Jo watched him go, and the way he stumbled over his footing a bit in his haste had her stifling a small bubble of laughter. The wall he stopped at was crowded with canvases in various stages of completion. Some were completely blank, but most had splashes of color, partial designs, patterns and sketches of bodies or flowers or night skies or an image that only the artist could conceive. Even from a distance, she could tell they werestunning.
Nico rifled through them for a second before looking over his shoulder at her. “No peeking! J-just one second.” Jo nodded and turned away from him when he continued to stare expectantly; the sound of him shuffling through his pieces promptly picked backup.
She busied herself in the meantime by walking around the room. The wall opposite Nico’s collection seemed to be comprised primarily of shelving units, each one filled to the brim with art supplies and books. It reminded her of the art studio at her old high school, splattered with dried paint, stained in ink, and marred with scratches from hundreds of projects. It was that sort of “messy clean” only an artist couldachieve.
She picked up a paintbrush, noticing that, despite the obvious signs of recent use—discoloration at the tip, caked paint around the edge—it also seemed relatively new. Maybe that was the room’s way of providing comfort; enough signs of age to be soothing, but no actualdecay.
Jo put the brush down and turned her attention back to the rest of the room—the large, patterned rug that filled a circle-shaped portion of the cement floor, the bed in the corner overflowing with dark, rumpled linens; a leather chair, pale at the corners, that was kept company by a lone reading light whose switch was worn to a deep brass from years ofuse.
But the parts of the room that grabbed her attention most were the giant, floor to ceiling windows taking up nearly one full wall. Behind the perfectly polished glass, what Jo’s limited knowledge of geography told her, was somewhere in modern-dayItaly.
The windows pulled her to them, as if she were in a trance. Her hand rose instinctively to the glass, smearing the immaculate cleaning job with an instinct to touch the vision before her. It was beautiful, exactly as she’d seen inpictures.
“Home,” Nico said, and Jo jumped a bit at the sudden appearance of him at her side. He laughed. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startleyou.”
“No, no, that’s on me.” Jo waved him away, smiling a bit in embarrassment. “I was kind of lost in my own head, that’s all.” Nico nodded, staring out at the expanse of old and new architecture that was all crammed together like one big happy family. A thought occurred to Jo, stumbling out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Is this really Italy? Like, the realone?”
Surprisingly, Nico didn’t look uncomfortable or disturbed by the question. Instead, his eyes grew wistful, a soft and sad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He nodded. “It’s Florence. Not my Florence, not anymore. But still my home and I still like to keep up with it for all its fantastic creations and fatal flaws. It’s the city where my promised and I had once planned on raising our family, so I can’t seem to let itgo.”
“You were engaged?” Jo asked, trying to keep her question sincere and kind despite how curious she was. Nico didn’t seem to mind her prying, but she didn’t want to pushit.
As if in explanation, Nico reached into his pocket, pulled out his over-sized, antiquated pocket watch, and clicked it open. Jo hadn’t noticed it the first time, too focused on the time, then. Engraved on the inside of the simple silver casing was a name in elaboratecursive.
Juliad’Este
“We had planned on marrying in the spring, when the weather would be tame,” Nico said softly. “It would be unfair to our guests to have them suffer at the hands of the season during the ceremony, she’d said. My Julia was the most kind and beautiful thing to ever grace this world and thenext.”
“You really lovedher.”
“Love, not loved.” Nico glanced at Jo out of the corner of his eye, smile growing warmer still. And then vanishing entirely. His stare seemed to grow somber as his mind wandered out upon the city, so lost in thought it seemed he’d even forgotten that he was holding his watch between them, open to the face, his thumb absently rubbing against the grooves of Julia’sname.
Jo found herself drawn to that watch face: three clocks positioned amid a backdrop of pearl. For the second time, she couldn’t help but wonder why one of them seemed frozen, stopped forever at 1:17. When she opened her mouth to ask, however, the words wouldn’t come. Not because she didn’t want to know, but because it felt too personal, like a line she shouldn’tcross.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Jo eventually tried, hoping for a change in conversation that might lift Nico’s mood a bit. He seemed the sort of person who should always be smiling—like when he was happy, the whole world was happy with him. “When were youborn?”
To Jo’s surprise, this actually managed to pull a chuckle out of the man. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped his watch shut and pocketed it, leaning back on hisheels.
“December 9th,1484.”
Before she could stop herself, Jo heard herself whisper a stunned, “Holyshit.”
Nico laughed, loud and boisterous. “I know, right? And I’m not even the oldest one here. Eslar, Samson, and Pan were already around when I arrived, and for all we know, Snow could have been running things even long beforethem.”
That struck Jo as odd. “You don’t know how long Snow’s beenhere?”
Nico just shrugged. “No one does, and if he hasn’t told Eslar, he’s not telling anyone. The Society seems, as far as I can tell, to have always beenaround.”
Jo made a mental note to look into that one a bit more later—on her list of Society focused missions it was somewhere between “figuring out time” and “learn how to use her magic in a helpful way.” For now, she turned away from the window as Nicodid.
Her eyes fell instantly on a large painting Nico had placed on an easel in the center of his circularrug.
Without really meaning to, she found herself walking towards it, breath hitching in her throat. Even though it was stylized, the colors blending together and brush strokes intermingling in a way that was clearly an artist’s rendering, the likeness wasirrefutable.
It was a painting of the Texas skyline, the sweeping deserts in oranges and tans, the smattering of cacti and foliage in dark greens and bright streaks of yellow, blots of purples and reds playing stark contrast against theirstalks.
It was a painting ofhome.
“Nico, what—?” Jo’s voice was strangely choked. When she looked behind her, Nico was leaning against the window, watching her reaction with a knowing smile on hisface.
