Giovanni picked up the football and tossed it at his friend’s head. “No, she’s not.”
Carwyn only batted it away, not letting Beatrice out of his embrace. “And you definitely didn’t need to get fancied up, Gio. I’ve told you a thousand times, I’m not interested.”
“Haha. Why are you playing football with my nephew at four in the morning?”
He saw Ben begin to speak, but Giovanni only raised a finger to silence him. The boy was smarter than the priest.
“Well...” Carwyn placed a kiss on Beatrice’s forehead before he ran after the ball and kicked it toward Ben again. “I’m playing football with my nephew because I just got here, and I am the cool uncle. You are the boring one.”
He heard Beatrice and Ben both snicker, but Beatrice said, “Honestly, Ben, how long have you been up?”
“Just an hour or so.” He kicked the ball back to Carwyn. “We were talking.”
“Well, it’s time for you to sleep.”
“No.” The boy whined. “You’re going to talk about interesting things, and I’ll miss it all.”
Beatrice grabbed him around the collar and shoved him toward the door. “Say goodnight. I promise we won’t plot murder and mayhem without you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. And you…” she turned back to Giovanni. “Don’t be too long. I’m going to bed.”
Ben made gagging noises as Carwyn let out a wolf-whistle. Giovanni grinned and gave her a wink. “Goodnight, Benjamin,” he said, then whispered something suggestive in Italian that made Beatrice bite her lip and Carwyn roar with laughter.
“What?” He heard Ben say as they walked up the stairs. “Oh, I don’t want to know, do I?”
“Nope.”
Giovanni’s ears tracked for a few more minutes until he heard the door to Ben’s room shut. He turned to Carwyn, who kicked him the football. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What’s going on with you?”
Carwyn shrugged. “It’s nothing for you to be concerned about. And my trip here was nicely boring, thanks. I caught one of Jean’s boats to Genoa and came from there. That Frenchman’s not half bad, after all. Fantastic food—”
“Why were you so eager to come here?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me?”
The two old friends kicked the ball back and forth in the low light of the courtyard, the skidding and bouncing the only sound in the still morning air. Giovanni could smell the scent of bread baking at the paneterria on the corner.
“Of course I am. And you know how happy Beatrice is to see you. I just wonder—”
“She looks amazing, by the way.”
“I know. That dress does suit her.”
Carwyn shook his head. “I’m not talking about her damn dress. You probably don’t notice because you see her every day, but she looks extraordinary. She’s very comfortable in her skin. Doesn’t have that awkward, hungry look the new ones usually do.”
“Ah. Yes, she’s doing extremely well.”
“If I didn’t know her, I’d think she was twenty years immortal, at least.”
“That old?”
Carwyn nodded, still kicking the ball back and forth, dribbling around the courtyard to amuse himself. He was dressed in black. Black pants, black T-shirt, black leather jacket, but no collar, which he often wore when in Rome.
“So, the meeting with the empress went well?”
“Yes.” Giovanni said. “Livia’s fine. We’re going back on Wednesday for a concert. It’s supposed to be good. Care to come along? I know Beatrice would like some company she didn’t have to perform for.”
Only a careful observer would have noticed the slight hitch in Carwyn’s step. “Wednesday? Can’t.”
“Oh?”
“Meeting with the men in bathrobes on Wednesday night.”
“Oh?” Giovanni chuckled at his friend's pet name for some of the Vatican staff he usually met with if he came to Rome, which wasn’t often.
“Yes, one red bathrobe in particular.”
“A cardinal?”
“A friend.”
Carwyn passed him the ball, but Giovanni stopped it and held it under his foot, waiting for his friend to meet his eye. “What’s going on, Father?”
Carwyn took a deep breath and frowned. “I’m not sure yet. Something... maybe long overdue. I’ll let you know. It’s nothing to be concerned about.” He walked over and placed a hand on Giovanni’s shoulder before he grinned and kicked the ball out from under his foot. “If there’s something to worry about, I’ll tell you. Now, go shag your wife like you were planning before I interrupted you with my arrival.”
“Fine.” He turned toward the door. “You’ll let me know?”
“Of course I will. Go away.”
He walked through the door, calling back, “You’re room is ready for you when you get tired. Don’t damage any of Angela’s plants.”
“Go away!”
When Giovanni walked through his bedroom door, he was greeted by the sight of his wife, naked, sitting in a chair and draped over the cello he kept in the closet of the Rome house.
“You’ve never played this one for me.”
He fastened the series of locks on the door and walked toward her slowly. “No?”