, much to her dismay and swung a little from side to side.

“I’ll follow you anywhere, Cerelia, if it means I get to see your little button nose wrinkle when you realise it’s me again.” He grinned wickedly at her and laughed a little before meeting her narrowed gaze. “My little birds told me you were here, bella, and the brothels are empty which means your family is not. No Delacours either, though Giovanni longs to see your Gisele again. Neither could afford such a place which makes me wonder who you’re here with, little one. Venezia is no safe place for a witch like you, sweet.”

Cerelia huffed and took a rough bite of the toast; utterly put out that Angelo would be so forward, so mocking of her. He reached forward and touched her jaw with his knuckles, coaxing a small smile from her lips but that did nothing for her internal dismay.

“I have been around Venice before.” Cerelia retorted petulantly, pursing her lips. “And what do you mean: a witch like you? I am perfectly able!”

Angelo laughed again and shook his head. “Around but not in, eh?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Angelo!” Cerelia’s reproach this time sobered the man but that did not stop his laughter and he leaned forward, stealing the last of the toast from her hand. “I loathe you.” Cerelia cursed, crossing her arms this time without getting jam all over herself.

“You adore me, bella.” He replied easily, once he’d swallowed. Angelo gestured nonsensically with his fingers to nothing in particular before speaking. “Listen, bella. Pappy has me on the gondolas. Giovanni found his lot for last evening between Lucia’s legs and he’s too hung over to work. So if you need a ...”

Angelo paused for a second and Cerelia turned, following his eyesight to a woman who had entered the living quarters. Cerelia had the grace to blush but Angelo, ever without conscience, waved.

“Buongiorno, Vittore,” he grinned, laughing again when the woman took her leave. “Nice choice,” he added to no one in particular before continuing, his eyes returning to Cerelia. “Anyway, if you need a proper guide, just whisper on the wind, bella. I’ll find you again. Oh, and your grandfather sent a bird.”

Cerelia scoffed at him. “Your sense of connection makes me weep, Angelo. I expect he did not. What was it for?” Cerelia inclined her chin stubbornly, hoping to prove him a fool.

Angelo grew truly sober at this and tossed the last of the toast into his mouth, chewed and swallowed before speaking. “You look good for a girl whose smile was in blood not a few days ago.” Angelo’s fingers touched the sides of Cerelia’s lips and she paled immediately. “Your grandfather wanted me to give you this.” He took a shrunken vial from his back pocket and held it out for her. Cerelia took it hesitantly and Angelo continued. “Put it on that sketch your father did in your neck, eh, bella? Else you will weep, sweet.”

“Shoo little rat,” Cerelia returned, collecting herself and managing to continue the flirtation. “You plague me.”

Angelo laughed, getting the hint. “Not half as much as I’d like to, bella, I assure you.” He thrust himself up and stole a kiss before she could reply and began to lower himself down from the balcony. “Put some of that stuff on, Cerelia or I swear I’ll dunk you in these waters and you smell lovely as it is, you don’t need the Venetian stench! I will see you later!”

Then, like that, he was gone – her only friend in Italy. Cerelia brushed her fingers through her hair while her other hand felt from the scar that began at her neck. It was something of a river, really. It was a splayed mess of scars upon scars that formed a snake-like curvature from her nape to her hip. Much of the time she had it covered as best she could with magic but sometimes it was nice to get air on it, to soothe it. The main body of it was the darkest of reds, twisting, mangling her skin and setting off little tributaries of other scars this way and that. Many of those had been cleared by Aceso’s dittany in ways that they had never been before and even the scar tissue that dominated her back seemed less red, healthier. Cerelia knew it would never heal but understood with just a glance that it had been better than it had ever been.

Shaking her head, quietly glad she had seen Angelo, Cerelia put the vial in the pocket of her silk shorts. She then made her way back to the breakfast table and took another piece of toast. It was then that Augustus entered. The blonde suddenly felt guilty but she remembered quickly that Angelo had sought out her, not the other way around. It was he who had diced with death, hanging off of the side of a building, to speak to her, to give her the vial of salve mixed with some sort of healing potion. She was not the guilty party yet she felt it, for the way he had gone about it. Perhaps he knew it would annoy her, leave her flush rouge when she realised what it was he had done. But Angelo, Cerelia decided she would put out of her head for now, and she smiled brightly at Augustus, remembering that she was not in Venice to play silly games.

“Buongiorno,signore. Come stai oggi?” Cerelia replied with ease. She pushed once more from her mind any thoughts of Angelo who would no doubt have mocked her for her Italian which was decidedly better than her Latin but no less ... trying. Her Italian was even lazier than his and he had more right to it! Cerelia did not mind it though. In the same way he followed her knowing it provoked her, she spoke in her way because she knew it to wind up him.

Taking a bite of her toast, Cerelia reached forward to pour out some tea. She dropped in a single lump of sugar and began to stir in the cube as Augustus spoke. She was half-listening, she promised herself. Breakfast was too good to care for politics now. Cerelia was beginning to regret being the only Avery in Venice. She wished she could have sent Bastien to all of the business guff and filled her days with sweet fruit, dancing and adventure. And while Bastien was only an owl away, Cerelia knew that would have been rude as it was at Augustus’ expense that she was there with him – though why she still couldn’t figure out.

“Mmm...fantastic!” she enthused with a smile after swallowing the mouthful of toast she had. “It is by far the best sleep I have had in ... well, weeks!” Which was, much to her niggling dismay, completely true. There was a fine line between being unconscious and sleeping and she had skirted that for days before arriving in Venice and it was only the night before in which she had truly slept. There were no black-outs, just sleep. Pure, unadulterated sleep.

“There was music playing and I could hear the city wake and I just knew I had to get up too and I...” Cerelia smiled, feeling her cheeks warm, and brushed her fingers through the front of her hair. She did not finish her sentence for fear that it would not be something that interested him. She did not want to fill their time with useless babble and instead she busied herself with getting a little bit more onto her plate than just toast.

