SO UPDATE. Yay, for my grand total of probably 10 consistent readers. *confetti* This is the longest chapter I've written, and I kinda like it. It's starting to get a little Mary Sue but I'm taking care NOT to go in that direction. Just this chapter. Even then it's not THAT bad. I hope you guys like it :D

translations: capito - understand?

Everyday is the same. There is no variation, all of a sudden, like any trips into town or fun things were against the law. I wake up, I eat breakfast, I wait around for someone else to wake up, and things go on however they do, whether I'm easily beating Ezio at a game of chess that HE challenged ME to, or sitting on the loggia with Maria and Claudia, watching in awe that's slowly wearing off at how fast Maria can sew. The most remarkable thing to happen to me was me pitifully and miserably pricking my fingers while Claudia taught me how to sew.

And Federico avoiding me like the plague.

I didn't think anything of it, at first. We rarely talked anyway. He isn't as sociable… or as perverted as Ezio, or it's to my understanding that he isn't. After Claudia told me everything about Simonetta, I really didn't care, only felt bad about Federico's discomfort about me. By the second night, I was perfectly fine, and supper went back to the usual – red faced laughter from what Ezio said mixed with the wine in our bloodstreams. But Federico was still unusually quiet. I didn't, I don't even know him that well, and he started acting alarmingly silent, only talking to Claudia and Ezio when I was responding to Annetta's question about whether or not I wanted more wine, or if I was too preoccupied with cutting up my food. And I took offense.

It didn't take me awhile to figure that it wasn't the fact he thought I knew something that made him avoid me. He was just ignoring and avoiding me, and only me. My entire existence was like a bubble cut out of his own, kicked to the side and dangling by a thread. It bothered me, even if I didn't exactly care much, and I really put some thought into it. Maybe the kid had a lot of skeletons in his closet besides his hooker lover. Maybe he knocked someone into the river the same night I fell in and he thought it was me. I still can't figure anything out, so I'm just going to believe that I'm causing whatever idiotic problems there are between us, just by inhaling the air we share.

So, either than my failed sewing attempts and pointless drama with the oldest Auditore child, my life goes along like calm waters. I float along, but the waves never get choppy, never swell. I sit inside all day, even if occasionally, Claudia makes trips into town without me, and Annetta heads to the market without asking for the assistance I offered her once or twice. I read, or I play chess, or I play childish games with Petruccio, and although that earns me bonus points with Maria and Giovanni, I can't handle any more hide and seek in their monstrous house. It's like searching for a BROKEN needle in a haystack, in all honesty.

All I want is to get out. For the past week I've been yearning for the REAL fresh air that doesn't come from my open window when I'm beating dead bugs off of the curtains and the mosquito net. I dawdle and spend my days eating the sweet cakes Annetta brings back from the bakery once a week, wondering how long it'll take me to get fat again after all my hard work to keep the weight off.

I highly doubted Ezio would be the one to offer to take me outside. For once in what seems like a lifetime, when I'm lying, tangled in my sheets with sticky crumbs on the corners of my mouth and I'm bloated from guzzling down nearly a gallon of water to pass the time, he stands over me, head upside down from my point of view, his brows cocked and eyes shining. His lips are lifted into what seems to be the signature smirk of all the Auditore children, one corner lifting higher than the other, full of mischief and guaranteeing a good time. It scares me.

"Hello," I sigh, rolling onto my stomach, giving a lame groan. "What brings you into my chamber of boredom?"

"Exactly that." He answers it so evenly, like he meant nothing and everything at once. I look up, and the smirk is still there.

"You're going to solve my boredom, then?" I ask. "Is that it?" He nods, shrugging his shoulders in a "why not?" kind of way. "And your partner in crime, your brother, isn't going to accompany us, right?"

"He wouldn't even volunteer." Ezio's eyes narrow curiously, wondering if his words offended me or not. "No offense, or…"

"Ah." I wave my hand, and tumble out of bed, stopping in front of the mirror to comb my fingers through my hair again, unwilling to show him my plastic paddle brush. They'd probably think I was a witch, with all my weird clothing. "What exactly did you have in mind to solve my boredom, though, Ezio? Getting me drunk in the afternoon…"

He chuckles. He's far more perverted than his brother, or maybe this is how they both act. I've learned to deal with the accidental brushing of my ass, the innuendos, but there are times that I'll have to tell him off. Like now, for example. If he really intends on getting me drunk, if he really thinks I'm that stupid, then he's an idiot, and I'm going to have to set him straight.

