With a groan, Machiavelli came slowly awake the next morning. He coughed slightly, feeling as though he had a bad head cold. He stretched out his right arm, hearing the joint crack with a soft pop.
A mewing came from his left and he started slightly before realizing that it was just Georgette who had someone made her way into his room during the night. He turned on his side and absentmindedly pet her. The tabby made a rusty purring noise and nosed at his hand expectantly.
The Italian immortal continued to pet her absentmindedly, but his thoughts were drifting back to the dream he had just had. He shuddered, thinking of it. Already, it was slipping away from him, something he was in fact, very grateful for. He had been in his childhood home among his parents and siblings, but they hadn't recognized him at all. It disturbed him especially that his mother had not recognized him, despite his numerous attempts to persuade her that he was her son. He shuddered again. "Mami," he whispered to himself.
Just as he was considering getting out of bed, he heard footsteps in the hallway. Deciding that he wasn't ready to face anyone yet, he closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe normally. The door clicked open softly.
"Niccolò," a soft voice breathed. It had to be Perenelle, he said to himself. "Are you awake?" the voice asked again. It was definitely the Frenchwoman. Her fingertips brushed over his shoulder.
Machiavelli made the mistake of cracking his eyes open. The light from his window instantly blinded him and he groaned and rolled over. "Is it morning?" he asked softly.
Perenelle sat gracefully on the edge of the bed. "Not for much longer," she gently chided. "It's nearly eleven o'clock, Niccolò." She waited, but Machiavelli just hummed slightly and closed his eyes again.
There was another knock on the door. "Perenelle? Is he up?" It was Nicholas this time.
"In a manner of speaking," his wife replied. She tapped the teenager on the shoulder. "Are you going to get up?"
"No," Machiavelli said rather decisively. "I think I'm going to sleep a while longer." And he turned back over on his side.
"Alright." Perenelle got to her feet. The Italian immortal felt the bed spring back a little bit. "Well, if you're sure…" She waited and Machiavelli nodded again. She sighed. "Come down when you want to be fed."
"Okay," the Italian said. He spoke so quietly, he couldn't be sure the Flamels had heard him. Behind him, the two French immortals exchanged a glance.
He sighed and closed his eyes, drifting off again into an uneasy sleep.
Billy came in two hours later. "Mr. Machiavelli?" he called. He smiled wistfully at the boy as the Italian blinked at him. "It's time to eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"Are you feeling sick?"
"No," came the tactician's muffled reply. "I'm just not hungry." He sighed again.
The outlaw sighed too. "What happened, Mac? We were getting along great yesterday." Billy nervously moved the toy figures around on Machiavelli's headboard, lining the knights up so that they were facing a dragon. "Did I say something wrong?" He glanced down at the Italian.
"No," Machiavelli said, getting out of bed. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired today." He gathered together some clothing. And looked at the American immortal. "I'll come down in a minute. I just am going to get dressed now."
"Alright," Billy agreed, taking the hint. He padded towards the door, Georgette trailing him. "I'll get your food ready."
Machiavelli nodded, so Billy continued downstairs. Wheeling around a couple of times, the American strode into the kitchen and continued to put a plate together for the boy. He glanced over at Nicholas. "Mac's coming down."
Nicholas looked up from his book. "That's good."
Billy set the plate of food down. Quietly, after checking the stairs, he leaned in close to the Frenchman. "I'm worried about him. His mood changes so rapidly. Yesterday, he was happy, I think."
Nicholas glanced quickly at the stairs as well. "Maybe it's just hormones?" he asked quietly.
Billy tapped himself emphatically on the chest. "I had hormones. And I wasn't this bad." He looked up, one quick glance at the stairs. "I think I'm going to bring him to the doctor tomorrow."
Thumping on the stairs indicated the end of their conversation. "Not a bad idea," Nicholas said quickly. "I'm going to look into it too on my end. Hello, Niccolò," he greeted the boy.
"Hello, Nicholas." Machiavelli pushed his food around his plate. "What are you up to?"
The Alchemyst shut his book and flipped it around to show Machiavelli. "I'm reading one of my favorites. Gulag Archipelago by Solzhenitsyn."
The Italian immortal picked up the book. "I never read this one. I read Cancer Ward though."
"Another good one." Nicholas smiled. He took the book back from the teenager. "I was reading that about a month ago, if you remember. But this isn't the time to read. You and I should both eat."
"Okay," Machiavelli agreed reluctantly.
~MB~
Machiavelli spent much of the afternoon moping around in relative silence. Billy read to him from his book, but couldn't be sure that the Italian was paying attention. Finally, he put the book down.
"Want to color?" Billy asked suddenly.
"What?" Machiavelli asked incredulously. He glanced up from the wooden puzzle he had been working in his hands. The key was to put the pieces back together, but right now he just had a jumbled mess in his hands. Billy just shrugged and pulled a stack of scrap paper from one of the cabinet drawers. "I don't know how to draw," the Italian complained. "It'll look bad."
Billy pushed the paper closer to the Italian. He selected a dark red pencil for himself. "Just draw something, Mac. It doesn't have to be perfect." The American immortal hummed under his breath. Machiavelli recognized it as Silver Threads among the Gold. Billy began to sketch out his car.
Machiavelli just sat there. Finally, unwillingly, he picked up a flesh colored pencil and began to draw. He drew an oval then began to change its shape, rounding out the bottom. He frowned and set the pencil down, locating a deep blue instead. He tried sketching out eyes, but there was something wrong with the picture, it wasn't right and he crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. It landed shy of the can. "I'll get that later," he told Billy grumpily.
Billy handed him another piece of paper. "What were you trying to draw?" the American asked curiously.
Machiavelli stiffened. "My son," he allowed unhappily. "It doesn't look like him at all though. And I don't have any pictures of him." He started with Guido's eyes this time. He made them round and big, thinking back to the first time he had looked in the baby's eyes. Guido had been the child to save his marriage to Marietta. And now every time he tried to capture the baby, his image slipped through his fingers.
"Tell me about him. Which son are you drawing? Guido?" Billy guessed correctly. He pushed away the picture of his car which was surprisingly detailed and took a different piece of paper. "Sometimes when you try to focus on something, it slips away," he muttered softly. Machiavelli blinked. He hadn't thought that Billy would understand.
"Guido was fair haired when he was first born, but then all my kids were blond when they were little." Machiavelli gazed off in the distance. "Piero stayed blonde even when he got older, but Bernardo and Ludovico, they were dark haired like me."
"Why do you always focus on Guido?" Billy asked, beginning to sketch.
Machiavelli shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I guess I just feel guilty because he was so little when I left. I died," he traced quotation marks around the words, "And I never knew anything about him really. I couldn't exactly talk to him after I died."
"We have a very interesting relationship," Billy said thoughtfully. "Especially because of the age thing right now. I'm essentially a child without my parents and you're a father without your children."
The Italian immortal's throat burned. He coughed slightly. "Guido had big, blue eyes and ears that stuck out from his face. He liked to me to hold him. I would sing him lullabies…" Machiavelli's voice caught and he faltered.
Billy glanced sidelong at him for a moment and grabbed his hand. He gave it a quick squeeze then continued to sketch. A silence filled the cabin, but the Italian didn't find this one as uncomfortable as he had before.