She took a few pastries and an apple which she shook, filling it with its sweet juice which would do as she had explained in the past. The girl broke the apple over a glass and smiled a little at the way it ran over her wrist and she dropped the halves onto her plate. She lifted her wrists to her mouth and licked away the juice, watching Augustus from her periphery as he explained a brief, and vague, order of events for their time in Venice. Once her wrists were clean, Cerelia lifted the glass to her lips and drank a little before crunching her teeth around one of the halves of the apple.

She nodded, eager to be accommodating. Her hands found one of the knives hiding beneath a large platter plate and she quickly began to chop up the half of the apple she had not bitten. Once cubed, Cerelia scattered the apple over a bowl of what appeared to be wheat cereal with fruits and nuts in it. She poured in the milk and grabbed for a spoon before lifting the bowl up so she could eat.

Cerelia snorted at his last comment and she nodded. “Indeed.” She murmured before bringing another spoonful of cereal to her lips. Italians were an interesting bunch. “The market is on Friday.” Cerelia informed him with a hopeful smile. “So, where first?”

As the bacon crunched against his teeth and Augustus let its taste roll over his tongue to where it will cease to have a taste pass his throat, he watched the girl patiently as she spoke in a far brighter spirit than the one she had the night before. Something had occurred, he knew that for sure. Yet, he had preferred not to pursue his curiosity, not until this morning at least. Despite the initiative of requesting for Cerelia’s company for a trip that should mean as much to Adolphus himself for the purpose of their business, Augustus knew better than to question the goings-on in the Avery household. Like every other old Pureblood family, dark secrets were no surprise, and it wasn’t proper to wonder aloud in the presence of anyone from said family. Scandals and gossips were rampant, of course. Still, protocol called for self-preservation, even if Augustus was bursting at the seams with curiosity. So, instead, he merely watched the girl, amused at her attempts to fight the tide that had hit her before, an effort that was surely aided by the beauty of waking up to the extravagant side of Venice.

While it was not mentioned, as Adolphus never seemed to talk about his daughter apart from a casual mention of her name when she was needed, there was enough for Augustus to assume that Cerelia was no stranger to the city. He watched her even, as they spoke little on the boat to the house of the Montolivos. Her eyes took in the city like someone who knew where to look to discover a beauty that was too hastily observed at a time before. This time, it seemed, she fixed her eyes on whatever she knew to look out for. Augustus tried to read the girl’s thoughts. Yet, he reminded himself that it was uncalled for, and dropped the intention to do so. Instead, he alternated between following what the girl admired, and her responses to them. It wasn’t as if he was familiar with the city. Yet, he had been accustomed to its sights, what with the many trips of pleasure he had taken with different types of females for company. Women, in particular, seemed to take to the city with more passion than the men.

Augustus was familiar with the Montolivos. At best, the family was the closest Italian partner that the Rookwoods had. There was good history between the late William Rookwood and the late Giampaolo Montolivo, both a generation ahead of Raghnall Rookwood himself. Both families continued to keep up with the diplomacy, despite the foolishness of one Thaddeus Rookwood, who was barred from the city even, for the lusty aggression he had attempted on one of the daughters of Montolivo. Raghnall had forgotten the pain his eldest son had caused him with the scandal. If not for the courtesy calls of Augustus, the families would come close to the severing of ties. Fortunately, both for Augustus and the Montolivos, Venice was still open to some of the Rookwoods, and one less enemy was made.

From the hustle and bustle of the Venetian streets, the boat filtered slowly into a water lane that did not share the activity that characterised most of the city in the day. No one could have business here, and even if they tried, it was said that the place was cursed for business. Yet, the sun still shone over the place that led to the house of the Montolivos. A deep throaty tenor could be heard, but Augustus paid no mind to it. Instead, he consolidated his thoughts and looked to Cerelia again for her response. Surely she would have never made it to this part of Venice before. He wouldn’t bet on Adolphus having his daughter along to a meeting with Mattia, even if she had followed her father to Venice before. It wasn’t difficult, by now, for Augustus to be certain of the dysfunction that was clear about the relationship between Adolphus and his daughter. As before, he wasn’t surprised. Curious, yes, but not unexpectedly so.

“Welcome to the House of Montolivo,” Augustus began, directing his voice to the girl, as he gestured to the house behind him, in the distance. “Esteemed Wandmakers of old to the Wizarding folk of this magical city. And, of course, the country, at large. Our team is sorely incomplete without what the family of Montolivo can offer us.” Augustus nodded. “The Montolivos make powerful wands. There is no fear of what the Ministry can or would do, unlike the weaker Wandmakers England possesses.” The man scoffed at the thought. “The Ministry esteems the expertise of the Montolivos here. After all, the family probably existed even before most families were formed here in Venice. I hope I don’t exaggerate by extending so far to claim it was a pioneer of Italy itself. Nobody knows about that. But, this city knows to keep its roots. And, basically, we get away with anything in Venice when the Montolivos are on board. Well, almost.” He wondered wistfully. And just as the boat got closer to the house, Augusus leaned closer towards Cerelia and whispered. “Just a warning about Mattia Montolivo … woman are … well, let’s just say he takes the extreme stand to them. They’re really only good in two arenas. Forgive his lewd remarks, if he passes any. And,” Augustus straightened his collar, “let’s prove him wrong, shall we?” Amused by the set-up he had made, the man smirked before lifting himself up and turning to take the steps out of the boat. Not forgetting Cerelia, he offered her his hand, and pulled her up to the safety of land.

In the brief years that Cerelia had spent with her mother before her death, the Eberhardt woman had managed to instil in her daughter the manner of a humble guest. Cerelia always knew to bring a gift but it was usually her father who oversaw this with extravagance that he could ill afford. By comparison, his daughter’s givings seemed almost childish but contained beneath the surface, a sweetness that no diamond encrusted watch could match and on more than one occasion, Cerelia had wondered what would have become of herself if she had expressed her desire to provide her own gifts instead. Already her mind had begun to twist and turn and she had it figured what she was going to do for the Montolivos family. Cerelia had double the expectations for she had to uphold both familial honours – that of her own family and that of Augustus’ for, after all, she was his guest first.