"I wouldn't do that. I just… intended to show you around town. Firenze is beautiful and it's to my understanding all you've seen of her is a tailor's shop and the cathedral." He pauses with a smirk. "And maybe stop for a glass of wine."

I sigh, but smile, nodding my agreement. "Fine. Any funny business, and expect a knee in the groin. Capito?"

"Capito."

"The Ponte Vecchio," Ezio announces, stopping in front of a wide bridge that stretched over the river. "I figured I might as well take you to your technical entrance into Firenze first. "

I try to play off my embarrassed blush, as if the lie I told them about sleeping on the side of the bridge was true. I look down over the edge, seeing the murky waters, blue and brown mixed together to make a foul-smelling and oddly colored green. Cringing, I remember that waste is/was dumped into the rivers and lakes of cities, to keep the city streets as clean as they could manage. I turn back to Ezio, and he's gawking at a pretty – no, a gorgeous girl some 50 yards away, on the other side of the bridge, with a blushing group of girls under the shade cast by a building. It takes me three seconds to figure out it's that Cristina girl Claudia told me about.

"Is that Cristina?" I still murmur, nudging his ribs, but still keeping my distance so she doesn't think I'm doing anything wrong. Nothing feels worse than knowing you're being cheated on; nothing hurts worse than seeing it, even if we aren't actually together.

"Who told you?" he murmurs, a boyish blush covering his cheeks.

"Claudia," I nod, shrugging. "She's pretty,"

"She's beautiful," he grins.

It's adorable. I nearly coo at the cuteness. Young love is doomed, or so they say, but it doesn't hurt to appreciate the adoration some young lovers have for one another. And it makes me think of Simonetta and Federico, the doom they encountered, the inevitable forking of their paths, and I damn near ruin my entire mood. I shake the thought from my head, turning my attention back to Cristina as inconspicuously as I can. She waves him over, biting her lip and blushing as girlishly as he blushes boyishly, like smitten little kids on the playground during Valentine's Day. He darts his eyes towards me, and I shrug.

"Go on."

"But I don't want to leave you unaccompanied," he frowns. It amazes me that he can be perverted and gentlemanly.

"Go, idiota. I can find my way back on my own."

H e arches a brow. "Are you really sure about that?"

"GO."

He shrugs and sets off towards Cristina, leaving me leaning against the side of the bridge. It's afternoon, we're in the richer district of Florence, from what I can see, and I'm surrounded by people. The odds of me being attacked, raped, or killed, seem to be very low. I push myself off of the stone supporting my weight, tracing my footsteps back to the Palazzo Auditore.

My camping trip during my time in Girl Scouts taught me to memorize things so I wouldn't get lost, like the shape of trees, or the markings that the troop slashed into the trunks. The only difference with this was the shops, the vendors. I remember passing by a bakery, smelling like the sweet cakes I ate only a few hours ago, a juggler who is apparently now walking on his hands, his balls set down in the gutter while he does flips and somersaults. I'm entranced by the city, looking through stalls at cute little tea sets, painted individually with adorable patterns, at the caged puppies yapping from behind their bars, cages weighed down with bricks so they couldn't move.

I eventually stumble into an entire market. I've read about this place, the Mercato Nuovo – the New Market. It was like the center of trade and commerce in Italy, next to Rome, but from what I've learned from Claudia, it's 1475, and Rome is still an absolute shithole. And this place is packed with people. It can't compare to the quiet fruit stands I went to with Annetta, a basket dangling from my arm. This place looked more like a zoo than anything else.

Persian rugs dangle from wooden beams that stretched across the entire square, colorful and thick. Baby tigers cry in their cages, sounding more like kittens than vicious killers, meowing for their mother that they were long since departed from. Three women argue over a shiny roll of patterned fabric, pointing fingers at each other and the vendor, who looks confused and willing to deal with ANY of them. Though you can still hear, and move, and do everything, it's unbelievable. This place is like the Costco of the Renaissance, with everything from fresh clay pots to turbans.

I break into it. I move between the stalls, stopping to run a finger over the smooth white china that's so common in my time and so rare in these. Venetian glass, Swedish wool, a different type of corset from England, looking more painful than the one Claudia dressed me in. I breathe in the different smells, something disgusting and sweet and sour all at once, like burnt cookies and perfect cinnamon buns mingled with the scent of the trash that still needs to be taken out. It pulls me in and I let it. It's so much more different than the city that surrounds it.

