A/N: Okay, so stick with me readers (that is if you enjoy!)! Please note that this is an AU set in 15th century Venice with somewhat historical accuracy (I am a history major). Reviews are ALWAYS welcome and feel free to recommend if you enjoy! Maura is an English noblewoman, so yes, she does have an accent. I have changed some of the names to be more suitable Italian names (ex. Jane is now Gianna which is pronounced "JAHN-nah"). All R&I characters are copyright Tess Gerritsen and/or Janet Tamaro, but some are my own as well. There is a mention of something called a "stiletto" it is a dagger, not a shoe! Grazie readers, and enjoy! ;]
Early mornings were never this warm at home. She thought quietly to herself, pacing the street just outside of the illustrious Doge's palace. I almost miss the rain and cold. Sometimes I just dread the heat…especially dry heat like this.
Last night the ferryboat had brought her over from San Giuliano and after almost a month long journey from London she was now exhausted. She was at a temporary lull in her travel while waiting to meet with a new colleague to start her work in Venice.
"Ahh, donna Isles?" Came a soft, yet heavily accented voice.
She turned around sharply, her silk dress whipping about her. "Yes, who is asking?"
"My name is Marco, I am to take you to where you will be staying while you are with us in Venezia."
"Oh, you are my father's contact," She smiled briefly, now noting the man before her.
"Yes, your father is a good man," He looked about her, "do you have any bags, bella donna?"
"Oh, yes I do. They are just here," She gestured to a rather presumptuous pile of luggage with a smile and coy blink.
Marco retrieved the bags and lightly tossed them in the back of his small hand pushed cart. The poor wooden cart nearly sagged to the cobblestone ground under all the weight. "If you would follow me, donna Isles."
Maura Isles hesitantly followed the young man down a corridor and into the Piazza San Marco where she gasped at the splendour of the basilica. There were about a dozen churches in London, including the rather splendid Westminster Abbey, but nothing compared to the gilded murals and sheer size of the Basilica di San Marco.
"Is the weather like this in Eeengland, donna Isles?" Marco suddenly brought up.
"Oh, no," She said, taking in the tiny, tiny alleyways that ran down the sides of the street she was now following Marco down. "England is quite chilly and generally pretty rainy. Marco, your English is quite good; where did you learn to speak it?"
"Oh, I am studying under the Capitano of the Guards and he speaks Eeenglish very good," Marco replied with a rather proud smile. "He is a man from up north and speaks many languages. Most of us know Eeenglish since there seem to be a lot of you here now."
"Oh," She simply nodded and followed the tan Venetian down a side street. Marco stopped in a courtyard and placed the cart by the well in the centre, quickly wiping his now sweating brow.
"Francesco, Tommaso, vieni qui e aiutare la donna con le sue cose!" He quickly shouted. [Francesco, Tommaso, come help the lady with her things!]
"Sì, sì, Marco, ci sarà verso il basso in un solo momento." Came the frantic reply. [Yes, yes, Marco, we will be down in just a moment.]
"Oh Marco," Maura began with a worried tone, knotting her hands "I do not know any Italian. Only Latin…"
He smiled. "Do not worry donna Isles, Francesco and Tommaso speak very well Eeenglish."
"What does 'donna' mean?"
"Oh, it is a title," He scrunched up his face, "I do not know how you call in Eeenglish…like you are a noblewoman."
"Lady?"
"Si, si!" He gestured widely with his hands, a big excited smile on his tan lips, "Si, I guess lady."
The door to one of the tall, rather well built ancient brick buildings opened with a sharp crack and two young men about Marco's age came running out. They were obviously brothers, both sharing dark brown hair cropped short, the shorter of the two with deep-set brown eyes and the other with light blue ones.
"Oh, we have been waiting for you, donna Isles!" The blue-eyed one said with a rather coy smirk. "You are truly bella, donna!"
"I'm sorry?"
"He is saying you are beautiful, donna Isles." The brown-eyed one shook his head. "I am Francesco Rizzoli, this is my brother Tommaso – he is a little cazzo [fucker] sometimes, do not mind him."
"Oh, it is a pleasure to meet you," She curtsied with a smile, completely missing the profanity that whispered across her ears like a gentle lullaby.
"Accidenti la signora ha un sacco di sacchetti." Tommaso quickly spoke under his breath. [Damn the lady has a lot of bags.]
"Sta 'zitto idiota." Francesco retorted. "Please excuse him, donna Isles, I beg of you." [Shut up you idiot.]
"Oh," She crooked her head to the side in confusion. "All right?"