Her breakfast in the end had been brief and after plucking her pastries from her plate, Cerelia smiled warmly at Augustus and stole away into the kitchen that was expansive but unnecessary to any other guest staying in such a suite. Cerelia had made up her mind to make good use of it however and between bites of her chocolate croissant she began to make her own pastries though did nothing more elaborate than bread. She did the majority of it by hand but sped up the rising process with a touch of magic. Within a quarter of an hour the loaves were in the stove and Cerelia had eaten the last of her breakfast. She returned briefly to the living quarters and spied Augustus out on the balcony. She poured herself out a new cup of tea, sans sugar this time, and moved quietly back to her bedroom and into the en suite bathroom.

It was difficult to look at one’s self knowing that the knitted skin was still far from perfect. Most women – young and old – would have sooner thrust themselves into the Venetian rivers than stand before a mirror with nothing to protect their modesty for the sole purpose of self investigation. It was an occurrence that, for Cerelia, happened more often than not and she would stand with her hair left to trail down her back, her body exposed to the elements. Her lower lip would catch between her teeth and she would examine herself from head to toe, determined that something should change in order to improve herself. She saw no different in the mirror than she ever had but there was the subtlety of age that had begun to act upon her body and in her skin, dittany had proved its worth.

Her hips had spread themselves wider and had gained a curvature that was guilty of the change in clothing that her body had demanded of her. Her waist nipped in gently below her bosom which was framed by angular shoulder blades that would have cut passing, kissing lips. Her shoulders, she observed, were as narrow as ever and her legs as ferociously long. She had this small quality despite her height that made her look almost mousy and forgivable. Yet even Cerelia could see the spark of defiance in her weary eyes. Her fingers were long, spindly, and wore the silver rings she cherished. Cerelia noted the way her mother’s engagement ring glinted in the light, begging to be noticed. There was little to not favour. She had an ethereal quality about herself that came from the long blonde dresses that sat about her in sleepy curls. All that was beautiful could be seen in her until she turned around.

Casting her eyes over her shoulder, Cerelia gave a small cry. A blazing rail of ownership raked down from the nape of her neck and twisted, mangled the flesh that swept over her spine in cream. Torn and pulled back together again with uneven, merciless hands, her back still shone red and livid with the touch of men that did not care for her. Cerelia felt her cheeks grow moist with salt and water as she stared, her eyes drifting down the length of the great serpent that would have followed her spine to the curve of her buttocks had it not been for the change of course a quarter of the way there. It spread off, darting away towards her hips, towards the privacy of her lower extremities but cut off at her hip as if time had been stolen by the person who had cast the spell and a discovery had been made.

The girl shook herself, determined not to think of it, and moved into the bathroom which put to shame anything she had once bathed in before. A large claw foot slipper tub dominated the room and hot water had already been drawn for her by a House Elf, that had tagged along in her luggage, and scented with rosewater. The creature hid behind a pile of towels at the sight of his mistress and Cerelia looked about herself, taking in the bathroom but failing to spot the cowering elf. A floor to ceiling shower took up a nook that had been made by a supportive column and covered the expanse opposing the door. Mirrors appeared frequently in the absence of art and without further hesitance, Cerelia slid herself into the enveloping water of the bath. She hissed with delight at the feeling of the scalding water against her back and slid further and further into the froth until she slipped beneath the surface of the water.

Emerging from her bedroom, Cerelia shut the door behind herself. Between her lips that held the brush of a softly coloured lipstick, she kept a handful of pearl pins. Her hands busied themselves with her hair as she made her way over to the large ornate mirror that was mounted upon the wall above a period dresser. Her fingers twisted, turned and lifted her hair with expert ease and once it was secure in a bun she pressed the pearl pins into it. Cerelia turned briefly after that to access her work and, satisfied, turned back to look at her dress. She licked her fingers absentmindedly and brought a few curly tendrils down from the front of her hair to sit by her temples and smiled before smoothing out her dress once more.

It was only then that she reached for her wand. With a shuddering sigh, Cerelia turned and with a flick of her wand, began to add layers of protective spells as well as concealment ones and where once there was puffy red skin soothed only briefly by the heat of the water there was a false pallor anew that met without abating the softness of Cerelia’s true skin. Beneath her fingers she could still feel what was there but she did her best with sight and would have to hope that if anyone was to touch the back of her neck, they would pass themselves off as insane rather than assume anything untoward.

She then slipped her wand into her purse and returned to the kitchen to fetch the bread that was just nearing completion. She lifted it from the oven and set them on the side to cool and only waited a short while before setting the loaves into the basket she had lined with a pale purple silk piece of cloth. After that Cerelia reached for an apple that still bore a leaf to it and smiled to herself before setting that in the basket with the loaves. She met Augustus in the living quarters of the suite not a moment later, surprised to find him there and cursing herself for not looking when she had been fixing her hair. Mentally she reproached herself, knowing the man well enough to come to the conclusion that if he had been sat there, he would have said something. Yes, of course.

The pair fell into step beside each other with a familial ease and Cerelia was eager to explain the sweet loaves that she had made, proud of her achievement. They spoke amicably as they made their way through the hotel and Cerelia, remembering her manners, was conversational with anyone they happened to encounter whether those people were Italian dignitaries staying for a time or the bell boy put out by the weight of a Countess’ bags that needed taking up to the third floor.

Once again Cerelia showed exactly why she was the diplomat of the Avery family and once out on the street it was she who managed to negotiate a sensible price for the transport. She had snapped at a weary Giovanni who had been thrust out onto the bright streets of Venice in her cruel Italian tongue and the man had complained openly to her of Lucia’s alleged awfulness in the bedroom before gesturing for them both to get on and for Cerelia to shut up. The girl had merely smirked at him in response and paid his half, promising the other when he saw them to their destination safely. Giovanni was crabby but decidedly agreeable; not that he had a choice.

