Writings on the wall – an idiom suggesting impending doom, based on the story of Belshazzar's feast in the book of Daniel

"He's here," Lorenzo choked out, after barrelling into them rounding a corner.

"Very dramatic," Giacinto reached out just in time to steady the other with a firm grip on his shoulder. "Trade it for something more specific?"

Lorenzo hesitated, hand half raised as if to grab onto Giacinto, then quickly stepped away with a small, sheepish smile. "Sorry. Of course. My father."

It hit Alessandro like ice cold water poured down his back. That wasn't possible. It just wasn't. Lorenzo's father had been out of town the entire week, he was supposed to be back in Venice, with his wife giving birth – he might loathe her, but he had to keep up appearances. The one thing more dangerous than Venice's foggy backwater alleys in the cold claws of night were the brightly lit ballrooms and salons of the nobility, the ladies' lips stained red with rumour's blood and the lords smiling daggers at each other.

He had never gone to Venice. There was no way he could have made it back in time. It had been a trick. And they had fallen for it.

Lorenzo looked back and forth between them, chest still heaving. "I don't know how he's – he didn't send word he'd be back – "

"That's not your fault, Zo. We should've known," Giacinto muttered, hand twitching for the blades at his belt.

Lorenzo's father knew of his son's involvement with them – when the Reaper had attacked them in the Cathedral, Lorenzo had been right there with them. Of course he wouldn't tell his traitorous son he'd come back. A heavy knot settled in Alessandro's stomach. That was his fault. Lorenzo had gone because of him.

And yet... something about Lorenzo's costume gnawed at the back of Alessandro's mind. While Giacinto was the shadow at Alessandro's side, Lorenzo was dressed from to head to toe in pure white. Even his boots were white, the stiff, gleaming leather reaching high over his knees. Muscles shifted beneath the tight trousers clinging to his thighs when he shifted under Alessandro's stare.

He forced his gaze to move on quickly.

His blouse was flowing white silk, gleaming in the candlelight like liquid starlight, the wide arms gathered at the wrist, bleeding into wide, frilled lace falling loosely over his hands. The lace of the wide cuffs was stained a glaring red fading into the pure white at his wrists, as if he had washed his hands in fresh blood and soaked the fabric. He wore no mantle, no waistcoat either, not even a cravat. A strange capelet rested on his shoulders and upper chest, stiff like a piece of armour, made from long, snow white swan feathers, flaring into white shoulder pads and reaching up in a high collar, long feathers framing his face.

A swan prince out of a fairy tale.

Alessandro's mind was reeling, jumping back and forth to trace the sharp jaw and muscles straining against the tight trousers, and retracing the conversation overheard before, what the costume could mean...

Lorenzo Pazzi. Alessandro had dismissed it, Lorenzo was a popular name and his Lorenzo was a Morosini, Venetian, not Florentine. But his mother was.

The Medici servants twirling through the guests had worn swan costumes, black in mourning for their patriarch. Lorenzo also appeared a mystical swan, but striking in white. Perhaps he hadn't known. Lorenzo loved dramatic costumes. It could be nothing. It could just be Alessandro always connecting, scheming, hunting meaning where there was none.

But who else would dare to show up at a ball of grief in pure white, mocking the costumes of the most powerful family? Only the Pazzi hungered for the Medici's hatred enough.

The Morosini family was one of Venice's oldest and richest – they would marry into a family just as powerful.

"You're a Pazzi." Alessandro regretted it right away, Lorenzo flinching at the biting edge in his voice – more accusation than question.

But the second he saw Lorenzo's gaze drop, he knew he was right.

Surprisingly, before Lorenzo could reply, or Alessandro's mind race to worse and worse assumptions, Giacinto cut in. "Let me tell you this in good humour."

But there was nothing humorous about the cold restraint in his voice.  He stepped closer, pushing into Alessandro's space. "You're not investigating. You're not even suspicious. You're just paranoid."

"I –"

"No. No, you're not. Zo's mother is a Pazzi, yes, but that's not a secret. Just because you didn't know doesn't mean he's keeping it from you, he just assumed you knew." He stabbed a finger into Alessandro's chest, right above the spot where his heart began to churn. "Do you know what he's risking to even come here and warn us? No. Because all you do is sit on your high horse and pass judgment. So you shut your mouth," Giacinto hissed, "Get a grip. We have worse things to worry about right now."

