17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Vision without execution is hallucination."Leonardo da VinciHenrique entered the conservatory, his eyes scanning for Dio. The scent of orange and greenery tickled his nose. In the far corner of the glass room, a stage had been erected, and servants bustled around, arranging chairs and various props. The clanking of a mallet hitting wood blended with Dolly’s high-pitched voice, creating a lively cacophony.

Dio glared at the setting, a scarf tied around his forehead and an apron covering his clothes. With a brush, he assaulted a stretched canvas, splashing paint over the floor. His portrayal of Zeus and Olympus was unconventional, to say the least, likely to frighten small children.

Henrique raked a hand through his hair. "Can you stop for a second? I need your help."

"What a coincidence. I needed you as the star of Hercules’ Choice. What did you say? ‘I have no patience for amateur theatrics.’ The performance is the day after tomorrow. This setting is dreadful, and now I’m stuck with Alfonso to play the hero. I doubt his eloquence."

"Alfonso is a man of pundonor. He won’t have to pretend to be a hero. The prick merely has to be himself."

"Unless pundonor is a dramatic streak, I don’t know how it will help."

"Oh, but trust me, it will. According to Isabel, pundonor is this exalted quality, a high honor only present in martyrs and Bourbon princes."

Dio chuckled. "If I had not crossed the Hellespont with you, I would believe you are jealous."

Jealous? He wasn’t jealous. He had wanted to murder Alfonso only when the bastard placed himself between him and Isabel. But the feeling had passed. Now, he merely wished to slap him around and break a bone or two. Nothing too damaging, just his ischium or his scapula.

Henrique pushed aside those thoughts, reminding himself of his purpose for seeking out Dio. "Pedro Daun is pressing me about the letters. He will come tonight. To help search Canastra’s bedchamber. The only place we didn’t look."

Dio stopped painting, his face serious. "Does he know the room is guarded by the duke’s militant footmen?"

Exhaling loudly, Henrique stared at his own hands. "Pedro expects me to deal with them before his arrival."

Dio nodded. "The usual way?"

Being a scientist had its uses, it seemed. "How can I dose two guards and the duke? I have no access to their food or cellar.

"I know how."

"Are you sure? They must sleep soundly. I don’t want surprises during the search."

Dio inspected his painting and grimaced. "If I do this, you will help me with the setting."

"Fine."

"I know a chambermaid. She told me a pastoral story about how the master drinks peppermint tea every night before bed. He uses a carmine and gold cap and kisses the feet of all the images in his room. But that’s hardly relevant..."

"A splash of chloral hydrate in the tea, and he will be as immobile as one of his statues." Henrique smiled and turned to leave.

"Where are you going? You said you would help."

Henrique groaned. "What do you want me to do? I’m a lousier painter than you are."

"Perhaps your brawn and latent heroic powers can be harnessed for the greater good... I need to add glamour to the last scene. When Hercules finally meets Lady Virtue."

"Who will play Virtue?"

"Isabel."

Henrique exhaled. Who else?

While Dio moved away to direct the rehearsals, Henrique inspected the makeshift stage. The remnants of previous productions littered the backstage area—costumes, masks, ballet slippers, mirrors, and sheer silk for light effects. Among the boxes, he discovered coils of rope. He touched tulle cloth so fine as to be the translucent wing of a dragonfly. A scaffold towered above the curtain line at just the right height to—no, she would refuse. But with pulleys and a strong rope, he could make a princess soar… like a cicada leaving its carapace.

He conjured alternate designs like people shuffled through book pages until he found a masterpiece. It would allow her to soar and experience the lack of gravity in the pit of her stomach. It would also be safe and sturdy to carry her weight. With pontoons and pulleys suspended from the ceiling, it would give her the freedom to stretch her wings. The sketch faded, replaced by a vision of Isabel floating above the audience, that heart-stopping smile lighting up her eyes.

With all his pundonor, Alfonso took her on garden strolls, but could he make her fly?