Once seated in the small vessel, Cerelia’s eyes opened rather than her mouth and she stared at all the sights that Venice boasted. Above them, Giovanni crooned an ironic little tune about a man going to bed with the dream and waking up to a nightmare. Cerelia tried her best not to snicker at his woes and continued to look around, a lazy smile on her face. After a while she could feel Augustus’ eyes on her but that was not what made her turn. She felt an unfamiliar presence pressing against the potion vials that served to bottle her thoughts and protect her mind from the work of a Leglimens. She had not felt the first cracks and had unconsciously redoubled her efforts but it was the second snaps that made her turn and she looked at Augustus with a quiet curiosity that was tinged with reproach. But as soon as the feeling was there, it disappeared, leaving her mind solitary and cold once more.

It had been a long time since she had allowed someone to traipse about in her mind and she certainly wasn’t going to let him uncork it on a whim. Cerelia spared a little bit of her own consciousness and thrummed against Augustus’ Occlumency shields with a little more strength and brashness than she would have used – the act more of a warning than a true meaning to enter. Keep out was the decisive message though she could not say for sure what it was that had been looking for. If Cerelia was to be honest with herself then she would have confided that she did not care. She did not mind being laid bare to a wand but what she detested was for her mind to be abused by wizards. That she had saw fit to remedy many years ago and she did not expect it to fall apart for anyone, not even someone who meant her no harm, and so she was grateful for the strength of her inner being.

“Ask,” she murmured. “And you could well receive. Do not merely take. I do not bow as quickly as others.”

To hide his amusement at her audaciousness, Giovanni continued his song with more fervour as he guided them down a canal that was not as wide as the others had been. Cerelia shrank a little closer to Augustus, feeling claustrophobia begin to act upon her. “Mio fratello conosce il tuo dolore, signore!” But, remembering her anger, Cerelia brought her arms around herself and turned away from Augustus, feeling genuinely disrespected by him. The group passed another alley and Giovanni took a moment to pause in his song to gesture in the direction of a row of buildings that looked no different than the ones they were sailing towards save the people that were sat, languishing on the balconies without a care.

“Down there,” Giovanni gestured with his rod. “Is the Paradiso Venus ... I do not know if you know it.” He was speaking to neither of them in particular. “There is a live band the night after tomorrow. Playing all kinds of music. Your figlia would like it there, Signor Rookwood.” Cerelia twisted around, both to get a better look at the building and to glare at Giovanni who was utterly unrepentant. “Sarei felice di accompagnarvi, bella.” He cooed at her with a smirk.

“Preferirei ucciderti.” Cerelia hissed back, smiling sweetly not a moment afterwards. Giovanni merely laughed at her in response and continued on regardless of her.

The house loomed ever closer and it was as they drew close to the small dock that Augustus explained to Cerelia just what the family the family he thought so prudent to see actually did. He was certainly correct in his assumption that Cerelia had never come into contact with the family and part of her wondered she hadn’t though she was sure that once she had met them, she would be glad of their absence in her life. The light still shone down on this part of Venice but there was a chill that made Cerelia shrink closer to the warmth of Augustus’ body.

“Wandmakers?” she tipped her head to the side and looked at him, her curiosity increasing tenfold as she considered her own wand. “Doxy wings.” She murmured with a smile. “What’s yours?” She left her eyes on him now, feeling somewhat forgiving of his earlier discrepancy and her eyebrows rose at his mention of the man they were supposed to see. She scoffed and shook her head as Giovanni began to croon again, this time a provocative little country tune about the Montolivos which would no doubt go down well. “I am not an ordinary woman.” She told Augustus with an easy smile. “We shall see. If he riles me, I cannot be held responsible for my family’s relationship with his afterwards.”

Smirking, Cerelia took Augustus’ hand. With her spare hand she took the basket and her purse from the floor of the gondola and climbed out, clinging a little tighter onto Augustus than she would have usually done but she was stepping between land and a rickety boat so you could hardly blame her for her hesitance. Once safely on the desk, Cerelia brushed herself down and checked on the bread, pleased to see it was still warm. Lifting her head again, she smiled brightly and followed Augustus up the steps of the little landing bay and into the porch that lidded more of a back door than anything else. They knocked once and once was all it took before a middle-aged woman dressed in servant’s rags wrenched open the door. Cerelia wished the woman a good morning before looking at Augustus. This was his game and his turn to serve.

Calling on an old friend was never as simple as just a visit, Augustus Rookwood’s world. For a family who indulged in their establishment, who boasted of a tradition of power, one just simply did not voluntarily visited one’s acquaintances. There was always an invitation, if pleasure was the intent of a meeting. And, certainly, there was always going to be extravagant expectations placed on the hospitality of the hosts. The swing of power found more balanced, of course, in a visit such as the one that was undertaken presently. It was no secret. Augustus had, for some time now, fussed over the key to Mattia Montolivo’s heart, for such a time as this. While there was no place for the thoughts of a woman in the man’s decisions, there certainly was a place for a woman in the space of his decisions, for his viewing pleasure. Such was the weakness of a man who boasted in the oppression of women under his care.

Augustus knew he was taking a gamble. The bet was dropped into his mind as he found himself faced with a girl who seemed to hold the charms of youth and a shrewd hand for manipulation; even if, he had noted, she seemed to be clueless to that ability. Nothing spoke of her kinship to Adolphus Avery louder than this quality, safe in disguise of a face that annulled the face of threat of her father’s. Yet, it was a gamble, vested in the hopes of Mattia’s underestimation of the girl. Perhaps unfortunately for the girl, Augustus had chosen to remain vague about the other man’s penchant for the young ones. In this, though, was Augustus’ weapon. It was a gamble that had to be taken. After all, what could go wrong? Mattia could try, but even he knew better than to risk the wrath of an old friend. Adolphus Avery was not unknown to the circles of Italy. Yet, Augustus could only bet on it.

Still, he thought he knew the girl well enough to have faith in his own judgement. Earlier in the day, he had watched her quietly, admiring first the expertise she showed in the art of her hair, and then noticing how she had taken the effort to conceal what had grown in greater revelation to him. Yet, he had said nothing. It was not his place to. At least, he thought, for now. There would always be time for that later. Business was priority. His mind had drifted back to an imagine conversation he was going to have with the Montolivo man, as he tried to sharpen the words he would use that would fish for more than he was going to bargain for. Preoccupied, Augustus had merely grunted in approval when Cerelia was finally ready with the pastries he had earlier spied her busy with, much to his amusement.

