City of Flowers Read online

  ‘Come along, Sparrow,’ he said, leading the two boys into another, larger courtyard, where a bronze statue of a naked Mercury with a sword stood guard over some very elaborate flower beds. ‘Who is your friend?’

  ‘Brother Tino,’ said Sandro. ‘He’s new. He lives up at Saint-Mary-among-the-Vines.

  ‘Really?’ said the Eel, with an unctuous grin. He was genuinely interested. That Dominican friary was one of the few places where he didn’t have a spy planted and he wondered if this rather simple-seeming novice might be useful as a source of information. ‘Let me introduce myself,’ he said, extending a none too clean hand from his blue velvet sleeve. ‘Enrico Poggi, confidential agent of Duke Niccolò di Chimici, ruler of the city of Giglia, at your service!’

  Sky accepted the handshake but felt wary; this employer of Sandro’s didn’t seem like the sort of person a duke would have much to do with and Sky instinctively didn’t trust him. But things might be different in this other world he found himself in and he was still learning the ropes.

  As if summoned up by his name, a richly dressed old man walked out from under an arch, into the courtyard, deep in conversation with a less aristocratic person carrying an armful of what looked like plans. A closer look showed Sky that the nobleman wasn’t as old as he first thought; he had completely white hair but his face wasn’t lined. In fact he was rather handsome in a slightly spooky way.

  The Duke, for it was obviously him, stopped when he saw the three intruders. He dismissed the man he had been talking to, with, ‘Come back tomorrow morning with the revised drawings,’ and beckoned Enrico to him.

  The Eel slithered across the courtyard, bowing and smiling. Sky could see at once that the Duke regarded the man with contempt. He might be content to use him but Sky doubted very much that Enrico had more of Duke Niccolò’s confidence than he thought fit to show him. Sandro had made himself invisible, in the way he had of blending in with the background. He now slouched against a column, half-concealed in the shadows.

  Suddenly Sky knew exactly what Sandro did for his unprepossessing master: he was a spy!

  The Duke was looking straight at Sky now, who felt very exposed and wished he had as good a gift of disguise as his new friend. He was glad that he was standing in the shade. Enrico beckoned him over. And a small cloud drifted across the sun.

  ‘Brother Tino, my Lord,’ said Enrico, presenting Sky to the Duke, like a dog offering his master a share in a particularly precious and revolting bone. ‘As I said, he is based over in your Grace’s old family church among the vines.’

  The Duke extended a long-fingered hand, ringed with silver and rubies, and Sky went to take it, as he had Enrico’s a minute before. But a small gesture from the spymaster indicated he must kiss it not shake it.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Duke Niccolò. ‘It is some time since I visited there. Perhaps you, Tino – short for Celestino, is it? – would convey my respects to your Senior Friar. Who is it nowadays?’

  Sky got the feeling that this vagueness was put on and that the Duke was well aware who was in charge of every institution of the city. Which was more than Sky himself was.

  ‘I-I work with Brother Sulien, in . . . in the pharmacy,’ he stammered, glad that his colouring was not susceptible to blushing.

  Duke Niccolò looked hard into his face. ‘Mmm. I have heard something of that friar. Perhaps I shall pay him a visit myself soon. The pharmacy of course I am familiar with. It supplies me with perfume and pomades . . . among other things.’ The Duke smiled slightly, as if remembering past triumphs. Then, ‘Do make your acquaintance with my palace. We have some rather fine frescoes in the chapel that would interest one of your calling. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have some business with Poggi here.’

  He waved an elegant hand in a gesture that was obviously dismissal, taking in Sandro as well – so he had noticed him, Sky realised – and moved off with Enrico.

  ‘What a piece of luck!’ said the boy softly as Duke and spymaster walked into the palace in deep conference. Sky couldn’t help noticing that the nobleman kept widening the distance between himself and the man in the blue velvet suit, while Enrico kept sidling up closer again.

  ‘Luck?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve more or less got his Grace’s permission to snoop about his palace! He wouldn’t have said that if I’d been here on my own.’ Sandro was thinking how useful it was to have such a respectable companion as a novice friar. ‘He’s wonderful, isn’t he?’ he added.

