A cool poultice of crushed poppy and lavender, applied with a housemaid’s gentle hand, had worked its modest magic through the long night. At dawn, Niccolò traced the faint discoloration on his jaw, a bruise faded to the bruised petal of a pansy. The swelling had receded. A discerning eye might still catch the shadow, but most would dismiss it as a clumsy encounter with a doorframe, perhaps, or a stray elbow in the market. It was, at least, bearable. He moved through the Palazzo Moretti’s echoing halls with a lighter step, a fragile relief blooming in his chest. Yet, a disquiet settled upon him the moment he stepped into the Academy of Cartography’s main lecture hall. The air inside felt thick, stagnant, despite the open windows that offered glimpses of Volterra’s sun-dappled rooftops. A hush, heavier than usual, had fallen over the apprentices and younger cartographers gathered there. The reason, he knew instantly, was Lorenzo Bellini. Niccolò's gaze swept the room, searching. Vittoria. She arrived just as Maestro Alighieri cleared his throat to begin the morning’s discourse on celestial navigation, slipping into a seat near the back. Her usual regal bearing was absent. She moved with a hesitant, almost furtive grace. He stopped, mid-stride, forgetting to breathe. A half-formed, spiteful thought from the day before — that she deserved some discomfort for her reckless rage — withered, replaced by a cold, gut-wrenching shame. Her face was a stark canvas of injury. Her lower lip was split, a dark, congealed line marring its perfect curve. One eye, previously so piercing, was swollen to a dull plum, the delicate skin around it stretched taut and discolored. Remorse, sharp and immediate, twisted in his stomach. How could he have harbored such petty, childish desires? “Madonna, by all the saints…” he murmured, the words barely a whisper. Vittoria settled, her eyes darting across the room. She seemed to sense his stare. Her gaze, caught by an unseen thread, locked onto his. For a long, agonizing moment, she froze, her expression shifting from fear to a startled grimace. Then, she averted her head sharply, her shoulders hunching as she shuffled deeper into her seat, a silent, desperate plea for invisibility. Niccolò's brow furrowed. What was that? That flicker of terror in her eyes, directed at *him*? He instinctively glanced around the room, and the answer, chilling and undeniable, materialized. Lorenzo. From his customary seat among the senior apprentices, Lorenzo Bellini fixed Niccolò with a glare that promised retribution, a silent command for him to disappear. “A plague on this day,” Niccolò muttered under his breath, regret a sour taste on his tongue. He should have feigned illness. He should have stayed home, lost in the intricate lines of his maps, far from Volterra’s suffocating social currents. Through the morning lectures, Vittoria, who had always maintained a veneer of frosty civility toward him, became a ghost, her presence marked only by her absence from his sight. During the short midday recess, she vanished. He saw her, just for a moment, being led away by Lorenzo, her hand gripped firmly in his, her head bowed in submission. They disappeared through a narrow arched doorway, leaving Niccolò to the quiet solitude of his own unease. Alone, he found himself drifting towards the small, sun-drenched courtyard where a few junior scribes and apprentices ate their midday fare. Seraphina Rossi sat perched on the edge of a marble fountain, an apple core clutched in one hand, her face turned up to the sky. He joined her, a quiet understanding passing between them. A part of him yearned to seek out Lorenzo and Vittoria, to confront the escalating cruelty, but a colder, more pragmatic voice warned him away. What horror might he stumble upon? He hated to admit it, but he was afraid. Could Lorenzo be inflicting further harm? The battered image of Vittoria’s face burned in his mind. Seraphina, meanwhile, remained a bright, untroubled presence beside him. Her usual banter, a light-hearted counterpoint to the city’s grim realities, flowed effortlessly. “See? Told you the air in there was thicker than Volterra mud. Nearly choked on my own nerves.” She gestured back towards the lecture hall with a playful shudder. Niccolò merely grunted, a flicker of a smile touching his lips. “You seemed quite unperturbed yesterday, devouring those candied almonds.” “Ah, but a true artist of diplomacy knows when to consume and when to observe,” she winked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I sucked up the tension like a sponge, then cleansed my palate with sweetness. A professional endeavor, I assure you.” He nudged her calf with his foot, annoyed, as she laughed at her own wit. Seraphina rubbed her chin, a strangely sheepish expression crossing her features. No, it couldn’t be. Not Seraphina, who wore her heart on her sleeve and her humor like a shield. *** Life possessed a