"Arms bare to the wind," Cesare repeats, looking at his tailored clothes. Not unless he ripped things. Clothes had been more sensible, once upon a time, he thinks. A boy's giornea, the soft houppelandes of Tuscan brocade, those were cumbersome, true. But later, the detachable sleeves of his small army of farsetti, ah... He'd torn the silk and leather cords of quite a few, in his haste to be rid of them. Bare arms in the wind, yes.
"There is a reason why the words inferno and inverno are almost the same." Cesare smiles. "You like to play my weaknesses, Master Xellos."