Wheel of Fortune

Page of Cups: A helpful youth of artistic temperament, studious and intense. Trustworthy and loyal.

The music room drew Fortunato like a moth to flame. His nonna would say like dung drew flies, but he didn't live with her now and thought the former was more poetic. The room was not the place the Doge and his family came to listen to music. There was a gallery in the great hall for that. Instead it was the place they stored instruments and written music, and it felt good to him. It made him happy to be there. Whenever the archivist was gone, usually visiting his mistress during siesta or drinking his way to the bottom of a barrel at night, Fortunato would sneak in and find an old flute or mandolin, one that none of the journeymen used any longer, and he would play.

That's where the scribe found him, trilling a series of scales on an flute that wouldn't quite hold a tone, so it sounded like a lovesick bird. So amused was he with his efforts that he didn't hear the door open, and the sound of a throat clearing sent him leaping back into the darkest corner of the room to peer out at whoever had disturbed him.

Fastidiously neat, this man, except for the red and black and indigo stains on his sleeves and about his belt that showed his profession clearly. Otherwise he was well-groomed, if simply so. His clothing was of plain brown cloth, sturdy and practical. His hair was the same nutty brown where it peeked out from under his unfashionably small hat, and his eyes were a deep, rich color, like the dark bread his mother made when papa actually gave her some coin to spend. Everything else about him seemed a bit sharp. High cheekbones, a wonderfully arrogant nose, pointy chin. Somehow it came together very well, instead of looking pinched or ugly, although Fortunato rather thought the man would be surprised to hear it.

"Fortunato?"

Si. Definitely the scribe. Fortunato nodded solemnly, only then realizing he still hid the flute behind his back, like a guilty child.

"Is that the best you can do? It sounded off key."

Rolling his eyes, Fortunato held out the flute and pointed to the worn finger holes and the warped mouth depression. Then he waggled his hand to indicate a negative, doesn't work motion. The scribe thought about it for a few beats, then nodded. "You're saying it's too old to play a true note."

He rewarded the man with a smile, a generous one, for his understanding, and got an astonished blink in return. It was a start. Now if he could just. He waved to get his companion's attention, then pointed to the man's chest, and made an elaborate shrugging motion, hands next to his shoulders and palms up. Narrowed eyes regarded him, then understanding dawned again, and the man flushed a little. "I beg your pardon. I am Angelo, journeyman copyist. Apparently I am to teach you to read."

Order Wheel of Fortune