peculiar, meandering path, a cartographer’s nightmare of shifting boundaries. From their first reluctant acquaintance, Niccolò had harbored no intention of proximity to Seraphina Rossi. Indeed, her boundless cheer, her seemingly superficial ease, had initially grated on his quiet, introspective nature. Yet, here they sat, an unlikely pair, and she had somehow become the closest confidante he possessed within Volterra’s treacherous walls. Her lighthearted demeanor, her flippant observations, proved an unexpected balm, a counterbalance to the crushing weight of his anxieties and the rigid expectations that hemmed him in. In the past, he had dismissed such qualities as shallow, a lack of seriousness. Now, he found himself leaning into that very levity, allowing it to anchor him when the currents of his thoughts threatened to pull him under. If he and Lorenzo had remained bound by their youthful alliance, a bond now fractured beyond repair, Niccolò might never have truly understood the silent strength in Seraphina’s vibrant presence. From that day forth, Lorenzo Bellini began to drift, a rogue star from the established constellations of his social circle. Sometimes, he would vanish with Vittoria, a chillingly predictable pattern. Other times, a select few of his hangers-on would be drawn into his orbit, only to return with strained faces and averted eyes. There were even instances when some, like the usually compliant young nobleman Pietro, outright refused to accompany him, shaking their heads with uneasy expressions, a quiet ripple of defiance spreading through Lorenzo’s retinue. Niccolò encountered Pietro one afternoon, scrambling over a low garden wall, a mischievous grin plastered across his face as he ducked an approaching Maestro. Pietro, catching sight of Niccolò, paused, his earlier amusement fading into a disquieting solemnity. He spoke in hushed tones, admitting that Lorenzo had been ordering his closest companions to participate in the subtle degradation of Vittoria Bellini, a calculated humiliation enacted through dismissive whispers, pointed jests, and even, on occasion, a well-placed shove in a crowded corridor, ensuring plausible deniability. Niccolò's face tightened in disgust. Pietro, sensing his reaction, quickly added that he had been avoiding Lorenzo’s company for weeks, finding the cruel sport distasteful. He was on his way to a game of bocce with Cosimo, he explained, urging Niccolò not to misinterpret his past association. With a final, uneasy nod, Pietro departed. Cosimo, a promising sculptor, had been close to Lorenzo in their younger days, but their paths had diverged when Cosimo’s apprenticeship took him to a different studio, creating a welcome distance. At midday, Niccolò and Seraphina ventured to a small confectionery stall near the Guild Hall gates, purchasing sweet, chilled lemon ice. The sharp, cold sweetness spread across Niccolò's tongue, a momentary reprieve, a brief anaesthetic for the gnawing unease beneath. Still, he held himself rigid, determined not to let the turmoil show. “Is it good?” Seraphina, munching happily on her own brightly colored confection, eyed his lemon ice with an almost childish greed. “Perhaps,” Niccolò teased, bringing the melting scoop, sticky with his own saliva, dangerously close to her mouth. Without a moment’s hesitation, Seraphina grinned, her lips parting as she took a surprisingly large bite. “You… you actually ate that?” Niccolò exclaimed, half-horrified, half-amused. “You offered,” she countered, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “That’s… uncivilized. And why such a monstrous bite?” “It was but a single taste,” she said, shrugging a slender shoulder. It was a fleeting, peaceful tableau. In stark contrast to Niccolò's internal maelstrom, the crisp autumn air hung still and clear above Volterra’s bustling streets. Where were Lorenzo and Vittoria now? A few shadowed courtyards, a notorious gambling den, a deserted villa on the outskirts—places where Lorenzo’s darker whims might find expression—sprang to mind. But Niccolò did not go looking. Perhaps he was afraid of what he might find, afraid of the confirmation that would shatter the fragile peace of his ignorance. He tried to push Lorenzo from his thoughts. But the harder he strove, the more apparent it became how much space the Duke’s son occupied in his mind, a sprawling, oppressive estate of memory and resentment. How long would it take to excise someone like Lorenzo from his heart? How much effort would it demand, this slow, painful amputation? He did not know. It felt like an endless journey across a barren desert, not merely sad and suffocating, but terrifying in its desolation, unbearable in its relentless expanse. Sometimes, he simply retreated, like a cartographer stepping back from an overly intricate map, seeking perspective, trying to discern the larger patterns. When the weight became too great, he would, occasionally, find