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Kostantiniyye, 1511
Ezio's always been good at flattering women, but Sofia certainly doesn't make it easy. She'll take flowers and fine wines and other such gifts with flattery and grace, but they don't light up her face the same way it might have lit up any other woman's. What Sofia likes most is painfully obvious, yet so much trickier to get. And honestly, Ezio is still trying to work out why he's so intrigued by her in the first place.
He cuts through the crowds in the market on his way to her bookshop, intentionally taking the long path, the one that winds around the concourse and hits all of Sofia's usual errand haunts. He's hoping to run into her, to surprise her, but trying to pick out a pale Venetian woman in a sea of multicultural people in an entire rainbow of colours is harder than it would seem. If she's there, he misses her, and given the patrolling guards, it's not a good time of day to try to look from the rooftops. There's no sense in killing soldiers just to deliver a gift to his lady.
His friend, he mentally corrects himself, but it catches him off guard; why did his mind jump in that direction? It seems so impulsive. He's so lost in thought about the subject that he has to clutch the linen-wrapped package to his chest to narrowly avoid clipping a man carrying a load of boxes. He mutters an apology in Turkish before ducking off into a less-crowded street and head right to Sofia's book shop.
He hopes she likes them.
-x-
"Ezio," Sofia says, warmly. She moves back to let him in, and he tucks the package under his arm and steps into the dim bookshop.
"I hope you don't mind me taking you away from your work," he replies.
"Don't be ridiculous, you're welcome any time." She taps him on the arm, just hard enough to make a point, but the smile on her face is affectionate. "What brings you to see me? Another book?"
There's barely contained excitement on her face, on her voice, and she's already got her reading glasses in hand. Ezio can't help but smile. He shifts the package to the other arm so he can reach into it and pull out a book, offering it to her.
"Close. It's a gift. It isn't one of the books the map lists, but it is one from Polo's collection."
He'd expected her to be a little disappointed –– he knows she covets the secrets in those rare books like other people would covet riches or fame or jewels –– but her expression doesn't change a bit. She takes it from him, delighted, flipping through the ancient pages and scanning the hand-inked pages as if she could absorb it all in seconds. He quietly watches her enjoy it, listening to her chatter about the book's contents, and after a moment she turns to look at him.
"You don't want to keep it?" she asks.
"I figured that if anyone in the world should own that book, it is Sofia Sartor."
She clasps the book to her chest, one hand laid over the cover, the other drifting to his shoulder. His heart swells, making him feel sixteen again. It was like the first time he tumbled into Cristina's garden with a bouquet of (stolen) flowers in hand, and the way her face had lit up upon seeing him had stuck with him his entire life, since.
"Ezio, you are too kind," she says.
"Sofia, after the dinner you made last night, a long-lost ancient book is the least I could do to repay you."
She laughs, hand drifting from his shoulder. He's surprised how fast he misses it, no matter how fleeting it was.
"Join me for dinner again tonight, then," she says, setting the book down. "I'll make an old Venetian favourite."
He can't help but smile.
Ezio's always been good at flattering women, but Sofia certainly doesn't make it easy. She'll take flowers and fine wines and other such gifts with flattery and grace, but they don't light up her face the same way it might have lit up any other woman's. What Sofia likes most is painfully obvious, yet so much trickier to get. And honestly, Ezio is still trying to work out why he's so intrigued by her in the first place.
He cuts through the crowds in the market on his way to her bookshop, intentionally taking the long path, the one that winds around the concourse and hits all of Sofia's usual errand haunts. He's hoping to run into her, to surprise her, but trying to pick out a pale Venetian woman in a sea of multicultural people in an entire rainbow of colours is harder than it would seem. If she's there, he misses her, and given the patrolling guards, it's not a good time of day to try to look from the rooftops. There's no sense in killing soldiers just to deliver a gift to his lady.
His friend, he mentally corrects himself, but it catches him off guard; why did his mind jump in that direction? It seems so impulsive. He's so lost in thought about the subject that he has to clutch the linen-wrapped package to his chest to narrowly avoid clipping a man carrying a load of boxes. He mutters an apology in Turkish before ducking off into a less-crowded street and head right to Sofia's book shop.
He hopes she likes them.
-x-
"Ezio," Sofia says, warmly. She moves back to let him in, and he tucks the package under his arm and steps into the dim bookshop.
"I hope you don't mind me taking you away from your work," he replies.
"Don't be ridiculous, you're welcome any time." She taps him on the arm, just hard enough to make a point, but the smile on her face is affectionate. "What brings you to see me? Another book?"
There's barely contained excitement on her face, on her voice, and she's already got her reading glasses in hand. Ezio can't help but smile. He shifts the package to the other arm so he can reach into it and pull out a book, offering it to her.
"Close. It's a gift. It isn't one of the books the map lists, but it is one from Polo's collection."
He'd expected her to be a little disappointed –– he knows she covets the secrets in those rare books like other people would covet riches or fame or jewels –– but her expression doesn't change a bit. She takes it from him, delighted, flipping through the ancient pages and scanning the hand-inked pages as if she could absorb it all in seconds. He quietly watches her enjoy it, listening to her chatter about the book's contents, and after a moment she turns to look at him.
"You don't want to keep it?" she asks.
"I figured that if anyone in the world should own that book, it is Sofia Sartor."
She clasps the book to her chest, one hand laid over the cover, the other drifting to his shoulder. His heart swells, making him feel sixteen again. It was like the first time he tumbled into Cristina's garden with a bouquet of (stolen) flowers in hand, and the way her face had lit up upon seeing him had stuck with him his entire life, since.
"Ezio, you are too kind," she says.
"Sofia, after the dinner you made last night, a long-lost ancient book is the least I could do to repay you."
She laughs, hand drifting from his shoulder. He's surprised how fast he misses it, no matter how fleeting it was.
"Join me for dinner again tonight, then," she says, setting the book down. "I'll make an old Venetian favourite."
He can't help but smile.