I kneel down in front of the cages of baby tigers, where a little boy and his older sister, maybe 13 or 14, gawk with a larger group of kids that keep their distance. The stall keeper applauds my bravery, or what he calls it, encouraging the kids to step forward. I tentatively poke a finger in, getting bit by toothless gums, earning more tiny cries. I stroke behind the ear of a white-and-black striped tiger, the fur all up and out and odd ends like a new born. It eventually purrs, nuzzling at me, and I grin, thinking of my bitchy fat cat at home, an enormous Maine coon and a Russian blue kitten that was practically half-dog. The kids come around then, cooing at the cuteness of the tiger, letting it toddle around in the circle they form on their knees, and I get up, beginning to roam again.

For awhile, it's in peace. But then I feel eyes following me. I don't care much for it, thinking maybe it's the gossiping mothers who thought I was a sick instigator for encouraging their children to get that close to a "wild beast" like a baby tiger, and move along. I feel plush animal skins that would drive PETA insane, admire dresses that look uncomfortable, but I still wouldn't complain wearing them, and gawk at a boy tending to a stall with who I'm assuming is his father, with blue eyes and black hair and the most perfect face I've ever seen in my life.

I give a little shriek when the beams above start shaking. Dust sprinkles down onto my hair and the people in the market, but they go on, only muttering soft swears under their breath about the noisy disruptions. I glance up, and see men, young and old, in caps and scarves, flats and breeches, torn shirts. They RUN on the beams, like it's the gymnastics competition during the Olympics, quick-footed and unbelievably nimble. I gawk, and they leap, some grasping onto rooftop edges and hauling themselves up, others into the market below, blending along with everyone else to become invisible. I see some of them snatch at various things from baskets - coins that slipped loose from pouches, trinkets, more coins from actual purses.

"Thieves," someone whispers from behind me, and I shriek again, clapping a hand over my mouth and whirlling around.

A boy. He's maybe my brother's age, in his late teens, a good five inches taller than me. He's cute in a boyish way, with his curly blonde hair sitting on top of his head in a short cut, his eyes a bright blue, but he isn't my type, and he comes off as creepy. Extremely creepy. The way he smiles at me makes me KNOW that he's the person who's been staring at me this entire time, tracking me down with their eyes, and I do NOT intend on talking to him for a long amount of time. But he, apparently, intends on following me.

"What's your name?" he asks me, tailing me while I try to find a big group of people to dash into and hopefully disappear in.

"Ariana," I lie. My sister's name.

"Mm, really? That's pretty…" he remarks, absentmindedly. "I'm Girolamo." I take a deep breath, damning the time that this guy, this Girolamo, showed up. Clearly he's done this before, stalking a teenage girl. I remember the combo Ariana herself taught me.

"Jab them in the throat and kick them in the balls," she'd said, shrugging her shoulders casually, as if she did it before. "They'll be in pain over their balls and on top of that, they won't be able to breathe for a few minutes."

Jab and kick. Jab and kick. Jab and kick. I repeat it in my mind like a stupid mantra, but it doesn't follow through. Not when we reach a darkened corner of the market leading into an alley, emerging into an empty street, only a few poorly dressed people making their way along. A few more guys, all around my brother's age, lean against the wall, and I don't do anything when I'm thrown in their direction. No screaming when they say the most horrible things I've ever heard said about me, when a hand creeps down to squeeze at my ass, when someone whispers low in my ear, hot and heavy and smelling like cheap wine. But most importantly, I don't jab and kick. It's pointless doing it to 7 guys.

I'm going to die. My immediate thought. They are going to rape me and kill me, but I'm not really alive, am I? This is my imagination. I should have thought that from the beginnning. This is going to be like Inception – if I'm killed I'm awoken from the dream. But then I remember limbo. Maybe I'll fall into some deeper recess of my conscience and emerge absolutely insane, come back to life with no memory of who I am or what I did.

"Stop," I finally manage weakly. "STOP."

For a second, they do stop. And burst out laughing. "Stop, she says," one laughs, as if I didn't JUST say that. "What a stupid girl. It'd be better if she was deaf and dumb like we thought. Don't give us a mouthful, girl, eh?"

Hands. They fumble with my shirt and my pants, pulling at me and shoving me around, each having their turn with my unbelievably complicated clothing for these standards. They curse and grunt, as if it's really a hard task, completely ignoring my shirt, now sitting off to the side, my undershirt wrapped around it, my bra still hooked around my body, and fumble with the buttons to my pants, the zipper. Large fingers that look like sausages have a go, then pale, slender, artist's fingers, and we're in the darkened alley again, my back pressed against the wall, somebody finally managing to figure out they need to pull the zipper DOWN.

