Fee grew stronger with each passing day. His favourite chair became surrounded by books again, and Leonardo beamed with the familiar sight of a huddled figure by the fireplace, pouring over his latest classic. Even Gian had calmed somewhat in his presence. The artist had no idea what effect his son was having on his apprentice, but it was nice to leave a full pouch of gold on the table without fear of it being stolen.

Some days into Fiorentino's recovery, there was a knock at the door. Three heads shot up in unison – Fee's from his book, Gian from his practice and Leonardo from his newest invention – before the assassin turned the corner of his page and jumped to answer it.

"Non ti preoccupare," he called in the quiet workshop air; "I'll get it."

The artist was quick to leap to his feet. He had a sneaking suspicion who would be on the other side, but before he could hurry to his son and overtake him, the boy had already reached the door and turned the handle.

"Hello there," his deep voice rang out, "How may I-"

Silence descended as a sharp rectangular pool of light flooded in from the door, and Fee found himself immobilised.

There, standing in front of him, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her long blonde hair was a motionless waterfall over her bare shoulders, themselves tanned and freckled in places, and her eyes were sparkling grey gemstones caught in the faintest blue water, the red dress she wore giving hint to a feminine shape. Wide hips were cinched by muted fabric that then spilled to the ground and hid her legs, but Fee imagined they were long and slender, for the girl was only a few inches shorter than him and he was no dwarf.

Her thin lips smiled when she caught sight of him. Recognition sparked in those enchanting grey eyes, but Fee was shy; so much so that he could feel the heat rising his face.

"H-H-How may I h-help you?"

Gian, who had seen Fiorentino pause and had caught sight of the girl, felt something within him stir. An emotion he knew well, but had not much experience in. With frustration he looked back at his 'masterpiece,' pointedly ignoring the scene behind him, even when Leonardo hurried towards the door.

"Fee," the girl's silky voice betrayed her hurt; "Do you not recognise me?"

Before he could respond, his father was at his side; "Ah, I wondered when you would be coming! Come in, come in!"

She nodded at him and stepped inside, with Fiorentino retreating to the darkness. There, he leaned against the wall and tried to control his blush, all the while feeling her glancing at him. Who was the enchantress? Was she one of Leonardo's models? Had they met before? He was sure he would recognise someone so beautiful, even if they had met so very long ago.

"Fee, do you know who I am?"

He looked up, and saw she had turned to him. Again, he had to steady himself.

"Scusate," there was genuine regret in his voice; "I can't seem to remember you."

The eyes dulled somewhat, her lips becoming thinner. Leonardo stepped beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder, the corners of his lips twitching as he glanced first at her, and then at Fee.

"You know this lady very well, Fee. Isabella."

Fiorentino's eyes widened as he realised not only his stupidity, but that the beautiful girl he was stuttering over was one of his oldest friends. He had thought – hoped, even, that they would never meet again, and he would become little more than a distant childhood memory. As he looked into the grey pools that stared so softly at him, it dawned on him that memories never died.

The air was tense while the two stared at each other. Sensing the discomfort, Leonardo turned to his apprentice, who was still so fixated on ignoring them that he had barely registered the conversation.

"Salaì, I've just realised I need to go buy something. Come with me to the marketplace, won't you?"

"I'm quite busy-"

"You've never had a problem shirking work before," Leonardo pulled at his arm, tugging him away from the 'masterpiece' and towards the door. When they reached it, he called over his shoulder; "We will be back soon. Make yourself comfortable, Isabella. We'll talk about your commission when I return."

The artist and his troublesome apprentice vanished out of the room.

Isabella smiled at Fiorentino, thankful that she was alone with the boy who in childhood had been her best friend. He looked older than he was; black hair had been recently cut into a tamer, more manageable style, and he had grown to be at least five foot eleven, if not taller. His skin seemed even more tanned than she remembered. His lips, too, were darker, and she caught the hint of a wound on his cheek, healing fast but still with a whisper of existence left.

And his eyes. She had never forgotten those eyes. Kind but guarded, they had always calmed her when her nerves were frayed, always greeted her with the same enthusiasm. As she had grown and searched for a suitor, those eyes had become all she searched for, and she was disappointed to find they were unique to Fee.

She spoke first.

"It's been a long time." I've missed you.

"I never thought I would see you again." Why can't you see I'm trying to protect you?

"When we moved away…I've wanted to visit for some time." If only you would listen to me.

"Is that why you're back in Venezia?" You don't know what I've done.

Isabella's perfect pose deflated somewhat. Her grey eyes searched the workshop she remembered as a child, so different now, filled with contraptions she only recognised some of the pieces of and half-finished art. There was an air of Gian, too, for the apprentice had left his extravagant clothes yet unworn around the shop, usually stuffed into corners where they were forgotten.

Her melancholy mood reached Fee before she spoke; "I need a portrait, and I could think of no one except Maestro Da Vinci to do it."

She dared to take a few steps towards him, and was thrilled to see he didn't retreat. Instead, he watched her move, as though sizing up an opponent on the battlefield.

"A portrait?"

"Yes. My…My fiancé, asked me to do it."

"Oh."

Fiorentino looked down to the floor, leaning with one arm on the nearest wooden support beam. Isabella took the opportunity to walk closer; in a few steps, she was beside him, resting her delicate hand on his forearm, and was almost shocked to feel the strength hidden beneath his skin.

"Do you love him?" the boy asked, trying his best not to pull away.

She nodded; "As much as I can love him, yes."

