The Thief Lord
"Ah yes, the Conte's letter." Barbarossa blew his nose once more, then stuffed his handkerchief back into his vest pocket. The vest was embroidered with tiny golden gondolas. "His sister, the Contessa, left it here yesterday. He himself only comes to town very rarely." The redbeard popped another lozenge into his mouth and with another sigh he opened the top drawer of his desk. "There you are!" Keeping a very straight face, he held out the envelope to Hornet. The envelope was blank -- no address and no sender. When Hornet reached for it, Barbarossa snatched it back.
"We're all friends here," he purred in a low conspiratorial voice. "Tell me what you had to steal for the Conte. The Thief Lord obviously completed his task in a satisfactory manner, am I right?"
"Perhaps," Prosper answered vaguely, before pulling the envelope from Barbarossa's fingers.
"Hey!" The redbeard slammed his fists on the desk and pushed himself up. "Aren't you a cocky one. Did nobody ever teach you to treat adults with respect?" A violent sneezing fit threw him back into his chair.
Prosper didn't answer. He silently put the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket. Bo spat the cough drop into his hand and banged it onto Barbarossa's desk. "Here, you can have it back, because you shouted at my brother," he said.
Incredulous, Barbarossa stared at the sticky lozenge.
Hornet bent over the desk with her friendliest smile. "How about you, Signor Barbarossa? Did nobody ever teach you how to behave in front of children?"
The redbeard had to cough so violently that his face actually turned redder than his nose. "All right! By the lion of San Marco, you kids are very touchy!" he spat into his handkerchief. "Well, why don't we try a little quiz? I'll start." He leaned over his desk. "Is what the Conte wants so badly made of gold?"
"No!" Bo answered, shaking his head with a broad grin.
"Really?" Barbarossa frowned. "Silver?"
"Wrong! Wrong!" Bo skipped from one foot to the other. "Guess again!"
"Copper?" Barbarossa called after them. "No, wait! It's a painting! A sculpture!"
Prosper opened the shop door. "Out you go, Bo," he said, but Bo stopped once more. "All wrong!" he shouted into the shop. "It's made of huuuuge diamonds. And pearls!"
"You don't say!" Barbarossa was through the curtain like a shot. "Describe it, boy."
Hornet hauled Bo through the door. Outside, she suddenly stopped.
Snowflakes whirled through the alley. They fell so densely from the off-white sky that Bo squeezed his eyes shut. Suddenly everything was gray and white -- as if someone had erased all the colors of the city while they were in the shop.
"It's a chain. Or a ring?" Barbarossa excitedly poked his head through the shop door. "Why don't I take you all for a nice snack over there in the cake shop, hmm? What do you say?"
But the children just wandered off without paying him anymore attention. They only had eyes for the snow. The cold flakes settled on their faces and their hair. Bo gleefully licked one off his lip. He stretched his arms wide as if he wanted to catch them all. Hornet just looked up at the sky, blinking. It hadn't snowed in Venice for years. The people they passed looked just as enchanted as the children. Even the shop assistants stepped into the street to look up at the sky.
Prosper, Hornet, and Bo stopped on one of the bridges and bent over the stone parapet to watch how the gray water swallowed the snowflakes. The snow gently covered the surrounding buildings, the red roofs, the black trellises on the balconies as well as the leaves of the autumn flowers in their pots.
Prosper could feel the snow in his hair, wet and cold. He remembered a faraway time, and an almost forgotten place. He remembered a hand gently wiping snow from his hair. He stood there, between Hornet and his little brother, and lost himself in this memory for a few precious moments. He realized to his amazement that remembering didn't hurt so much anymore. Perhaps it was Bo and Hornet standing by his side, warm and familiar.
"Prop?" Hornet put her arm around his shoulder. "Everything all right?"
"Let's open the envelope," Hornet said. "I want to know when we'll finally get to see the Conte."
"How do you know he'll come himself?" Prosper pulled the envelope from his jacket. It was sealed, just like the one in the confessional. But this seal looked strange. As if someone had dabbed it with red paint.
Hornet took it from Prosper's hand. "Someone has already opened it!" She looked at Prosper. "Barbarossa!"
"Doesn't matter," replied Prosper. "That's why the Conte already told us the meeting place in the confessional. He knew the redbeard would open the message. He seems to know him quite well."
Hornet carefully cut open the envelope with her penknife. The Conte's message was just a few words.
At the arranged place on the water look out for a red lantern on Tuesday night, 1 A.M.
"Tomorrow!" Prosper shook his head. "One o'clock. That's late." He put the message back in his pocket and ruffled Bo's hair. "That was quite good, about those diamonds and pearls. Did you see Barbarossa's eyes?"
Bo giggled and licked another snowflake off his hand.
But Hornet glanced over the parapet, looking worried. "On the water?" she asked. "What does he mean? Are we doing the swap on the water?"
"No problem," Prosper answered. "Mosca's boat is big enough for us all."
"Don't you like boats?" Prosper teased, pulling Hornet's braid. "But you were born here. I thought all Venetians love boats."
"Well, you thought wrong," Hornet answered curtly. She turned her back to the water. "Let's go, the others are waiting for us."
The snow seemed to make the city quieter than usual. Hornet and Prosper walked silently next to each other. Bo skipped ahead, humming gently to himself.
"I don't want Bo to come along to the handing-over," he whispered to Hornet.
"I can understand that," she whispered back, "but how are you going to tell him without him bursting our eardrums?"
"I don't know," Prosper muttered.
"I've got an idea." Hornet said. "One that will get me out of the boat trip too. I just won't get to see the Conte."
30 Hopeless Lies
Victor was late. He'd been sick for two whole days and had only just managed to drag himself out of bed, reluctantly, for his dreaded meeting with the Hartliebs. It was already three o'clock when he finally stepped into the noble lobby of the Hotel Gabrielli Sandwirth. He'd last been there just a month before. He had been following someone, wearing a full black beard and a rather horrendous pair of glasses. He had hardly recognized himself in the mirror. Today he wore his own face, which always gave him the strange sensation of being smaller.
"Buonasera," he said as he approached the reception. A head appeared from behind a massive flower arrangement. "Buonasera," the receptionist said, "what can I do for you?"