Hands. A different pair. They reach out, as if beckoning for me, but I don't look up, eyes fixed on the scuffed rubber tips of my shoes. The group of boys look around at each other, and abruptly break out into loud, smelly laughter, their foul breath blowing into my face. I still stand there, arms crossed over my chest, jeans halfway down my thighs, and wonder who my failed savior is. A good try, but it isn't going to happen.

"You want us to stop, or you wanna join us?" Girolamo laughs. "You're welcome to join. But if you want to take her away? You aren't a knight, stronzo, my apologies." No response. Girolamo pulls a knife from his breeches, holding it in front of him. "You're trying to stop us, then? Come."

The same hands dash forward. If I had blinked I would have missed it. So quickly… a little jab to the throat, nimble fingers, and the same hands from before whirl Girolamo, slashing a cut across his chest, enough to make him bleed, but not enough to kill him. Girolamo cries out like a girl, clutching at his chest, quickly becoming darkened with his blood. The rest of the boys back off, a wave of silence passing through them.

"Fucking take her," Girolamo cries, stumbling back. I look up, from the corner of my eye, and he shakes his head, looking between me and whoever the hell just saved my ass. "To hell with you, Ariana. To hell with the both of you."

Silence. I lean against the wall. "Ariana?" I famliar voice suddenly says, flat and unmoving. "Well, Ariana, here's your shirt."

I look towards Federico. He still has the knife in his hands, dripping with Girolamo's blood, part of his skin hooked on the edge. He kneels down, plucking up my shirt and undershirt. His face is straight as he hands it to me, and I take it with trembling fingers, pulling my clothes on lamely. I straighten the crumpled clothes, looking up in time to catch Federico breaking the knife, slamming it against the side of a building and throwing the hilt far, dropping the blade under a loose stone and kicking the stone back into place.

I join his side, and he leads me home, as silent as when I'd found out about Simonetta. The only audible thing, really, is our footsteps, the noise that comes to surround us the deeper we venture into the city. Once we reach the cathedral, he looks at me. His eyes are still blank, his face straight, as if he didn't care about me when he'd just saved my life, maybe. Perhaps it was human nature. But human nature means sympathy.

"Where is Ezio?" he asks, looking away from me as we pass by the groups of people walking around us.
"I thought he left with you, Caterina."

I shrug. "He meant to show me the city. Cristina was out and about so I told him he could leave me for her. I said I could find my way home. But I got lost, I got distracted, and I found the market."

He says nothing to that. We pass by the little shady enclosure where Claudia and I talked the week before, walk in absolute silence. My eyes drift towards the tailor's shop, where Claudia was meant to pick up her dress tomorrow, made from a new shipment of a light pink satin that she was absolutely in love with. We pass by the cracked open door, and we come across the tree.

The same courtesans circle it, gesturing with their hands, lips barely parted, sighing and giggling and beckoning for men and their money to come. Hair flows more freely, curls and waves, blonde and black, rustling with the wind and falling to their waist, seeming to outline their ridiculously womanly curves more than their dress already does. And Simonetta is there again, parting the sea of the girls around her, reaching out for Federico with the same grasping hands she had before. She encircles him, eyes cloudy and detached, the look I'd mistaken for infatuation before now clear to be…. An odd look of insanity and sanity, all at once, teetering on the fence but never truly choosing a side.

Those eyes, a deep brown, not just a plain color, but like chocolate, shifting like waves in her sockets, meet mine. Her chin comes to rest on Federico's shoulder, her words cutting short. Her lips are still parted as she sizes me up, looking me up and down, her fine brows drawing together, no lines forming in her cream skin. Something passes over her features, hidden and buried, but still there, something that men found unreadable but I saw EASILY.

Jealousy. I shake my head immediately, but her mind, her insane mind, settles on what she feels. I dash away, rudely pushing through a group of three women casually walking along. I make my way under archways and around groups, around trees, through nets of people gathered to watch a man juggle twenty coins at once, screaming their applause and dropping their own coins. I know that I'm getting close to the palazzo, can see the vaguely familiar houses and shops we passed by, but someone comes up beside me again.

"Go back to her, Federico," I scowl. "Ezio is with his girl, you can be with yours." He says nothing. "I can find my way home."

The corner of his lips lifts up. "Isn't that what you told Ezio?"