"The dottore has you staying with us until he can find you a proper place to live, si?" Francesco began to pick up Maura's bags as he chided Tommaso in Italian to do the same.
"I believe so, yes,"
"He picked a bene place for you to stay," Marco laughed. "Signora Rizzoli is a well cook!"
"Oh, I have not had Italian food before!" Maura gasped excitedly, clapping two petite hands together.
"Eh, remember donna Isles, we are Venetians, not Italians." Tommaso snapped. "There is a grandioso difference."
"Oh, I apologize," Her hazel eyes showed concern.
"Come een, come een," Francesco had returned from placing the bags within the house, "Mamma has just finished some zuppa for you, I hope you are hungry."
Maura just simply smiled and quickly walked in, followed by Marco and Tommaso with more of her bags. She was drastically different than the Venetians she would be staying with – her blonde hair long, braided and tucked neatly into a veil. Her eyes were mostly green hazel and her skin pale, untouched by the sun and any intense labour. She wore the finest silk dress that money could by (she herself came from money – her father a wealthy apothecary in London) and a pair of brown leather Turnshoes that covered delicately stockinged feet.
The Venetian boys were dark, dressed in rather flamboyant brocade doublets with slashed sleeves of different colours and woollen hosen. Their feet were clad in hearty brown or black leather boots reaching their thighs and at their waists were swords tied in case of a swift attack.
"Mamma is waiting in la cucina if you would like to go in there," Francesco smiled pointing to a door down the long corridor leading from the foyer. "She can give you the zuppa while we bring your things up to your camera."
"Oh, thank you very much, that would be lovely,"
"Si, bella donna," Tommaso winked as he and Marco carried one of Maura's heavy trunks.
Maura gently pushed open the door to the kitchen and found a middle-aged woman sitting at a rather large, open fireplace attending to a thick metal cauldron. She hummed simply and let out a frightened gasp when Maura came in.
"Gesù Cristo, mio Dio!" She shouted, clutching her breast and then laughing. Her brown braided hair rested on her left shoulder with ribbons running through it – she was a beautiful woman with a truly Roman nose and well defined Italian features. "You must be Mauura."
"Yes, I am Maura Isles," She smiled and curtsied again. "How are you this evening Signora Angela Rizzoli?"
"Prego, everybody calls me mamma," She held out her arms for a hug and Maura obliged with slight apprehension, "while you are here, I take care of you like you are my own bambina, si?"
"Oh, thank you," She smiled again, hazel eyes unsure behind a rather confident front.
"You have met my boys?" She smiled.
"Yes, they are quite the gentlemen,"
She laughed, "Oh, nobody calls them gentlemen – not even me, their own mamma!"
Maura was silent, unsure of what to say.
"The boys are always getting into some kind of trouble," She said, removing a wooden bowl from a cabinet. "They think nobody can mess with them because they are a part of the city guard – but they still have their mamma to answer to!" She scooped a ladle full of rather unappetizing seawater green colored liquid into the bowl. "Their papa treats them like precious florins, but sometimes those boys need their mamma to tell them how it is!"
Maura accepted the bowl of soup from her and sat across from Mamma Rizzoli at the wooden table she brought her over to. "Is Signore Rizzoli home?"
"He is out working tonight,"
"Oh, what does he do?"
"He works on the docks," She replied, eating a small crust of bread, "but he is not un marinaio, just likes the water and the ships that come in from all over the mare."
Maura smiled at the thought of all the different people in Venice. London was always filled with Frenchmen and Belgians, but not many other groups. In Venice she had heard there were Arabs, Germans, Dutchmen, Spaniards, men of the north, Chinese, Mongolians – all kinds of people. She wished desperately to meet them all and learn of their cultures and their medicinal techniques – which is why she was in Venice after all, to learn new techniques brought over by the Arabs.
"I am sure he meets a lot of very interesting people,"
"He does – a few years ago he met a Moor and now he is one of the finest soldiers in the guards!"
"A Moor?" Maura had heard of the people from Africa…but never knew anyone who knew one. "I must meet him."
"Oh, he is always here," She laughed, "he is very close companions with mia figlia."
Her eyes widened. "Are they…married?"
"Married?" She thought for a second, her eyes narrowing, then suddenly burst out laughing. "Frediano the Moor married to mia Gianna? Oh, no, no, no! Frediano is married to another woman."
Gianna is such a beautiful name… Maura briefly thought to herself. "Oh, my apologies, Mamma Rizzoli."
"No, no, with the amount of time they are together one might think they are married." She imitated Maura's accent.
