Were he a better man, Angelo thinks, he would take comfort in the myriad images of the Goddess adorning the Holy Isle of Neos, instead of spending much of the day searching for a place where "May the Goddess watch over you" seemed a benediction rather than a curse.
Being himself, and having found no shelter from the weight of Her gaze, he now challenges it. The massive statue is beautiful, serene beneath the light of the full moon, but something within him twists at the sight.
His unease makes him wonder if his brother is right about him. Perhaps, he thinks, it's my conscience.
A light touch, barely felt, startles him and draws his gaze down to Jessica's. "We missed you at dinner."
"I'm fine."
The answer is too abrupt, he realizes as hurt joins the worry in her eyes. It's an effort not to take her in his arms and apologize; only the certain knowledge that she wouldn't tolerate such impropriety stops him.
"Eight told us about Marcello."
He shrugs, because for once Marcello is not the problem--of course not, that would be too easy to explain, and why should his life become easy now?--and he doubts she would understand.
Jessica's fingers twine with his. A better man would correct the misunderstanding, instead of regretting the leather between his flesh and hers, or taking advantage of her concern to capture her soft lips.
Marcello may, indeed, be right about him. But he finds he doesn't care.