Alessandro opened his mouth, but no words came out, guilt knotting in his throat. He knew Giacinto was right, he was always suspicious, but he just – he couldn't switch it off. It just happened.

"Thanks, Gio," Lorenzo muttered quietly before clearing his throat. Alessandro hated how forced his smile was when he started again. "Laelia has to go. My father will recognize his dearest son's fiancé in a heartbeat. I can't warn her because he'll keep an eye on me, make sure I don't embarrass the good family name." His lip curled in disgust.

"Steno can't go either." Giacinto narrowed his eyes. "I can."

Alessandro frowned. "I've never met –"

"Everyone knows dear Inspector Steno."

"But –"

"Giant, you tower a head over every man in that fucking ballroom, you couldn't be discreet if you tried."

"You said you visit Antonio often. He'll recognize you, too."

"You almost didn't recognize me today," Giacinto said. "He won't even see me if I don't want him too."

Alessandro frowned. But Giacinto walked without sound, he'd slipped both himself and Alessandro out of prison... "Fine."

Giacinto just turned on his heel, halfway down the corridor when Alessandro called out to him again. "Giacinto?" The Greek turned, quick fingers playing with the hilt of his dagger as if itching to get moving. He narrowed his eyes when Alessandro was quiet for a moment. "... be careful."

"Aren't I always?"

"No, that's why I'm worried."

There was a tiny, mischievous smile curling around Giacinto's lips when he nodded and slipped away – but maybe that was just the jumping candlelight playing a trick on his eyes.

Lorenzo shifted, awkward. "I can go with you. You shouldn't have to do this alone."

Fuzzy warmth spread in Alessandro's chest, bubbling like the sparkling wine he had refused earlier. Even moments after Alessandro had doubted him, even with a father like his, Lorenzo still offered to stay by Alessandro's side. "It's fine," he said. "You'd just get in trouble with your father."

He tried shoving the memory of Lorenzo's blue streaked cheek and broken smile away. Anger curled in his chest, low and dark. Lorenzo had been so ashamed.

Lorenzo hesitated, but then deflated. "I better get back then," he muttered. He made to turn away and stride off, but Alessandro caught his arm in the last moment.

"Stay. We should ... talk."

"Don't like the sound of that." Lorenzo tried for a cheerful voice, but it cracked halfway through the sentence. "I really thought you knew. I'm sorry, I should have mentioned it somehow –"

"No," Alessandro shook his head. "No. That's on me."  He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, regretting it a second later when it came away sticky with wax.

Lorenzo tried keeping a straight face, but soon lost, snorting at Alessandro's hair. He reached out, combing his fingers through the messed-up strands.

Alessandro closed his eyes at the soft pressure of Lorenzo's fingertips against his scalp. "I'm sorry, I keep – I keep messing up." His shoulders slumped.

Lorenzo stayed silent, fingers carefully rearranging Alessandro's hair. Alessandro looked down at their boots, tips almost touching. "I don't mean to. I just can't stop it."

Lorenzo looked up at him at the dejected sound of his voice. His eyes were warm now. "I know. I'm not mad." He took Alessandro's hands, cleaning the wax off them with a silken handkerchief. He didn't look up from his work as he spoke. "What happened at the cathedral ... that man, the slit throat, I – I keep seeing that. That was just one day, one glimpse -- you see hell every day. You're searching for murderers every day, you have to be suspicious of everyone you talk to. I suppose it's instinct by now. And after Daniele ... he forced you into this mess, it's not really a surprise you don't trust those closest to you either. But – it still hurts, you know."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are." Lorenzo dropped Alessandro's hands, quickly casting a look through the empty corridor before pressing a kiss against his jaw. "Why'd you keep me here though, if not to talk about the Pazzi?"

Alessandro's gaze strayed, tracing the unsure curve of Lorenzo's lips. He was painfully aware that Lorenzo was a painter's daydream any day. But now ... He was eerily stunning. An impossible mix of feminine and masculine, the stiff, military style over knee boots clashing with the soft flow of the wide blouse, the frilly cuffs at war with the strong, calloused hands. As elaborate as his costume was, his face was bare – even Lorenzo couldn't attend a ball wearing powders and shimmering silver on his face. Alessandro found he quite liked it. Only his baby blue eyes still twinkled like always.

His cheeks warmed. "Well, I just thought someone had to tell you how lovely you look."