Both of them looked up when they could hear shouting coming from the second floor and then some laughter. Several sets of footsteps came whooshing down the wooden staircase adjacent to the kitchen before the door swung open allowing Marco, Francesco and Tommaso inside.
"Mamma, when does Gianna come back?" Francesco asked, serving himself some soup.
"Your papa said she would be back before midday," She replied, "you ragazzi better not have made too much of un pasticcio upstairs, do you understand?"
"Si, mamma," They all replied.
Maura listened to the Venetians speak in their native tongue while enjoying the soup Mamma Rizzoli had given her. It was a fish stew – no doubt caught in the lagoon that morning – with fresh herbs from a garden most likely behind the Rizzoli house. It was stunning, despite its appearance – unlike anything Maura had ever tasted before.
"Mamma, dove sono tutti? Perché la casa così buio? Qualcuno morire?" Came a sultry, deep, feminine voice followed by a laugh from the foyer. [Mamma, where is everyone? Why is the house so dark? Did someone die?]
Maura's heart briefly stopped at the sound of the voice and she couldn't quite pinpoint why. She was rather in tune with her feelings and often thought rationally as to why she felt each thing, but the voice caught her off guard.
The door swung open and allowed in the most gorgeous woman she had ever seen.
"Mamma, stiamo avendo una cena tardi?" She laughed again in that gorgeous voice. [Mamma, are we having a late dinner?]
"Ohhh, mia Gianna!" Mamma Rizzoli stood up and kissed both cheeks of her only daughter. "Mi sei mancato tanto! Sono così felice di averti di nuovo nella nostra casa!" [I have missed you so! I am so happy to have you back in our home!]
"Si, mamma, I am glad to be back," She smiled, flashing a rather well maintained set of white teeth framed by full lips. She had high cheekbones set on a tanned olive face that framed a set of dark, chocolate brown eyes and rather expressive eyebrows. Her mother held her cleft chin in her hand then put a finger in the centre with a laugh.
"Gianna how was Milano? Was it just like papa said it was?" Tommaso asked hurriedly, a big goofy smile on his face.
"Si, and more so!" She smiled again, sitting down beside Maura – whose heart skipped a second beat. "Tomma, you would love it in Milano – all the women there."
"Are they are bella as papa said they are?" He asked excitedly.
"Si, Tomma, maybe even more so than you!"
The Rizzoli's and Marco laughed, the small room echoing with happiness. Maura was beginning to wonder what exactly it was that Gianna did…
"Oh and Francesco, you would amano i dolci they sell on the streets," Gianna continued, her eyes and husky voice hinting at a teasing tone.
"Oh zitto stronzo." Francesco quipped. [Shut up you asshole.]
They laughed again before Gianna's hand rested gently (and accidentally) on Maura's thigh. She turned quickly, brandishing a stiletto to Maura's chin.
"Cristo, chi diavolo sei?" She asked rather loudly. [Christ, who the hell are you?]
"Gianna, this is donna Mauura Isles, from Eeengland," Mamma Rizzoli interjected, lowering the stiletto from Maura's chin. "You do not have to be afraid of her, mia figlia."
"Oh, mi dispiace," A subtle blush formed over high olive cheekbones.
Maura had only just noticed that Gianna Rizzoli wasn't wearing a dress, but rather a pair of tight black linen hosen and a burgundy slashed sleeved doublet, from under she could see a linen shirt stretched loosely over a thin body. She wore a black beret with a small white plume over long, dark brown curls that were tied loosely with a ribbon at the base of her rather slender neck. The leather gloved hand that held the stiletto now sheathed it, and turned into a friendly reach.
"I am Gianna Rizzoli, and my Eeenglish is really very bad," She laughed.
"Oh no, it is actually quite lovely," Maura blushed deeply.
"You are dressed very Eeenglish," She told her, her chocolate eyes scrutinizing Maura's dark blue silk dress. "Do all donne still wear veils in Eeengland?"
"Is it not proper to do so in Venice?"
"If you were interested in moda you would know that Venetian women tie their hair up in ribbons these times,"
"'Moda'?"
"Oh, err," She put a gloved finger to that lovely cleft chin. "Clothing-styles?"
"You are suggestion fashion," Maura corrected, "which is something I happen to know very well."
The boys sniggered and Gianna shut them up with a well-placed curse. "Well, signora Isles, you do not know Venetian 'fashion' or your hair would be out of that stupido veil."
Maura Isles, not one to be outdone on fashion, reached for the clasp of her veil and took it off, letting loose what seemed like a thousand well maintained, silky-smooth blonde hairs about her narrow shoulders. The whole group of Venetians gawked at her, their eyes unblinking.
"Are you satisfied, signora Gianna?"