While working with Adolphus had been more business than pleasure, the girl was a more enjoyable company. There was no obvious contention of power, and Augustus could put in his mind to the task at hand instead of occupying it with schemes to show the other man who had more influence in a matter. It was a shame, more for him than for the cause of the business, that even he had underestimated her. Amused, and then surprised, at how he was barred from her mind, and then had to make an effort to shield his from hers, Augustus merely smirked at Cerelia’s audacity. Sure, the Occlumency shields she had proven to possess were not the best. Yet, it was an ability that proved to be beyond what was expected of her. There was assurance, then, in a similar attempt that Mattia was surely going to make later. She was ready, and Augustus relaxed as soon as he got over the fact that he had been refused a mischief he had thought possible. Instead, he continued to enjoy the scenes from the boat ride, laughing at the mischief that Giovanni was ever so eager to interject with.

“Augustus Rookwood.”

The words, laden with a thick Italian accent, brought a presence to the room that staked a claim of power that Augustus would have to wrestle with. Yet, there was a charm about the man who, despite a record that could put most Death Eaters to shame, had never been made to pay for his crimes. Placing a chess piece back onto its crystal board, Augustus looked up and smirked, standing to greet the other man.

“It’s good to see you again, Mattia.”

“What can I do for you now?”

There was a pause, then both men chuckled, as if it alone could dispel the discomfort that was deliberately aimed at one. Augustus brushed it off, turning instead to introduce the girl.

“This is-“

“Avery’s girl, yes …..”

Surprised, Augustus raised an eyebrow, alternating looks between Cerelia and the other man. Augustus swallowed the questions, deciding instead to play it cool. Nodding, he noticed the attention that Mattia was now giving the girl. Some things do not change, indeed. Adjusting his collar uncomfortably, Augustus spied the manner that the other man was leering at the girl, and decided to break the silence with a cough that was louder than intended.

“Sit, please.” Mattia gestured to Augustus, before turning back to the girl.

“And you, ragazza, what can I get you to drink?” It was only when he had gotten Cerelia’s choice of drink that Mattia turned again to Augustus.

“The usual, Augustus?” Then, with a nod of approval, he turned and strolled to the bar.

“I expect you got my owl, and about tomorrow’s-“ Mattia clicked his tongue in response to Augustus.

“Augustus, il mio amico, there is a time for business, but it comes after some drinks, no?” With a flick of his wand, a glass of Absinthe made its way to Augustus. “Besides, I’m sure we don’t want to bore the ragazza with business. After all, she is a girl. She might like to go look at the art pieces in the other room.”

“She’s here for business.” Augustus was firm, eyeing Mattia with clear suspicion. Then, he averted his eyes and reached for his drink instead. There was a grunt of disapproval from the other side of the room. The Italian man frowned in confusion and began to observe the girl with ambivalent curiosity.

“What is her business, signor?”

“Our business.”

Another grunt was made audible for his guest. Mattia placed a bottle of wine back onto a shelf.

“The ragazza in our business?”

Exasperated, Augustus looked at Cerelia wearily, then nodded for her to speak, eyeing the basket she had prepared earlier for the other man.

The intrusion of Augustus into Cerelia’s mind had left the blonde dizzy and dazed. That, though, could have been due to the subtle heat that hummed around Venice and the putrid smell from the river had it been any other feeling than that particular one. Her mind was a tad torn and frayed at the edges. She cast over the vials that kept safe her memories, her thoughts, her feelings and mentally cursed the weakness of the glass and cork. She changed the vials and pressed each one into a different shelf that was laden with different bits of potion-making guff, making it difficult for anyone, even herself for a moment, ascertain what was memories and whether that jar of Bat Wings was the real thing or just some dastardly trick to scare an intruder from her brain. Once she was pressed back in her mind she cast walls around the bookshelves and around them more layers until a single door of misleading wood, seemingly powerless against any force, was left as an entrance to everything – a provocation, a dare to try. It was not as strong as she would have liked but that strength came from experience and age. She could keep her father out, though. He was not a powerful Leglimens by any stretch of the imagination but what she had could keep him from seeing. That was what mattered.

Cerelia had noted blindly the vague glance of concern that Giovanni had parted from them with and she had managed a smile as she recovered her bearings and got to grips with herself. Giovanni had said nothing and merely accepted the money Cerelia offered before promising to return to pick them up. Cerelia did not think to ask how he would know when they were finished there but later she presumed it to be Angelo’s birds that would do it – that would tell Giovanni where they were and whether they needed him. Cerelia could have done with the reassurance of the cheeky Italian then. Either of them would have settled her sudden fear and dismay. She felt so childlike, so vulnerable, and with Augustus taking her to the proverbial Lion’s Den, she was hardly at peace.

Augustus and Cerelia were shown into a sitting room that made the opposing room at Cerelia’s home seem drab and boring. She had once thought it light, sparse and airy but that was only in the summer. In the Venetian spring there was still a chill about the air and the room was cosy. It wrapped around Cerelia like a shawl and she felt the chill abate on her arms. She looked about, her eyes drawn to the art that was littered about the walls. She took special notice of the piece above the fireplace that was stacked already with wood, waiting to be lit in the early evening as the breeze of the water turned and became icy across your cheeks. Cerelia’s gaze focused upon the picture as Augustus busied himself fiddling with the chess board that Cerelia had appreciated when it had first caught her eye.

The voice that interrupted them both sent shivers down Cerelia’s spine that she could only just about stifle. Her gaze moved from the painting and found the one who bore the voice that was sultry, sexy, but altogether far too dangerous in the way it seemed to ripple across the room. Cerelia’s lips came together and she glanced between the two men, trying to decipher their relationship. There was an awkwardness there, a sense to wrangle about and claim top position upon the pile. Cerelia felt very much like an accessory to the room more than she did Augustus in those moments and as the pregnant silence stretched out, Cerelia found herself wishing she had chosen to wear red so she could blend with the wallpaper or the drapes.