"Thirteen…"

Another moment of silence descended on them. It was a moment of reflection, as well. Fiorentino forced himself to look up from the floor, eyes searching the ones in front of him, while Isabella yet again found herself captivated by the sincerity they held.

The tension did not dissipate, and soon Fee pulled away from her to offer a glass of water. Mourning the loss of contact, she agreed.

"What's he like?" the assassin asked as he poured it for her, from a jug that Leonardo had absent-mindedly painted on some time during his son's absence; "Your fiancé. Is he a good man?"

She took a sip as soon as the glass was given; "His name is Cristiano, and he's kind enough. Very wealthy family. Merchants in Rome; they own one of the largest fabric suppliers there. His father met my mother when we were visiting and…well…she mentioned my search. He offered his son. I would have been a fool to decline."

Fiorentino nodded, though he bemoaned the fact she had felt so pressured. Did she truly love the man she was about pledge her life to? The boy would have been heart broken, had she married someone she felt nothing for.

The more they talked the less tension they felt, and soon it was replaced by a sense of companionship. Fiorentino told her of his travels, never revealing what the reason was for, while she discussed what she had done during her absence, how she had occupied herself before she turned the engagement age. Water was drunk, they both forgot about Leonardo and Gian, focused on the friend they had both not seen in years.

Soon, though, Isabella felt the question she had wanted to ask prodding at her head, and she placed her glass down with a sombre expression. Fiorentino noted the way her shoulders tensed, the dress pulling up just a tad further from where it sat just below her neck and shoulder-blades.

"Fee, that night at Carnevale-"

He turned his face away; "Please, Isabella. Don't bring that up."

"I have to know."

"There's nothing to know."

"You never could lie to me. It's a good thing that hasn't changed."

"Isa-"

"Please, Fee," her hand came to rest on his. The shock of contact made him look up, and he was immobilised by her eyes. "Tell me what happened that night. Why did you have the blade? Why did they want to kill you?"

If there was any will in him to lie at all, Isabella's presence sapped it away. Lifting his other hand from his lap, Fiorentino placed it over hers, manoeuvring until he was holding hers in both.

"Before I tell you this," he said in a grave voice; "I have to know you won't breathe a word outside of this workshop. It is a matter of life and death."

Isabella nodded without hesitation. She trusted Fee, even after all that time, even after the secret he had kept from her.

"When…you know how I came to be with Maestro. As it turns out, I'm also an Auditore."

As he dived into the explanation of his conception, his destiny and how that had caught up with him, Isabella was silent. She took all he was telling her and stored it away in her mind. The relief was massive. So long, she had wondered why her friend felt the need to distance himself, why and how he had killed those men all those years before. Now that she was getting an answer, she didn't think to question it, and knew in her heart that no matter how far-fetched it sounded, Fee would never lie to her.

"When those guards wanted to kill me, I was going to let them. At Carnevale, I…I refused to fight my fate. But when they turned on you, I had no choice. I wouldn't let you die because they were afraid of the consequences."

He looked away from her.

"Isa, I'm a murderer. That night made me realise the danger you would be in should you have remained my friend. I had to put my feelings aside and do what was best for you."

The eyes were back on her. Sadness had encroached on the sincerity, dulling them, and she was overwhelmed not only by that but by the maturity and selflessness of his actions.

His voice was small when he asked; "Do you hate me?"

Surging forward, Isabella kissed him in the way she had wanted to for years. Fiorentino was so surprised that he did nothing at first, but then his brain kicked in and he pulled away. He jumped, shock causing his reflexes to make it more like he was flinching back from an enemy, and stared at her as though she had gone mad.

"You're engaged!" he reminded.

She nodded; "Yes, I am."

Fingers ran through brushed black hair, ruining it as he tried to make sense of the situation. He had felt the tension between them, but he thought it was a result of being so far apart for so long – that the comfort in each other's presence had waned with the passing years. Never had he thought she felt for him.

"Where is Maestro? Is he not supposed to be home yet?" Fiorentino found himself asking.

"Fee, calm down."

"How can I be calm when an engaged woman just kissed me? An engaged woman who knows I'm not only a murderer, but an assassin that regularly does so?"

"I always knew you were more interesting than you let on."

He shook his head; "This; I will die of a heart attack before I'm fifteen, I swear it."

She smiled at him – a real, genuine smile, which reminded him of when they were children laughing in the park. But the situation was far from child-like. They were dealing with strange emotions, and Fee was desperate to protect her from making a mistake.

"Cristiano should be expecting you back. You should go to him."

"Fee…"

Again, he stopped her; "No, Isabella. I appreciate your interest, but this isn't possible. Not now, not ever."

She stood. With all the grace of a hummingbird, she closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him in for a hug. Not wanting to hurt her by pushing away, Fiorentino made no move. What he did find, however, was that she smelt of fresh cinnamon, and a blend of something warm but foreign.

"I missed you," she admitted.

"I missed you too. But…the most we can be is friends, Isabella."

"If it means I can be part of your life, fine. But you can't stop what I feel."

Just as they pulled away, the door opened. In walked Leonardo, his arms full of supplies, clothing and various paraphernalia, while Gian was moaning about how his feet hurt, himself carrying but a few bags of something Fee couldn't make out.

"Sorry, I was distracted," the artist beamed at them; "Isabella, do you still have time? I would be glad to go over the basics with you."

She glanced at Fiorentino, who had vanished into the darkness again to read his books.

"Yes," she sighed; "That would be good."