  ‘The Duke?’

  ‘No, the Eel,’ said Sandro impatiently. The Duke was so far out of his sphere that he registered him only like a piece of fine architecture; he was much better equipped to appreciate a man like Enrico. Sandro hoped that his father had been a man like that. ‘Let’s go,’ he said now, eager to take advantage of this unusual opportunity.

  The boys walked through the courtyard and Sky noticed that the paving-stones between the flower beds all carried the symbol of the lily, in its elaborate fleur-de-lys form, like the stopper to his bottle. He asked Sandro about it.

  ‘It’s the symbol of the city,’ he answered. ‘Giglia means City of the Lily. And the di Chimici have it on their family crest too, with the shape of a perfume bottle.’

  The palazzo had what looked like its own little cemetery, dominated by a recent white marble tomb. It was topped by the statue of a young boy and his dog. Sky stopped to look at it; there was something familiar about the boy.

  ‘That’s Prince Falco,’ said Sandro. ‘The Duke’s youngest.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Sky.

  ‘Poisoned himself,’ said Sandro dramatically. ‘Couldn’t bear the pain any longer. He was all smashed up after an accident with a horse.’

  They were both silent for a moment while Sky thought about being in so much pain you would want to kill yourself and Sandro planned how to use their permission to roam the palazzo.

  On the far side of the courtyard was a broad flight of stone steps, which the boys climbed. At the top was a heavy dark wooden door, which Sandro pushed cautiously open. They found themselves in a small chapel, where two tall candles burned in even taller candlesticks on the altar. But what made both boys gasp was the paintings which covered three walls.

  They were rich with silver and, looking closely, Sky could see that some of the figures had real jewels embedded in their elaborate hats. The paintings showed a long winding procession of men, horses and dogs against a background of, he supposed, Talian countryside. Deer and rabbits and other small animals were pursued through bushes by some of the hunting dogs, and birds perched on branches, oblivious of whatever the humans were doing. At the head of the procession were three figures even more grandly dressed than the rest, with crowns instead of hats.

  Something bothered Sky about it; it was familiar but somehow different. Then he realised; the painting it reminded him of had gold wherever these frescoes had silver. Sandro was up close and Sky saw to his horror that he was trying to prise a small ruby from the hat of one of the minor figures in the procession.

  ‘Stop that at once,’ he said sharply and the boy looked up, startled.

  ‘You can’t go nicking bits off a great work of art,’ Sky explained.

  Sandro was surprised; he didn’t see it as a work of art, just a collection of coloured paints and valuable jewels, some of which would never be missed. But he realised that Tino, as a friar, might see things differently. He sheathed his dagger and shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do,’ said Sky. ‘Look how beautiful it is. But why is it silver?’

  Sandro really thought Sky must be a bit touched in the head.

  ‘Because silver’s the most precious metal,’ he explained patiently, as if to a child.

  ‘More than gold?’ asked Sky.

  ‘Course,’ said Sandro. ‘Gold goes black – gets the morte d’oro. Silver just keeps on shining.’ He gave one of the candlesticks on the altar a bit of a rub with his cuff. ‘Nah, you keep gold for a knick-knack to give yo
ur lady love if you’re not really serious about her. Silver’s only for the likes of the di Chimici.’

  Sandro’s words made Sky think about the quiet fair-haired girl at his school. What would Alice Greaves say to a gold bracelet brought back from Talia? He didn’t think she’d see it as a trinket. Then he remembered he didn’t have any money here and didn’t even know what currency they used. He shook his head. The small dark chapel, with its lingering scent of incense, was beginning to feel stuffy. He wanted to get out into the fresh air again. Suddenly he panicked. How long had he been roaming the city with Sandro? A gnawing feeling in his stomach told him it must be getting late. He didn’t want to miss the sunset.

  Sky looked at his wrist but of course his watch was on his bedside table at home. He looked up and saw Sandro regarding him with his head on one side. With his bright, alert eyes, he did look a bit like a sparrow.