A slow grin dawned on Lorenzo's face. "Cheeky." But he made no move to step closer, even Alessandro was quite clearly staring at his lips. Embarrassingly clearly.

The past week, they hadn't seen each other often. And when they had, nothing but a kiss here and there had happened. Frustration simmered in Alessandro. He knew it was because of him, Lorenzo didn't want to make him uncomfortable again – the last time things had gone ... further, Alessandro had always been the one to panic. And even if the corridor was empty, Lorenzo knew how scared Alessandro was.

Lorenzo seemed to read his mind. "What did I tell you about being all gloomy and feeling guilty?"

Alessandro laughed quietly, but the tension tearing at his insides wouldn't ebb. His jaw worked. "I –" He strained to listen for the hollow echo of nearing footsteps. Nothing. He could do this. He exhaled slowly. He ducked his head and kissed Lorenzo.

It felt like stepping off a cliff, stomach swooping in something between fear and excitement.

Lorenzo tore away. Even when his eyes kept dropping to Alessandro's mouth, he kept a firm hand on his chest, pushing slightly to keep Alessandro away. "Don't force yourself to do this! You feel like you have to because you feel bad, but I don't want you to!" His voice softened at Alessandro's flinch. "Please. Imagine how I'd feel if you keep doing this because you think I want it."

Alessandro frowned. "But I wanted to kiss you."

Despite his stern look, Lorenzo had to smile. "That's good for my ego. And you can. But not like this, alright? Now go solve this. If Gio gets back and we're still standing here, he might have some questions. And unless it's 'Can I join?' I don't want to hear them."

Alessandro ignored the last part. At first he had thought Lorenzo was joking, because Lorenzo would flirt with anything and anyone, but there was a strange, lingering sincerity when it came to Giacinto. He'd untangle that mess when no one was trying to murder them. So never. "Fine."

Lorenzo laughed at him. "You're the first human to look scary while pouting, congratulations, darling."

 
"I'm not –" Alessandro sighed. "Sure. Just – take care." He didn't want to imagine what a man like Lorenzo's father would do if he knew his son was helping his enemy.

---

Alessandro was startled out of his thoughts by steps growing faster and faster behind him, sharp strikes against the marble, a sudden scuffle and followed by eerie silence.

He whirled around, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword, staring into the dark corridor behind him. This far away from the ball, the halls and corridors seemed like endless ghost towns. He swung his gaze left and right, narrowing his eyes at the empty hallway, brushing his thumb over the smooth leather wrapping the sword hilt, an old habit that didn't calm his nerves like it used to.

Soundless, like a black ghost, Giacinto stepped out of the flickering darkness, long shadows clinging to him for a moment as if they didn't want to let him go. A slow smile curled his lips. "You should get your head out of the clouds, giant. You almost died tonight." He twirled his dagger, catching the light in a dangerous flash.

"I'd have handled it."

"Sure, you'd have seen that arrow aimed at your back. How could I forget annoying giants are clairvoyant now, too?"

Rolling his eyes, Alessandro followed the Greek further into the depths of the palace. At least Giacinto no longer seemed mad at him. Then, cold worry snuck up on him. The last time Giacinto had killed, Alessandro had almost lost him to madness. "Did you –"

Giacinto looked up, green eyes always so sharp. "No. I just knocked him out." By now Lorenzo's father must've noticed they weren't at the ball. And if he knew they were there in the first place, he knew them leaving meant they were looking for de Vito's secret. He'd send the Reaper after them – but the palace was too big for one man, it must be swarming with other assassins by now. Giacinto had dragged the passed-out assassin into a salon and picked the lock shut – less the Reaper follow the trail of discarded assassin like a macabre bread trail.

With Giacinto leading the way, they reached the chapel in a few minutes. The heavy ebony door boomed shut behind them, sealing them in an otherworldly hall. Alessandro scanned the small chapel.

A high cupola loomed above them, the hall itself washed in silver and grey by the pale moonlight streaming in through the arched windows behind the altar. As if they had stepped into a world between the living and the dead, the chapel was void of any colour, the rows of benches turning into crouching shadows, the tall cross behind the altar sending a long shadow down the aisle. Even the stained-glass windows, usually bright reds and blues and gold, were just fog and ash and shadows in the night.

As Alessandro's eyes adjusted to the dark – lighting a candle would be too dangerous, anyone out in the courtyard would see the golden flicker through the large windows – he made out the shape of a confessional, tucked away between two columns at the chapel's side.