himself speaking to Seraphina. And, for now, that was enough. He turned to her abruptly. “Seraphina,” he began, the name a soft murmur against the city’s distant hum. “Hm?” She looked at him, still savouring her lemon ice. “Do you… do you believe flowers can ever bloom in a barren desert?” The question, so raw, so emotional, felt embarrassingly vulnerable the moment it left his lips. He scratched his head, a blush rising to his cheeks. But Seraphina did not mock him. “They will,” she said, her voice surprisingly firm, her gaze direct. “…” “They must. Life is wretched enough as it is, without withholding even that small mercy.” Hearing such simple, profound conviction from Seraphina—a woman he had once dismissed as utterly lacking in gravitas—crystallized the futility of his own desperate hope. How much time would it truly take to relinquish these meaningless, lingering attachments? “Yes,” Niccolò conceded, the words heavy. “Life is wretched.” Lorenzo Bellini. That useless, dissolute bastard. Why did he seem so intent on destroying the last vestiges of loyalty, the tail-wagging devotion Niccolò had once offered, a devotion that still, shamefully, stirred within him every time their paths crossed? Lorenzo, who had seemingly abandoned all the basic tenets of noble decorum, now came and went from the Academy as he pleased, a law unto himself. And always, by his side, a pale, silent shadow, was Vittoria Bellini. As Lorenzo’s volatile behavior escalated, the atmosphere in the lecture hall grew increasingly tense, a palpable mix of unease and morbid intrigue. It became undeniably clear: Lorenzo’s cruelty was intensifying, a slow-burning fire that now threatened to consume Vittoria. A fog of resentment toward him, once whispered in corners, now thickened, spreading silently through the ranks of the apprentices. None of it felt right. None of it felt safe. So, when Niccolò saw Lorenzo seize Vittoria by the wrist, dragging her down the main corridor of the Academy with a chilling possessiveness, he stopped dead in his tracks. He watched them, his gaze flitting between Lorenzo’s set profile and Vittoria’s downcast, bruised face, before the words, unbidden, broke free. “Your father, Duke Roberto, has expressed concern for your recent… eccentricities,” Niccolò said, his voice surprisingly steady. It was not an apology, nor was it flattery—it was a calculated lie. Such was the extent of his brittle pride. But Lorenzo, who had always maintained a strained, distant relationship with his powerful father, would likely not discern the fabrication. And even if he did, Niccolò already had his retort: at this rate, his father would soon have plenty to worry about. He always ensured an escape route. “If someone must bear your displeasure, let it be me. What has Madonna Vittoria ever done to warrant such treatment?” “Move, Moretti.” Lorenzo’s voice was a low growl, his gaze locking onto Niccolò with murderous intent the moment Vittoria’s name left his lips. Niccolò's chest tightened, a suffocating pressure. He hated Lorenzo. And yet, Vittoria, pitiful and pathetic, stood glued to Lorenzo’s side, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, looking at Niccolò as if he might be the one to unleash further wrath. “Unless you wish for another taste of my fist, as you did before, I suggest you step aside.” “L-Lorenzo, please,” Vittoria stammered, her voice trembling, a barely audible plea. Only then did Lorenzo halt. His gaze, once fixed on Niccolò, now burned solely into Vittoria. Niccolò saw only the rigid line of Lorenzo’s back as he turned slightly, away from him. “As I said, your father is worr—” Niccolò tried again, his voice cracking. “…” Vittoria, on the verge of tears, clung to Lorenzo’s arm, a desperate, futile attempt to placate him. Watching that pathetic scene unfold was unbearable. The agony of it was so excruciating that Niccolò closed his eyes, his knuckles white with suppressed rage and sorrow. After a long, tense moment, Lorenzo looked at Vittoria, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. Then, he turned and, without another word, steered Vittoria back into the lecture hall. For the rest of the day, Lorenzo remained there, a captive audience, just as he had weeks ago after the initial incident. *** The long-anticipated day of the cartography students’ expedition had arrived. A large, hired coach, usually reserved for noble families on pilgrimage, stood waiting in the Academy courtyard, ready to transport them to the ancient Roman ruins on Volterra’s northern border, a site ripe for meticulous survey and historical mapping. While a few grizzled older cartographers grumbled about the interruption to their serious studies, most of the apprentices buzzed with an infectious excitement, eager for a day’s escape from the dusty lecture halls and the oppressive political currents that flowed through the city. There was no need for elaborate provisions; they