  ‘What time is it?’ Sky asked, feeling really alarmed. ‘I must be getting back to the friary.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you brothers have to say your prayers every few hours, don’t you?’ said Sandro. ‘You’ve probably missed some already. Do you want me to take you back?’

  *

  Gaetano had spent several happy hours helping Sulien in his laboratory. The young di Chimici prince was attending the university in Giglia and was interested in all new branches of learning. But he hadn’t been in a laboratory for a long time and was fascinated to see how the friars distilled perfume from flowers. It would take many cartloads of irises to produce a tiny phial of the flower’s intense yet delicate perfume. And Sulien was easy to work with, calm and authoritative. Gaetano fell into the rhythm of the laboratory without even noticing.

  He looked at tall glass bottles containing cologne, with labels like frangipani, pomegranate, silver musk, vetiver and orange blossom. Then there were pure essences like amber and jasmine, lily-of-the-valley and violet. There was almond paste for the hands, Vinegar of the Seven Thieves for ladies’ fainting fits, Russian cologne for men’s beards and almond soap. There was tincture of white birch and hawkweed, infusions of fennel and mallow and lime blossom, liqueurs and compounds of willow and hawthorn.

  Cupboard after cupboard full of jars of lotions and glass bottles of jewel-like coloured liquids. No wonder the place smelt like heaven! But Gaetano knew that somewhere in the friary was another, secret, laboratory, where herbs were brewed that were not so healthy – his family’s source of poisons.

  But for now he tried to forget about that and to lend a hand stirring and measuring and mixing and adjusting flames under glass alembics like any other apprentice. Gaetano was the only one helping Sulien; the usual novice helpers had been dismissed so that the two of them could discuss the real reason for the prince’s visit.

  ‘Luciano told me where to find you,’ he said, steadily pouring a clear green liquid from one container to another.

  ‘And how is he?’ asked Sulien. He had brought his recipe manuscript into the laboratory and was carefully recording what they were doing to make infusion of mint. ‘I know Rodolfo is worried about his coming anywhere near your father the Duke.’

  Gaetano sighed, concentrating hard on his task. ‘My father has his reasons for not trusting Luciano too. Do you know what really happened to my brother Falco?’ he asked.

  Sulien nodded. ‘Doctor Dethridge told me,’ he said. ‘He was translated, like him, but to the other world.’

  ‘Where he lives and thrives, as far as we know,’ said Gaetano. ‘I miss him terribly, but it was his decision. He wanted passionately to be healed by their medicine and be whole again.’

  The two of them were silent over their tasks for a while, Gaetano remembering the last time he had seen his youngest brother, miraculously grown tall and straight again, riding a flying horse in Remora. His father had sat beside him, white and rigid at what other spectators took for an apparition of the dead prince. Duke Niccolò, in his ceremonial armour, had vowed vengeance on the Stravaganti but he had not moved quickly. Gaetano wondered whether the wedding invitation to Arianna was partly a ruse to bring Luciano to Giglia.

  Sulien had been thoughtful too. He knew this young sprig of the Duke’s family only by reputation, but he seemed quite unlike his father and his proud brothers. He was aware that Gaetano knew about the Stravaganti, had been on friendly terms with several of them, and would not betray their secrets to the Duke. And he was handy with tongs and glass vessels, something that made a good impression on the friar.

  Brother Sulien came to a decision. ‘I must tell you,’ he said, ‘that I have today been visited by a new Stravagante from the other world.’

  Gaetano put down the vessel he was holding very carefully on the wooden bench. ‘But that is fantastic!’ he said, trying hard to contain his excitement. ‘Where is he now? Has he gone back?’

  ‘No,’ said Sulien, getting up from his stool and walking over to the door into the cloister, to assess the quality of the light. ‘He should be here soon. I told him he must go back before sunset.’

  As if on cue, a flustered young man in a novice’s robes burst into the room from the inner door. Gaetano thought him remarkable-looking with his skin like chestnuts and his long hair like golden-brown catkins.

  ‘I hope I’m not too late,’ said Sky, casting an anxious look in the direction of Sulien’s visitor. ‘I lost track of time in the Duke’s chapel.’

  ‘Ah, that is easily done,’ said Gaetano, smiling. ‘It has happened to me often.’