"Confessing your sins?" Giacinto teased when Alessandro strode off.

"Looking for absolution for his troubled mind," Alessandro quoted the Lady Medici's conversation with de Vito. Tightness coiled in his stomach, urging him to walk faster and faster, the echo of his steps on the marble ground growing frantic, a clock spiralling out of control.

The confessional was shaped like a tiny cathedral, with high spires and statuettes of saints carved into the gable. When the moonlight hit the polished wood, the saints glowed like ghosts. Two doors, one for the priest's side, one for the sinner – and behind one, they would find their answer.

Alessandro he had no idea which side was which, but he didn't want to ask Giacinto, foolish pride mingling with shame. He was supposed to know these things. But he didn't, because he was Jewish.

He chose one at random. The wood was smooth and cool under his palm, and he couldn't suppress the hope flaring up in his chest as the door creaked open slowly. It deflated like a sad balloon the next second, leaving a heavy, cold lump sinking in his stomach. The small space was empty.

He tried to swallow his disappointment – it could just be in the other half. He shifted to turn away and out the corner of his eye caught a scribble of shadows.

Narrowing his eyes, he leant closer, trying to decipher what was carved into the back wall of the narrow confession chamber. It was roughly at eye level, Alessandro wagered, if one sat down on the wooden bench. Just one line – and still it made no sense.

A garbled mess of dark lines and swirls, all entangled with each other, random strokes escaping in every direction, shooting up and down and sideways and turning back on themselves and spiralling back into the main mess. It wasn't any alphabet Alessandro recognized. It didn't look like letters at all. It looked like the vomit a madman's brain had spat out.

Alessandro's heart slumped. He had expected – foolishly, he scolded himself – the proof they needed to be hidden right here. Hadn't they solved enough riddles?

If this even was a riddle. Maybe the Lady Medici had fooled them. Maybe the old Bishop had been interrupted. Maybe he hadn't been quite as sane as he seemed. Marius had mentioned Amand had arrived to take De Vito's spot years ago when De Vito had stepped down because of strange seizures and fainting spells.

"Useless," Alessandro said, turning back to Giacinto. He couldn't keep the bitterness from seeping into his voice. Perhaps he could trace the strange lines onto some paper, figure it out with the rest – but they didn't have that time. The Reaper was here.

Giacinto cocked his head. "There shouldn't be anything at all."

"Why? No, there is something." It just didn't make any sense.

"Wrong side. The sinner –" Giacinto pointed to the other door. "— goes there."

"No, it's here. And I knew that. But the writing is here."

"You did not know that, you big old Jew." Giacinto rolled his eyes, but there was no malice behind his words.

"But it's here –" Alessandro caught himself. The writing was roughly at eyelevel if someone sat down in the chamber, but it was etched into the back wall – whoever sat in this chamber wouldn't see it. But from the other side –

Alessandro practically leapt into the other half of the confessional, chased by Giacinto's amused chuckle. Bratty princeling. He cursed to himself in Hebrew when he first knocked his head against the doorframe, then his knees against the front-wall trying to sit on the low bench. Who designed these things? This was a shoebox.

Still grumbling, he ducked his head to get at eyelevel with the writing – and the scales fell from his eyes.

The two halves of the confessional were separated by a wooden wall, but a lattice was inserted like a window to allow conversation between the priest and the sinner. The bars of the latticework were broad, criss-crossing, blocking out most of the strange swirls and lines. What remained in the openings between them formed a message – a literal writing on the wall. "Obvia tuo deo?"

"Face your god," came the reply, a moment before Giacinto popped his head into the confessional, eyeing the writing. "Smart."

"You know Latin?"

"What part of 'princely education' did you not get?"

Alessandro chose to ignore him – Giacinto hated that. It made it all the more satisfying. Indeed, expectant silence stretched between them, until Giacinto huffed. "Do I get to stab you now? So you can face your god?"

"Given I'm the 'big old Jew', perhaps it would make more sense if I stabbed you. De Vito is Christian."

"I don't like it when you make sense." Giacinto's head disappeared again. "I'll check the bibles. You take the bibles."

When Alessandro moved to get out again, a sudden shove forced him back in, head knocking against the backwall as a hand clamped over his mouth. The door clicked shut almost inaudibly and sudden darkness wrapped around them. Alessandro could barely make out Giacinto staring down at him with wide eyes.

