The Partridge and the Quince, Brunnhold Campus
“A true pleasure, Ms. Steerpike,” Giuseppe said, kissing Ana’s hand with all the proper impropriety made famous in Florne. “Just returned! I shall eagerly await your thoughts on this place.”
There was a brief pause; Giuseppe began to straighten up.
“Will you not join us?” Niccolette asked; this is a courtesy she doesn’t mind as much as others she could name. They have played out this little dance more than once; she thought of the time she first brought Uzoji here, and then put it carefully, deliberately aside. She shot a faint, apologetic glance at Ana instead, the barest gleam of it in her eyes. “Just for a few moments; I am sure you must be terribly busy.”
Giuseppe beamed. “So kind of you to ask! Just a few moments – naturally – ” There is a brief flutter of movement from the waiters, before one of them deposited a third chair at the table. Giuseppe sat, easily, his legs crossed at the knee, a glass of a crisp looking white wind in one hand.
“Now,” Giuseppe said, swirling the wine in his glass. “Please, please, eat! I am no hatcher, to keep you from your food! You must, you simply must.”
Niccolette was grinning, more despite herself; it was very nearly at Giuseppe, although he was smiling so widely that such a thing felt nearly impossible. She took another neat bite of one of the polpette.
Giuseppe leaned forward, raising thick, dark, expressive eyebrows. “So? Pleease, ladies, spare me this misery! I am on the edge of my seat.”
Niccolette paused, as if thoughtful; she let the moment stretch on. “I shall continue to speak highly of you,” she said, finally, setting her fork down with a smile.
Giuseppe laughed, loud and boisterous in the small candlelit room. “And you, Ms. Steerpike?” He turned to smile at Ana.
The conversation meandered on, briefly, and then wound, slowly and steadily, as Niccolette had known it would, around to the subject of the wine bottle.
“Now,” Giuseppe said, taking another sip of his wine. “You must remember that I was but a young man, with considerably more hair and very little experience with these students,” he smiled; that his hair was still thick and dark seemed not to register in the least. “For me! For me, the story begins with a rare shipment of wine. From Bastia, naturally. We had set the crate out on the bar – one of my sommeliers was beginning to put the wines away, when he was called across the restaurant, abruptly. When he returned! When he returned, he found two bottles of wine missing.” His eyebrows lifted. “A rather rare vintage – a 2700 Terenadetto, not actually a purchase but a gift from another winemaker.”
“Well!” Giuseppe shrugged, spreading his hands out wide; the white wine in the glass jumped, but did not overtake the rim. “What could I do? Such things happen; the young man had been quite sure he’d seen the bottles, but, alas. I reported the theft to the school, naturally, but did not expect much to come of it.”
Niccolette took her glass of wine, lifting it to her mouth, and took a delicate sip of the dark red, still smiling.
Giuseppe grinned. “Imagine my surprise when weeks later, a messenger tells me the bottles have been found! Smashed to pieces on one of the paths. They bring me to meet the little culprit,” he turned to Niccolette with a fond grin. “This little gattina. She does not deny it for a second, and she utterly refuses to apologize!” He laughed again.
“I did drink most of a bottle before dropping them off the roof,” Niccolette said, casually. She took another sip of the wine. “I was, perhaps, not in the most sober state.”
“And yet so charming,” Giuseppe said with a smile.
“I am sorry you never had the chance to try the wine,” Niccolette shrugged. “It was quite a good vintage; I let it settle a bit before drinking it, of course, so the disturbances of the journey had time to fade.”
Giuseppe laughed aloud. “I did, in fact,” he said, then smiling.
Niccolette glanced at him, sharply; she set her wine glass down, eyebrows lifting.
“I did not make the connection at the time, I am embarrassed to say,” Giuseppe said, turning to Ana with a smile. “Little Niccolette Villamarzana, as she was known then. The bottles, to me, were Terenadettos; by the time I found out what had become of them, I had forgotten entirely they were Villamarzana wine.”
“Your father sent me a crate,” Giuseppe added, lightly, looking back at Niccolette, “along with a note.”
“Did he,” Niccolette said, quietly. Her hands were together in her lap, beneath the table; nothing but a faint, even smile showed on her face. "How was the wine?"
“I sent it back unopened, I am afraid,” Giuseppe said, lightly. He smiled at her. “My dear gattina. No,” he was quiet. “Not so much a gattina anymore, are you? A tigruccia, instead, and not so much mine.”
“You never mentioned it,” Niccolette said. Her hand came back up to the table, and curled, lightly, around the stem of the wine glass.
Giuseppe shrugged. “Because it spoke much more of him than you.” He took her hand, lightly, in his, and squeezed.
Niccolette’s lips twitched; it was a brief flicker of a smile, but it caught and held. She turned to Ana, raising her eyebrows. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat. “Are you thoroughly dismayed by my scandalous past?” She grinned, finding her balance once more.