Cerelia stepped away from the fireplace and closer to Augustus as he gestured to her and she managed to keep the surprise off of her face when Mattia expressed that he did in fact know who she was. Seemingly, Adolphus’ reputation preceded him. Cerelia knew well the type of man she stood before. Her father liked to keep those types close and she had been more than once a small bargaining chip that never exchanged hands. She remembered only in the back of her mind that this was a man who they needed on their side. She would have to swallow her sense of propriety and self-importance if they were all to emerge unscathed. She managed a smile despite his gaze and steadied her own stare upon the man. She was not feeling faint enough to blush and avert her gaze. She indeed remembered her place but she was no wallflower. She was Adolphus Avery’s daughter and damnit she would not be cowed.

Steeling herself, Cerelia managed another pleasant smile and took a small victory in the fact that she did not balk at the way he referred to her. Her temper was tinged a little but she did not allow it to flare. She merely continued her absent-minded smiles and looked about, taking in the new surroundings.

At Mattia’s address, Cerelia raised an eyebrow and responded with easy grace. “Vino bianco, per favour ... Arenis, se lo avete.” Cerelia glanced over at Augustus and narrowed her eyes briefly at him before flicking her eyes back to Mattia who busied himself with the drinks. It struck her funny, in that moment, that everyone she was encountering lately seemed to have a bar in their favoured rooms of the house. Her father had a cabinet in the sitting room and numerous shelf space devoted to his favourite tipples but never a full blown bar. Cerelia herself kept a small cabinet in her bedroom in the event she had a guest – well, Katarina or Gisele – staying the night but it was never as extravagant as what these men boasted. Alcoholics, the lot of them.

Augustus shared Cerelia’s need to be straight forward about matters but Mattia did not and Cerelia sat up a little straighter and clicked her tongue against her teeth behind her closed lips. She glanced over at Augustus again but found Mattia once more as the man spoke. Cerelia’s eyebrows knitted together in disbelief and while she was tempted by the art she felt there was time for that later in a gallery somewhere in a few days time – certainly not in that house without Augustus within reach of her. That wasn’t to say Cerelia would not hex the living daylights out of the man who was like dripping honey to her and altogether too sweet but it did help to have Augustus about. He could at least stop her – or hex Mattia himself.

Now, Cerelia was not a violent individual but she did possess her father’s streak and certainly had his impatience. She did not take well to being utterly disrespected either and there was only so much more she could take before getting up, walking out and making Giovanni take her back to the hotel became a preferable idea. She had to look after Avery interests though. That was perhaps the only reason why she was there and while she was, she would not be treated as though she were an airheaded little chit with little to offer in the world of men.

“The regazza has a name.” Cerelia spoke sharply. “And if Cerelia is too difficult then Miss Avery will do.” Cerelia lifted the basket off of the floor and placed it on the table’s edge, careful not to disturb the chessboard. “Sweetbread,” she added with a small gesture. “And an apple for your table. Honey runs through the middle of the bread, a liquor through the fruit.” She brought her lips together again and glanced briefly at Augustus before adding. “This business is as much mine as it is yours, Signor. I am responsible for the interests of my father and that of my family’s and by excluding my input you would insult my father so, lest you dare bring his wrath upon your person ... I suggest we continue.” Cerelia angled her head defiantly and raised her eyebrows. “You do not strike me as a fool, Signor. Do not disappoint me.”

Mattia brought a glass of Martini to his lips, but barely paid any attention to the dry taste of it. His eyes followed the path that the slim glass of wine took as it made its way to the Avery girl, half watching her in curiosity, and half watching her with suspicion. Slipping his wand absent-mindedly back into the safety of his side, the man frowned. Slowly, he shifted his gaze to Augustus, took another sip of his drink, and attempted to understand the ploy that the other man was playing, what with the perturbing presence of a girl. It wasn’t as if this place in the house was out of bounds to the fairer sex. Certainly, it wasn’t. He much preferred to have them littered around the room for his viewing pleasure than the useless art pieces collected by his father, grandfather, and most certainly the men who assumed power way before he did.

Mattia himself had to be a patron to a couple of Wizarding folk who claimed to be artists, when really; he thought the art all rather pretentious. Yet, of course, the Montolivos had been a patron of acclaimed artists, for as long as the city of Venice could remember. There was just so much cultural capital in the house of the Montolivos, Venetians would say. Mattia couldn’t understand the fuss. Yet, as he was taught to, he preserved a tradition he barely believed in. The unbelievably large female population in the house, however, was his fish in the sea. There was no better thing to collect than the feminine species. The more impressive the lady, the better. The younger she was, too, the better. Unfortunately, he had had to grapple with ugly incidences to attain some of the women, who he easily mistreated for the pains they caused him, as soon as he finally procured them for his home.

Licking his lips, Mattia eyed the Avery girl, suddenly amused as his mind toyed with possibilities that certainly deserved the eye that Augustus was directing at him presently. Smirking, the Italian man averted his eyes and pretended to study his drink before clearing his throat, uncomfortable at what the other man seemed to be proposing. Yet, before he could offer a tender protest, the girl spoke. With a raised eyebrow, he turned slowly and looked at the girl, incredulous at the audacity shown to him, and by a girl too. And as much as he remembered who she belonged to, Mattia could not hide his first distaste towards her.

“I’m surprised Adolphus Avery thought it fit to send business my way in the form of a girl. If not for my personal pleasure, then what is the point of her?” Then, quickly, he added. “The Welsh are strange, no?” He smirked, then chuckled as he gestured with a wave of his hand. “Regazza, you mistake me for a fool if you threaten me with your father.” He nodded his head.

“Yes, even Adolphus Avery should do well to observe the traditions and preferences of this place”.

“But,” he started again after a slight shake of the head. “On account of our friendship, I will honour his strange desire to have you here.” There was a slight shifting of feet near the armchair that Augustus had settled himself in.