Even he had to duck his head to fit below the low ceiling, shuffling hectically to arrange himself between Alessandro's legs. Slowly, the pressure of Giacinto's hand over his mouth faded and when the Greek seemed sure Alessandro had gotten the message, it slid away.

"Shadow moving outside the window," Giacinto hissed. "Luca."

Alessandro's heart leapt into his throat and then dropped into his stomach. He told himself it could've been anyone – but Giacinto knew the Reaper, he would recognize even his silhouette outside the windows. Maybe he wouldn't enter.

Not a second later, the chapel's gate creaked open, then boomed shut. Alessandro closed his eyes. Heavy silence descended upon them. Alessandro could picture the Reaper standing there, slowly scanning the room with his shark eyes.

Then, slowly, steps picked up. The walls around them seemed to close in on Alessandro in the darkness, tightening around them until he had to clench his fists, nails digging sharply into his palms, to resist the urge to just up and run.

A silent breath knocked out of Alessandro when he realized the steps were moving away from them.

Giacinto's leg jerked against his knee and he had to bite his tongue not to hiss in surprise. Even his own breath, flat and forcibly slow, seemed to echo all around them. He waited for clammy hands to mould out of the wall behind him, drag him into a blade.

This close, they were always pressed together at some place, no matter how much Giacinto pressed himself back against the wall, so Alessandro noticed the exact second things went downhill.

At first, Giacinto had been squirming and shifting, half because he never stayed still anyways, half to get some distance between himself and Alessandro – the narrow bench Alessandro was sitting on already took up half the space in the narrow room, Giacinto practically standing in Alessandro's lap, thighs pressed together.

But when Giacinto suddenly stood still as a statue, Alessandro was pulled out of his racing thoughts. And then the tremors started.

In the beginning, he thought he imagined it, but the leg pressed against his was rock hard, muscles locked up in a silent battle. A narrow sliver of moonlight sliced through the darkness in the confessional, cutting along the edge of Giacinto's jaw. His eyes were pressed close, a vein in his neck straining.

He was spiralling into another one of his strange panic attacks.

Giacinto seemed to be fighting it, still clinging to the twilight between madness and clarity, but with every tremor running from him to Alessandro it was clear he was losing. And Alessandro knew how this would go. The last times he had witnessed Giacinto breaking down, there had been crashing vases, screams ripping a throat raw, liquor tears.

Alessandro needed to help him, the urge to hide the Greek from all of this clawing at him. But he couldn't even risk moving. The steps still seemed to echo all around them, slow and calm.

He had heard the servants whisper, about the Greek sometimes found asleep in closets. He'd written it off as a drunkard's mistake at first, he knew how often Giacinto returned home drunk out of his mind, his heart left at the bottom of a wine barrel more. Until Giacinto had told him about the monster of Crete.

Was it the memory of one to many nights spent hiding from the Regent that shook him in its grip now? Or was it the fear of the Reaper, another monster toying with his mind, cold claws digging at his heartstrings like a puppeteer? 

Giacinto shook harder. Alessandro could feel the tension tearing at the other, pointlessly trying to force himself still as the trembles just grew and grew. They tore through him.

Alessandro could feel the panic whip through the air around them. Giacinto had to know he was spiralling. Had to know one sound could give them away. Hot breath hit Alessandro's in too fast breaths now, the lush sweetness of too much wine making him dizzy.

It was only a matter of time until Giacinto lost control.

He could see it flash before him in the dark, Giacinto's legs giving out, knocking into one of the wooden walls, the sound echoing through the chapel like thunder. The Reaper prying open the door. They'd be trapped.

Their best chance would be striking the second the door opened.  But Alessandro had no range of movement, trapped in the seat, his sword locked between his leg and the wall. Giacinto could – but Giacinto was near hyperventilating and Alessandro could swear he heard his teeth gnashing. Giacinto was more likely to rip the door open himself and run before the Reaper even arrived at their hiding spot, consequences be damned.

Giacinto's legs were shaking too hard to hold him up, buckling under him. Alessandro's breath caught. This was it.

By some miracle, Giacinto's hand found Alessandro's shoulder in the dark, all his weight pressing down on him, but he didn't fall.

Alessandro was a decorated officer. He was supposed to stay clear headed. He was supposed to be in control.

Giacinto made a choked sound next to his ear.