  Sky looked at him properly. He was clearly a noble, dressed in fine clothes and wearing silver rings. But, if it had not been for his clothes, he would have seemed rather plain. He had a big nose and a very big crooked mouth. He reminded Sky of someone he had seen recently. And then he remembered. One of the kings with a silver crown in the chapel fresco had looked like that.

  ‘Let me present myself,’ said the young man. ‘I am Prince Gaetano di Chimici, youngest surviving son of Duke Niccolò. And if you have been looking at the frescoes in my father’s chapel, you have seen a likeness of my grandfather, Alfonso. I am supposed to look rather like him.’ And he made Sky a deep bow.

  Handsome he might not be, but he seemed so warm and friendly, and not a bit conceited, that Sky liked him immediately. He glanced towards Sulien as he replied, ‘And I am Tino – Celestino Pascoli. I come from Anglia.’ And he tried to copy the prince’s graceful bow.

  ‘It’s all right, Sky,’ said Sulien. ‘Prince Gaetano knows you are from a lot further away than that. In spite of his father, he is a good friend to us Stravaganti.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Gaetano eagerly. ‘Do you come from the same place as Luciano? Or Georgia? Perhaps you know my brother, Falco?’

  A strange feeling was creeping over Sky. ‘Georgia who?’ he asked.

  Gaetano thought for a bit. ‘When she was here – well, not here in this city, but in Remora – she acted as a boy and was known as Giorgio Gredi. I don’t know what her real surname was.’

  ‘I think I do,’ said Sky slowly. ‘You must mean Georgia O’Grady. She goes to the same school as me.’

  His head was spinning. Georgia O’Grady was Alice’s fierce friend, the girl with the red hair and tattoo.

  ‘But if you know Georgia then you must know Falco!’ said Gaetano, his eyes shining. He came round the bench to grasp Sky by both arms. ‘A beautiful boy, not like me. A boy with curly black hair, a fine horseman and fencer . . .’ His voice broke. ‘He is my little brother,’ he went on, ‘and I shall probably never see him again. Please, if you know anything of him, tell me.’

  It had been the talk of the school at one time, Sky remembered, the friendship between Georgia and the boy who fitted that description. There had been all sorts of rumours, because Georgia was in the sixth form and the boy was only in Year 10, two years younger than her. Such things were not unheard of, but it was still unusual. Still, both of them had shrugged off all comment and remained friends.

  Now Sky said, ‘There is a boy like that, Georgia’s close
friend, but he isn’t called what you said. His name is Nicholas Duke.’

  The image of the marble boy with the dog floated into Sky’s mind, even as he said it, and he felt the world turning upside down. It was like trying to walk up an Escher staircase and finding you were going downwards, and it gave him vertigo. But Sky knew that the boy he thought of as Nicholas could be this nice, ugly prince’s lost brother. But if he was, what on earth was he doing at Barnsbury Comprehensive? Then he remembered something else he knew about Nicholas. He lived with the parents of the Lucien who had died – or who was now living in Talia.

  Sky felt two pairs of strong arms catch him as his knees gave way and he sank on to the bench.

  ‘Time to go home, I think,’ said Sulien. ‘That’s quite enough for one visit.’

  Chapter 4

  Secrets

  Rosalind had to shake Sky to wake him up the next morning. Normally he was first up, leaping out of bed as soon as the alarm went off and heading straight for the shower before he was really awake. But today he looked at her as if he had no idea who she was, sleep still fuzzing his brain.

  ‘Come on, lovely boy,’ she said. ‘I know we live right next door to school, but you’ll still have to hurry. It’s quarter past eight already!’

  ‘Mum!’ said Sky, finally dragging his mind away from Giglia in the past and back to the present of his life in Islington.

  ‘Who else?’ said Rosalind, smiling. He registered that she was looking well again. That was two days in a row.

  ‘You should have woken me sooner,’ he said reproachfully, though it was himself he was cross with. ‘I can’t just go off to school and leave you with all the chores.’

  ‘What chores?’ said his mother. ‘There’s nothing urgent. Breakfast is made – you just have a quick shower and then come and eat. Everything’s under control.’