curling into a stiff and soundless snarl, thinking of the Duke of Milan’s treachery and the willingness of his tool Francesco Aleri to further that treachery.
But, soon enough, he pushed the anger aside. The Goddess had given him other work, after all.
His thoughts turned to young Marco. The boy’s . . . considerateness . . . shone through every item in that bundle. Duke Visconti had carelessly handed out gold—of which he had plenty. This boy had next to nothing. There’d been nothing careless in that bundle. The kid was unlike anyone Harrow had ever known before; he was—kind, that was it. Compassionate in a way that Harrow didn’t really understand, and could only admire from a distance. The younger boy—that one he understood, but the older one—never. Marco’s type was the sort he could appreciate, but never emulate. But he understood why the Goddess might have a purpose for the child of such an unlikely woman as Lorendana Valdosta.
Well, I can’t be like that, he thought somberly. But I can do what the Goddess put on me; I can help that boy survive to do some good. That ought to count for something.
He settled himself a bit more comfortably, and thought about the warning the boy had delivered. That was something he hadn’t thought of; he hadn’t considered Caesare Aldanto except as a fellow guardian.
Better make sure not to ever let him get a look at me, he decided thoughtfully. Even as scarred up as I am, he might recognize me. And he won’t be seeing Harrow—he’ll be seeing Fortunato Bespi. A threat. And I know damned well how Caesare Aldanto responds to threats.
Then he grinned in the dark, his lips curling like stiff, old leather. No threats from me, Caesare Aldanto, we’re on the same side, as it happens. Just like old times. But Francesco . . . you bastard, you—
His grin turned into a feral snarl. Let’s just see you try and get past Caesare and me together, Milord Francesco Aleri. Let’s just see you get at the boy