Alessandro swallowed his own fear. He fumbled in the dark, finding Giacinto's fingers still digging into Alessandro's shoulder like claws. Alessandro covered them with his own hand. Squeezed.

Giacinto didn't even notice.

Alessandro carefully tugged, slowly, slowly moving Giacinto's hand from his shoulder up to his neck, fingers tangling as Alessandro pushed his collar aside. He could feel the hair thin scars on Giacinto's fingertips against the sensitive skin at his throat as he shifted Giacinto's index over his pulse.

He had to risk it.

He turned his head until Giacinto's curls brushed his nose. "Count," he whispered into Giacinto's ear.

Giacinto's fingers still jumped up and down Alessandro's neck with every tremor. Alessandro pressed them down harder against his throat, fighting the urge to jerk away from the pressure. He had to get Giacinto out of this. "Count," he hissed again. "Tap at every ten."

Giacinto didn't react. Suddenly, a slow exhale, trembling as much as the Greek himself. "One," he whispered, voice thick and broken between them. "Two."

Alessandro closed his eyes.

A hesitant tap against his throat, almost impossible to tell apart from the tremor running through Giacinto.

Giacinto kept miscounting, frustration and panic mingling in a bitter tension between them. But he kept his fingers over Alessandro's pulse, started over and over again.

The set of his jaw shifted from desperate to determined. The taps against Alessandro throat turned regular. The tremors faded, impossibly slowly, so slow Alessandro thought he was imagining it at first, his own desperate mind tricking him into hoping. But they did fade, until it was only sudden jerks, tension rising for a second before Giacinto reigned it back in.

The taps against slowed with his own pulse. Giacinto moved to pull away, but Alessandro caught his hand. "Keep going," he whispered. Now that he could focus on their surroundings, his world slowly expanding again from the narrow walls and darkness around him, he could still hear faint steps from the chapel.

The Reaper was still there.

Who could tell if Giacinto might not spiral again the second he calmed down enough to hear the steps?

And somehow, the other's touch kept him grounded, too. Gave him something to focus on, keeping his mind from conjuring up ghosts.

Alessandro felt Giacinto's nod more than saw it. When Giacinto started counting again, it was a whisper in the dark, so faint Alessandro had to strain to hear it. Alessandro closed his eyes again, trying to focus on the roughness in Giacinto's voice, the deeper, foreign sound of his accent, rather than the steps circling them like a starved wolf out for prey. The tapping was softer now, almost a caress.

Alessandro didn't know how long they sat like this.

A door creaked. He tensed, then realized it was too far away. The deep sound of the chapel's door falling shut echoed through the hall. Alessandro and Giacinto both stayed still, bracing against the sudden silence.

No more steps. They didn't dare move.

Was it a trick?

Giacinto shifted soundlessly. It seemed to take an eternity until he spoke. "He's gone."

The tension ebbed so fast Alessandro swayed, a shaky breath escaping him. He closed his eyes in relief, opening them not a second later when Giacinto tapped his throat again. He looked up at the Greek, found the faint trace of a smile in the dark. Giacinto's hand slid over neck, thumb tilting his chin up.

Alessandro didn't dare to breathe.

They had been crammed together for half an eternity, and yet, when Giacinto slowly bowed his head he seemed suddenly so much closer, the world zeroing in from the chapel, to just the confessional, then to just the breath between them. As Giacinto leant even closer, Alessandro suddenly glad he was no longer counting his heartbeats.

Giacinto pressed a slow kiss against his forehead, warm lips lingering as his thumb traced Alessandro's jaw. "Thank you," he murmured. "I—thank you."

"Of course."

An unsure silence stretched between them, then Giacinto gave the back of his neck a last squeeze, pulled away and twisted out of the confessional. Alessandro stayed a second longer, forcing his expression back into smooth nothingness.

The light in the small chapel was blinding, Alessandro blinking a few times until the world stopped dancing around him. Giacinto was already swiftly striding towards the altar. As if nothing had happened. But Alessandro noticed the tense line of his shoulders, stiff and squared in defence.

"Anything?" he asked when he joined Giacinto.

Giacinto looked up from where he was scanning the bible. It was a monstrosity of a book, almost as big as his torso, with intricate illustrations turned into monochrome shadow plays in the silver moonlight. The thick parchment whispered when Giacinto flipped a page. "Nothing we're looking for."

Face your God. What did that mean? "What is God?"

"Unless you have 2000 years and a bunch of bearded philosophers at your disposal, I don't think we can answer that, Steno."