would return to the city by evening. Maestro Alighieri offered only a few half-hearted warnings about respecting the historical integrity of the ruins and maintaining an appropriate scholarly demeanor before waving them aboard with a dismissive hand. They were not children anymore, certainly not the giddy scullery boys who might lose sleep over such an outing. Niccolò had approached the day with his usual pragmatic detachment, viewing it as simply another task: depart without a heavy satchel, return with a mind full of observations. He had no premonition that today would be the day his tightly bottled frustrations, his quiet anguish, would finally burst free. He had always known it would come, in time, but never so suddenly, so publicly. As was his habit, Niccolò had always taken the seat beside Lorenzo Bellini whenever their lessons took them beyond the confines of the lecture hall. After all, despite their recent brutal rupture, he had been Lorenzo’s closest companion for years. He hadn't even considered where Seraphina might sit, as he had never before shared a carriage journey with her. At first, a familiar knot of apprehension tightened in his stomach. He was wary of Seraphina, fearing she might inadvertently claim the coveted seat closest to Lorenzo. Thinking back on it now, such a fear felt pathetic, an echo of a loyalty long dead. Neither he nor Seraphina would ultimately occupy that spot. He approached the waiting coach, its dark wood gleaming in the morning sun, and climbed the worn steps. The five rear seats were already claimed by a boisterous group of younger apprentices, among them Pietro, who caught Niccolò's eye. Pietro offered a hesitant wave, then pointed subtly towards Lorenzo’s customary seat, now visible through the bustling crowd within the coach. “Niccolò! There’s a space here!” he called, his voice a little too loud. “Right,” Niccolò mumbled, the word almost lost in the din. Of course. It had always been his. His heart, despite everything, quickened. He sighed a small, internal sigh of relief when he saw the seat beside Lorenzo was still empty. Swallowing hard, a flicker of determined pride flared within him. It was his place. His pride—the last remaining bastion of his self-respect, the one thing he stubbornly clung to—compelled him to sit there, even after the humiliating blow from Lorenzo’s hand, even after Vittoria’s despair. He had earned his place through years of quiet loyalty, of careful counsel, of maps drawn for Bellini coffers. His hand hovered nervously over the velvet-covered seat for a moment. He glanced around the now-crowding coach, then quietly, tentatively, addressed Lorenzo. “Lorenzo… this seat…” “It is not reserved for you. Find another,” Lorenzo cut him off, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. His gaze remained fixed on the coach’s entrance, as if awaiting a more important arrival. Following his line of sight, Niccolò saw Vittoria Bellini, her shoulders hunched, her head bowed, timidly making her way towards them, a forlorn figure against the bright doorway. He clenched his fists, the blood draining from his face. He swallowed the bitter taste of rejection, the words burning in his throat. “Very well. Whatever pleases you.” He tried to infuse his voice with an indifference he did not feel, though his heart felt as though it had been flayed, shredded into a thousand pieces. He quickly retreated from the seat, his movements stiff, his gaze sweeping the coach for an alternative. He spotted an empty spot near Seraphina’s small group, directly in front of where she sat. Relief, sharp and sudden, coursed through him. He hurried over, collapsing into the seat with an audible sigh, and spoke without waiting for a response. “Seraphina, sit with me.” No answer came. When he looked closer, he realized she was already asleep, her head resting against the carriage window, gently bouncing with every subtle jolt of the coach. She always seemed to doze off in the mornings, a testament to her unburdened spirit. Shaking his head at her ridiculous, ungraceful posture, he carefully slid his small, worn leather wallet between her head and the vibrating glass. Then, he leaned back into the uncomfortable, stiff upholstery of the seat, the reality of his new position sinking in. Across the narrow aisle, through a gap in the jostling bodies, he caught a glimpse of dark, rich brown hair. Lorenzo’s. He was taller than most of the apprentices, his powerful frame easily discernible. Niccolò could not see his face clearly, but he knew, with a chilling certainty, that Vittoria now occupied the seat beside him. The weight of it pressed down on him, a heavy, unyielding stone in his chest. He closed his eyes, wishing for the gentle rocking of the carriage to lull him into an oblivion as deep as Seraphina’s, but his mind refused to yield. The desert of his despair remained vast, and utterly, terribly, awake.

A Desert Bloom, or Just Thorns?