“On account of our friendship, Signor, I ask that you honour the presence of the girl. Adolphus and I make decisions we do not wish to explain to the finest of details, for everything, for the business. And, while we esteem your stake as integral to our progress, I believe that on account of our friendship, you should extend your trust to our fidelity to the endeavour.” Mattia grunted, but said nothing. Then, budging, he took the few slow steps that led him back to the space that his guests were placed at. Still watching the girl, he settled himself comfortably, standing against the back of her armchair. The man lowered his head and took in a whiff of the girl’s scent, licking his lips in response to a register of her smell. Then, smirking at the frown on the face of one Augustus Rookwood, he settled himself in the armchair, sharing the space of it with the girl.

“You’re no fool, regazza.” Mattia began with a look mixed with amusement and a sneer. “But I’m not convinced about what your father, and Augustus here, desire.” Then, with a return of a lascivious expression on his face, the man smirked. “Change my mind.”

“Shall we look at the de-“

“Shhhhh … Let the regazza speak. He waved his hand dismissively, before nodding to the girl.

At Hogwarts, amongst her peers, Cerelia was the quiet Ravenclaw that had Rowena’s studious mind but Salazar’s forked tongue. At home, amongst her family, she was the mute little sister that neither of her brothers could understand and, more importantly she was her father’s prize – his bargaining chip. That idea had followed her some 1,000 miles south-east of her home and she sat amongst two men who were certainly not explicitly trustworthy but in the moments that unfolded, beneath the leering gaze of Mattia, she found herself glancing over at Augustus. The short, blonde hairs at the back of her neck were stood to attention and the skin of her arms had broken out into gooseflesh. She licked her lips absent-mindedly and she rubbed at her forearm with her left hand, wishing away the pebbly skin that showed her discomfort most palpably.

The girl had taken the wine glass and had taken a drink from it briefly before setting it down on the table. She had noted the way Mattia had disregarded the offerings and it was then that it dawned on her why the enjoyment of such delicacies could only be found in the eyes of the ladies of a house. They, at least, appreciated good food. Cerelia understood now why her father indulged in the sparkle – that gained one’s political ally’s, or adversary’s, attention. She could not help but feel rather foolish at this realisation and felt her cheeks heat up at the mere thought of it; though some solace was found in the way the handle of the knife shone in the low light that the windows allowed into the room.

She brought her hand up to her neck and rubbed absent-mindedly at the skin before looking over at Augustus. She could feel Mattia’s eyes on her and she felt more like a slab of meat than a human being and her dismay was clear to see in her guarded gaze. She sobered herself and managed a smile before raising her eyebrows at the man whose every word was increasing her impatience and her distaste. She loved the Italian drawl – it was her kind of accent – but his was like some sort of wax that just set her teeth on edge and made her stomach churn. The mere thought of her being a play thing for his pleasure set her breakfast with a mind about ending up on the carpet and though she did manage to keep it down, she could not avoid a grimace.

“I do not threaten anyone with my father,” Cerelia responded coolly, adding, “When I mention my father’s intentions, they are promises that he intends to keep. I do not deliver threats, Signor; for they are rarely kept.”

It was a truth and, much to Cerelia’s constant dismay, no word of a bluff or a lie. She was a young lady who knew better than most the ramifications of her father’s often devastating intentions and had experienced firsthand what the man did when insulted. She recalled in the vaguest realms of her mind the sobs of her mother as Adolphus Avery taught his wife what exactly would become of her if she were to be as brash and brazen as to leave him again. She had every cause and reason to loathe her father with unabated passion yet Cerelia found that she could not muster up the courage that distaste and rebellion required. It was much easier to lie low, do as he bid her and not create any waves in the delicate pool of Avery affairs. If Mattia was to refuse her presence, it would be her fault and the stubbornness of the man would be forgotten at first; only after Adolphus was done making his daughter think on her sins would he turn to his friend.

Cerelia bristled but was relieved when Augustus interjected and she eyed Mattia carefully, watching his face as he absorbed what Augustus was saying. He was not convinced. Cerelia’s tongue clicked against the blooming wisdom teeth at the back of her mouth and she stifled a sigh of frustration, busying herself with another sip of the white wine. She lifted her gaze as she brought the glass away from her lips and she blinked rapidly, steeling herself as Mattia made his way back over to them.

She froze at the feel of the man behind her, lingering over her like an oppressive cover of cloud on a particularly gloomy day. Her hands tightened around the main body of the glass and her nails, freshly painted, caught the sunlight, shining a little brighter in their soft pink hue. She swallowed back the alcohol that had turned foul in her mouth – though that was perhaps the revulsion turning over in her stomach – and she placed the glass back down. She felt Mattia sit down next to her and she brought her eyes fleetingly to Augustus’ face before fixing her gaze on the painting that was hung from the wall opposite her seat.

There was a niggling feeling in the back of her head telling her to run as fast as her little feet could carry her. It was a little burst of adrenaline, she found, as her heart began to quicken in her chest. She was afraid, she realised, for she sensed the manner of the man to be untoward with regards to her and she saw the unreasonable lust. She did not believe it to be genuine desire for who she was, only a fool would reckon as much. No, what Mattia desired was her youth and her womanhood – or girlhood, she supposed. That was what set her teeth on edge and made her stomach flip as though it was trying to escape through her throat. She exhaled a shaky breath and smoothed her dress out over her knees, desperate to busy her hands lest she reach to strangle Augustus for putting her in that position or herself to get out of it.

Cerelia looked sideways at Mattia and rolled her shoulders, sitting up a little straighter beneath his scrutinising, lecherous gaze. She swallowed again and pressed her lips together, weighing up her options. She did not know what it was exactly that Mattia wanted to hear but she did not want to disappoint anyone. Principally she did not want to disappoint Augustus but she knew that she would have to work at a vineyard until she had enough money to buy a small apartment in Venice or Rome because she could not return home if she failed.

“Hufflepuff had a garden.” She began carefully. “But it was lost. It is said that Gryffindor stole the map that led to it but died before he could use it. The last time anyone saw it, it was in the possession of the Gaunt family – Slytherin hands.” She lifted her eyes to Augustus hesitantly, wondering idly whether she’d mentioned it before, before resuming. “The map is particular and Slytherin was no half-wit. He understood the importance of the concealment – hence the Chamber of Secrets being located where it is. The map could be anywhere, a mere scrap of parchment that could have been written upon countless times, hidden in plain sight. Only, it’s not.” She smirked a little. “It was argued over long enough and one night it ripped. One Gaunt fled, the other coveted the piece until the family died out. The Ministry took their items and one half remains in London. The other is in Venice - in the Gallerie dell’Accademia.”

