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Venezia, 1513
"Well?"
Ezio looks up to see Sofia standing in the doorway, one silk-gloved hand against the doorframe, the other clutching a porcelain mask on a rod. She's a vision in rich pinks and golden yellows, and though he'll always associate her with earthy greens and the aged leather of book covers, every inch of her is undeniably Sofia, from head to toe. Her red curls seem particularly vivid tonight, against the hues of her dress, and her pale skin is bright. He takes a second to admire this complete picture of her, swept away by the fact that this incredible woman is his wife.
"You look perfect," Ezio replies. "Perfectly fit for Carnevale."
She smiles, picking up the front of the dress to walk and meet him at the bed. Ezio holds a hand out to her, and she takes it, letting him pull her closer.
"I feel strange, all dressed up," she says, adjusting her dress so she can sit next to him. The embroidered yellow silks of her skirts puff up around her like a swelling sea. "It's been so long since I went to Carnevale."
Not wanting to repeat himself in reassuring her of her utter perfection, Ezio just presses a kiss to the back of her hand and smiles.
"I think you should sit for more paintings," he says, "so that even if old age claims my memory, I will never forget this vision of you."
"Stop that," she scolds, but she's laughing. "You're very handsome, yourself."
He smiles, releasing her hand and leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek, instead. She smiles, raising a hand to cup his grizzled cheek and keep him close, nose-to-nose. Ezio lets out a pleased hum under his breath, eyes meeting hers. Their good moods seem to feed off each other, and he feels like his heart might burst with joy: he's in Venice, a city so dear to him, with new love and soon a new wife, about to partake in the biggest festival in the entire region. How could it be more perfect? He feels like he's eighteen again.
Sofia straightens his collar, smoothing the fabric with her fingers, and then places another kiss on his lips.
"Now, go downstairs and rally us a gondola," she says. "I'll just have Stefania help fix my hair, and I will be right down."
He gets up and helps her to her feet. Up she goes, careful not to step on the hem of her gown with those delicate golden shoes.
"You look so beautiful, mia cara," he says. He can't help it, it just slips out without thinking. "You always are."
She laughs, quietly, and gives him a gentle, playful shove.
"Go," she bids him. "You can be away from my side for ten minutes, can't you?"
"It's difficult," Ezio teases, but he goes, tearing his eyes from her, but unable to wipe the smile off his face.
Tonight will be perfect.
"Well?"
Ezio looks up to see Sofia standing in the doorway, one silk-gloved hand against the doorframe, the other clutching a porcelain mask on a rod. She's a vision in rich pinks and golden yellows, and though he'll always associate her with earthy greens and the aged leather of book covers, every inch of her is undeniably Sofia, from head to toe. Her red curls seem particularly vivid tonight, against the hues of her dress, and her pale skin is bright. He takes a second to admire this complete picture of her, swept away by the fact that this incredible woman is his wife.
"You look perfect," Ezio replies. "Perfectly fit for Carnevale."
She smiles, picking up the front of the dress to walk and meet him at the bed. Ezio holds a hand out to her, and she takes it, letting him pull her closer.
"I feel strange, all dressed up," she says, adjusting her dress so she can sit next to him. The embroidered yellow silks of her skirts puff up around her like a swelling sea. "It's been so long since I went to Carnevale."
Not wanting to repeat himself in reassuring her of her utter perfection, Ezio just presses a kiss to the back of her hand and smiles.
"I think you should sit for more paintings," he says, "so that even if old age claims my memory, I will never forget this vision of you."
"Stop that," she scolds, but she's laughing. "You're very handsome, yourself."
He smiles, releasing her hand and leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek, instead. She smiles, raising a hand to cup his grizzled cheek and keep him close, nose-to-nose. Ezio lets out a pleased hum under his breath, eyes meeting hers. Their good moods seem to feed off each other, and he feels like his heart might burst with joy: he's in Venice, a city so dear to him, with new love and soon a new wife, about to partake in the biggest festival in the entire region. How could it be more perfect? He feels like he's eighteen again.
Sofia straightens his collar, smoothing the fabric with her fingers, and then places another kiss on his lips.
"Now, go downstairs and rally us a gondola," she says. "I'll just have Stefania help fix my hair, and I will be right down."
He gets up and helps her to her feet. Up she goes, careful not to step on the hem of her gown with those delicate golden shoes.
"You look so beautiful, mia cara," he says. He can't help it, it just slips out without thinking. "You always are."
She laughs, quietly, and gives him a gentle, playful shove.
"Go," she bids him. "You can be away from my side for ten minutes, can't you?"
"It's difficult," Ezio teases, but he goes, tearing his eyes from her, but unable to wipe the smile off his face.
Tonight will be perfect.