The Bear and Barnacle

Cesare doesn't see him, at first.

It's Miquel who does, and Miquel's flinch speaks volumes. There is only one, one who could make Miquel glide aside to dodge him without causing offense. One who still commanded politeness, a semblance of friendship even (What, don't we both serve him? Should not our differences pale in the light of our devotion to him?) yet raised Miquel's hackles like that.

The scars may have faded, but then Taddeo is Taddeo.

And Taddeo still thinks Miquel is not worthy.

God - or Hades - only knows how Taddeo got here. Why he sits, uninvited, after a curt, soldierly bow, down at their table, the slashed sleeves of his farsetto showing white muslin, his giornea lined in Cesare's colours. "Excellency," he says, fighting with emotion, "I prayed to God that he keep and preserve you, and he has deigned to bend his ears to my prayers."

Miquel has slipped behind Cesare's chair, a hand on his shoulder.

"And Don Michele," Taddeo smiles up like the fox he is named for. "I see you are hale."

Since the day Miquel first nurtured him back to life, since the day they got here, Cesare hasn't felt Miquel tremble, but now his fingers are fluttery, his grip - meant to be reassuring (reassure, whom?) - is weak and growing weaker. Worried, Cesare looks at him, afraid to see him fade.

Then he rallies himself into some outward show of lordliness and rises. "We thought you lost in Arezzo," he says hoarsely. "We feared you had perished in a Baglioni prison, or suffered under Giuliano's all-too-heavy hand."

Taddeo smiles sadly and tilts his head. "All true, Excellency."

Not him, Miquel freaks quietly. Not he. Do not welcome him back.