Cerelia paused to take a sip of the wine but this time kept it in her hands. There was a reason Gryffindor stole it, and a reason Slytherin himself took it also. There are said to be plants that grow only there that harbour untold power and beneath a fountain made of limestone, a room opens up and leads to a library that houses burnt and banned books pertaining to potions that would aid our cause greatly. There is only so much that a combination of Felix Felicis and Girding Potions can do.” Cerelia tapped her nails against the glass as she thought. “The idea is to increase magical prowess and dampen that of our Muggle counterparts, no? I feel as though it may require two potions. If we try to include both I fear it might explode. So we use unicorn horn in both, I should think...so if one is taken by accident it can be remedied by the other and vice versa.”

Pursing her lips briefly, Cerelia paused before reiterating what she said earlier, fixing her eyes on Mattia. “I look after Avery interests.” She said shortly. “But what we present to you is not the promise of gold. Rather the promise of the wealth of power.” Cerelia took another sip of her drink. “But such power can only be obtained by your backing of our cause, Signor.” Her gaze grew hard, her patience having been worn thin. “So is that all of the convincing you need or is there something else I am forgetting? I can do a back-flip if that is what you want!”

“You embarrass our families, Mattia.”

“Sit down, Augustus.” The command broke into a chuckle as the Italian man shook his head.

“I never imagined a Rookwood to have that much of a restraint.” Raising an eyebrow, Mattia began to regard the other man with a seemingly growing suspicion.

“In fact,” he began again, “I cannot remember you with better restraint.” Looking suggestively between the pair, Mattia nodded his head as if a certain realisation had hit him.

“Ahhh … protective, are we, old friend? Not so much restraint then?” With a wink directed at Augustus, Mattia shifted in his seat, leaving a distance that could only be considered decent enough between any girl and the Italian man. Bewildered, Augustus eyed the other man, as if attempting to understand what was implied, but knowing better than to read his mind for a matter that could only be trivial. When his frown broke, though, he knew. Yet, he bit down the protest, deciding it was for the better that the meeting resumed under Mattia’s new-found assumption.

With a shrug, Augustus lifted the glass to his lips, tasting again the sweetness of something that was meant to burn. When the girl rubbed at her neck in thought, he could not help but to watch her with greater curiosity, and with a certain impatience. It was as if he had begun to need to see what she was hiding, what with the suggestions and suspense he had been treated with ever since the night before. Clinking his glass against Mattia’s, the men settled back again as Cerelia began to speak.

Then, as soon as she was done, silence overwhelmed the room. There was a light of amusement in Augustus’ eyes. Smirking, he looked at Cerelia, attempting to catch her gaze. Then, as if he remembered that there was more to this than expressing his approval to the girl, he alternated his gaze to the other man. Feeling another’s eyes on him, Mattia rushed to clear his throat, and to release the creases between his eyebrows. In a bid to buy time as he struggled between the information given by the girl and the fact that this rather critical information was even trusted to her, Mattia lifted his glass of Martini to his lips again, taking his time with the taste of it. Yet, while he disapproved of the way that information was handed to him, he couldn’t help but be impressed by how the girl had presented it to him.

“Don’t be silly,” Mattia cleared his throat again. “There will be no childish antics here.” There was, after all, a need to stake his claim of power once again in the room. Then, quickly, he continued. “So you’re saying … we’ve missed …” The man frowned again, as if in serious thought now. “This ingredient you’re suggesting …” Then, fighting a growing interest but choosing caution, Mattia shook his head. “We will speak to Boiocchi tomorrow.” Then, in what surprised Augustus as a rather considerate move on the other man’s part, Mattia continued to explain to the girl. “He is, what you call … a potions man. After all, decades of that apothecary business. See, they have not always been into the art of potions. But, somewhere along the way the family was almost ruined by working with muggles.” Mattia’s sneer seemed to put Raghnall’s one to shame.

“Foolishness, dabbling with muggle medicine out of greed. But that woke them up right, it did.” Satisfied, Mattia finished the drink in his hand and set it back down on the table. “From just dabbling with ingredients, medicine, and average potions, the Boiocchi family has learnt. Indeed, they have. In fact, they are but second to us.” Augustus smirked at this point, amused at the empty boast that was the very character of the Montolivo family. “We must speak with them about this … ingredient, from Hufflepuff’s garden. Pity it was hers. Would have made it somewhere in the hands of Slytherin.” The man beamed. “We should speak about the details to Boiocchi tomorrow, regazza.” Then, turning to the other man, “Augustus, si?” Augustus nodded, keen to agree in the unexpected face of Mattia’s easy reception; or, rather, how Mattia responded easily to the girl despite the initial frustration he had caused.

“We cannot begin work without Boioc-“

“Mattia, my friend,” Augustus interrupted, trying hard to hide an almost awkward apologetic tone. “There are people who are already working on Potionatus Potentiae.”

“Pffft. What are silly name for a-”

“Mattia.” Augustus paused to calm himself from the irritation that the other man could so easily provoke. “It doesn’t matter the name. What-”

“I assumed you came to us for our expertise. What do you mean there are people already working on the potion?”

“They were working on it even before the Rookwoods were needed on the project. I cannot explain to you how it all came about. And I certainly cannot alter the working arrangements for your whims and fancies, Mattia.” Then, as if remembering that he needed the man after all, Augustus softened his tone. “We did come to you for your expertise. However, while you can always work with the others on the potion, they will not be dictated by you. It’s not our call either.”

“AH.” Mattia eyed Augustus with disdain. “The Montolivos are wanted for a thieving mission, aren’t we?” Then, he turned to Cerelia. “Gallerie dell’Accademia, you say? Our influence is our expertise, regazza? We are needed to pull the necessary strings to procure that other half of the map, aren’t we?”