"Maybe fire?"

"That's the holy spirit."

"It's some play on words." But which? Alessandro closed his eyes. Pictured the crinkled smile of the old bishop, the frail hands clutching his cane, the sharp wit lashing out at just about anyone. Panic surged, the cold grasp of memories of crime scenes overflowing with emotion. He fought it down.

"Giant?"  Giacinto's voice was closer to him now, but he didn't open his eyes. He was the investigator. This was his job. De Vito had trusted he could solve this. He couldn't fail now. The others – he had to.

"Giant." Closer again.

If he could just – think.

And then he slipped away.

In the space between two heartbeats, it all rushed in. "Let there be light," he whispered, opening his eyes to scan the room.

"Aand you've gone insane. Always knew it." Despite his words, there was a sharp glint in Giacinto's eyes, never leaving Alessandro.

"Remember how Marius mentioned how unpopular De Vito was with the nobles? He got into a fight with the Medici because he had a dark-skinned Jesus on the cross in the chapel? He took a boy that looked like a girl in, even let him be a priest," Alessandro rushed out, already skipping down the stairs from the altar. "We won't find anything here. This is the church. Not god."

"Not sure I'm following, but I'll just trot after you and pretend I know what's going on."

"They say god fills the church. Light. God is light." Alessandro strode to the middle of the cupola, where a beam of moonlight fell down like a column of light. He spun around, craning his head up, squinting at the moonlight. Somehow, it was too bright.

It made sense. So far, De Vito had hidden everything in plain sight. It just needed a trick and the right angle to see it.

"Mirrors," Giacinto muttered next to him, pointing up at the cupola. Alessandro squinted – a mosaic of mirrors, just below the open circle in the cupola at its peak. No matter how the sun or moon stood, it would always be reflected in those mirrors.

But there was nothing else.

Giacinto was glaring at the floor beneath his boots, the marble pale and smooth and empty. "Face your God," Giacinto muttered to himself, turning in place. Then he whipped around. "But a faithful man doesn't face his god standing –"

Of course. "—he kneels."

A trick and the right angle.

They looked at each other. Alessandro knelt. The marble was hard and cold beneath his knees. Giacinto followed beside him. In the ghostly light of the moon washing down over their heads, his lashes were a dramatic sweep, brushing his cheeks when he blinked. Alessandro followed his gaze – and held his breath.

There it was.

The mirrored moonlight struck the arched church windows like arrows. The different angle when kneeling had shifted the rays. Single rays hit the painted glass, striking some letters in bright silver, and what originally had been a bible verse turned into a hidden message as the dark metal of the unilluminated letters faded to the background.

Reperi suum deum.

"Find their God," Giacinto muttered, then turned to Alessandro. "What is this, a metaphoric scavenger hunt?"

"Let's go." Alessandro got up with a sigh, attempting to fix the creases in his trousers.

Giacinto scrambled to his feet next to him, huffing and puffing. "No. No. I don't want to."

"You're no child. Let's find this god."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. I'm being stubborn now."

"Giacinto –" Alessandro pinched the bridge of his nose, unsure whether to strangle or laugh at the Greek. "I hate you so much. Please?"

Giacinto glared. "Fine."

That was easier than expected. "Find their god... who's they?"

"An ominous entity because this goddamn secretive –"

"It must mean everyone against us. Antonio's father is Christian. But the Turks aren't – perhaps we need to go to a mosque next."

"No. It has to be in the palace. That was the whole point of the ball."

Giacinto started pacing, the fast movement distracting Alessandro, thoughts slipping through his fingers right before he could grasp them. "Where else would a god be in this palace... A painting?"

Giacinto stopped as if he had run into a wall. "The White Hall."

"The white hall."

Giacinto glared at him. "Yes, the white hall. It's a collection of Greek statues. If there's a god hiding, it'll be there."

"But which god?" Alessandro sent a last glance at the mirrored light against the stained windows, trying to coax their secret out of them.

"Well, time to prove that your pretty head isn't just for show."

Whose costume do you like better? The Lady Medici as a black cobra or Lorenzo as a white swan?

Are the boys fighting or getting closer... I hope you liked their hiding scene! How Alessandro learned the counting thing is a story for another chapter...

More riddles ahead! Hope you aren't tired of strange metaphors and mysteries yet.

Thank you for reading! Stay safe, stay lovely,

Avis.