Archive of Our Own

It isn’t until he’s crouched in the back of the cargo hold of the wedding ship, hiding as best he could behind the water barrels, that Nicolò truly begins to question his own sanity. 

The ship sways and creaks around him, and Nicolò counts his breaths to the motion of it. It isn’t too late. The wedding party isn't due to board until dusk, and even with that the ship won’t cast off until the dawn tide; he has more than enough time to turn his back on the whole wretched plan. 

Nicolò does not like to consider himself a man easily drawn in by the whims of others, but he’s been proven wrong before. It had all seemed so possible, was the thing. Almost logical, in a way, when he was sitting in a taverna with a stranger, listening as he laid out a plan for a different life for them both.

Well, perhaps not so much logical as tempting. So tempting, clearly, that he’d abandoned his own good sense to follow someone else’s plan. 

Nicolò listened patiently as a madman who wore his face rambled at him about a wedding, and duty, and the gilded cage of wealth and family, and tried not to let too much judgment slip into his gaze. 

They really were unnervingly similar. They could be twins. Even his eyes were the same shade of grey, although if Nicolò peered closely (which he was trying to resist the urge to do) the madman had a touch less colour at the centre, more a uniform grey than Nicolò.

'So, what do you think?' asked the madman–Pietro, he claimed his name was. Lord Pietro. 

'About what?' asked Nicolò, shaking his head and forcefully dragging his attention back to the matter at hand. 

Pietro sighed, shamelessly plucking an uneaten chicken leg from the plate before Nicolò. 

'My plan,' he said, stressing the word in the manner of one talking to someone they perceive as an imbecile. 'What could you possibly have to lose in taking my place?'

'From the sounds of it,' said Nicolò slowly, leaning back in his chair, 'my freedom at the very least.'

Pietro shook his head, sucking the last of the meat from the bone. 'The benefits outweigh the costs. What do you have now that you would truly regret giving up for a life of luxury? Your every whim catered to.' He gave a funny little half shrug, half shudder. 'It has its upsides, if one can ignore the downs.' 

Nicolò blinked at him once, twice, before he said, 'Giovanni really wasn't drunk that day he was in the palace. I should apologise to him.' There really was someone wandering around the Duke's home, the very living double of Nicolò. All this time, Nicolò had truly believed he was just raving.

'I'm sorry?' said the alleged son of the Duke, who was at that moment wiping his hands clean of grease on a handkerchief that looked like it cost more than all the clothes on Nicolò’s body, including his boots. 

'Nevermind,' said Nicolò, shaking his head. 'Am I supposed to believe that the son of the Duke would be allowed to just wander the harbour, days before his very public and very political wedding?' 

'You didn't listen to me at all, did you?' asked Pietro, scowling at him. He fished under his shirt collar until he caught a fine gold chain. A signet ring dangled from it, and even in the dull light of the cheap tallow lamps, it shone. 'The seal of my family. I'm sure you'll recognise that , at least, being from Genoa.'

He did, which was the truly terrible thing. It wasn’t entirely outwith the realms of possibility that someone could have a ring with the Duke's family seal without necessarily being part of his family. It was just incredibly unlikely. 

About as unlikely as meeting a stranger who bore your face, even down to your nose. 

'And you want…?'

'To be free,' Pietro hissed, leaning in close. 'I don't want to be a prince, I don't want to marry a man-'

'He would force himself on you?' interrupted Nicolò, suddenly concerned this wasn't so much the whim of a rich lordling as an actual cry for help.

'Well, no,' muttered Pietro, leaning back in his chair again. 'No, we've–we've exchanged letters on the subject. And he's promised the marriage would be… Chaste. For want of a better term. In ceremony only.'

'Do you doubt his word?'

'No,' Pietro ground out through clenched teeth. 'Prince Yusuf is famously an honourable man, never one to break his oath.'

For all their similarities, Nicolò found himself wondering if there wasn't some difference of age between them. Pietro looked for all the world like a child caught hiding from his tutor.

'So you are, what, unhappy with having your every whim provided for?' 

'You don't understand!' Pietro cried, before he caught himself and lowered both his tone and his hands, glancing around them. Nicolò was fond of the taverna because everyone focused only on their own business and no one else's, but even here shouting would be noticed. 'You don't understand,' he said again, quieter. 'I have no choices, not even in what I wear or eat of a day. And when I go to Tunis, I will no longer even have my name. Who am I, without even my name? I don't want any part of this.'

'But I should?'

'Well,' Pietro bit his lip, looking Nicolò over. 'What have you to lose, truly? Have you ever had luxury to begin with? What is your name, that you would be giving up?'

'Nicolò di Genova,' said Nicolò promptly, ever unashamed.

'Yes, yes,' said Pietro, flapping his hand. 'Yes, we are both of Genoa, but what is your name?'

'Nicolò di Genova,' repeated Nicolò, slowly, holding his gaze steadily.

'But only foundlings get-oh.' Pietro blushed terribly, a colour Nicolò was quite certain he had never turned in his entire life. 'I-I see. I… apologise.'

Nicolò sipped his ale and waited, certain that shame wasn’t an emotion that lingered with Pietro.

‘All the better,’ he said eventually, proving Nicolò correct very neatly. ‘You truly have nothing to lose, and all to gain. We both do, don’t you see?’

‘What could you possibly have to gain?’ Curiosity was a sin of Nicolò’s, one he’d never managed to shake.

‘True freedom.’ Pietro’s answer was prompt, and utterly without artifice. He genuinely believed what he was saying. Nicolò shook his head, pulling his dinner back across the table towards himself, where Pietro had been inching it away. 

‘You have no idea what you’re asking for,’ said Nicolò. ‘No idea of the realities of the world beyond your palace walls. What do you think my life is, that you could step into it so easily?’ 

‘I know it’s one that leads you to sit alone on a night like tonight,’ said Pietro, suddenly and shockingly shrewd. ‘When the rest of Genoa makes merry in the streets.’ He tilted his head like a bird, considering Nicolò. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me at all if you were like this all the time, alone and quiet in dark corners. What could be so difficult about stepping into that?’ 

Nicolò very consciously relaxed his jaw, and loosened his fist. It wasn't like he was wrong, for all his words were rude. 

‘And you would want that, for your life?’ said Nicolò, when the anger left him space to speak. ‘You would turn your back on riches and luxury, to sit alone in dark corners and count your coins, wondering where your next meal will be found?’ 

Truth be told his life wasn’t quite so dire as all that, but this spoiled little lordling wasn’t to know.

‘I have coin of my own,’ said Pietro, waving a hand in the air as though the core concern of almost everyone in Genoa were nothing more than a vague irritation. A fly in his face, bothering him. ‘And you must make money in some way; it cannot be too hard to learn.’ He peered at Nicolò, sitting forward in his chair, resting on his elbows and wrists. ‘How do you make a living? What do you do?’ 

Wasn’t that just the question? 

‘Anything that needs doing,’ said Nicolò, irritated with his flippancy, sipping at his ale to cover the tense line of his mouth. ‘I ship out with the first vessel leaving after your wedding fleet.’ 

‘It truly is fate, then,’ said Pietro, his eyes wide and manic, catching all the light in the gloom until they seemed to glow. ‘With both of us on different ships, no one could possibly ever know what we’ve done.’ 

‘You are mad,’ said Nicolò, leaning away from him. ‘Truly, truly mad.’

‘No,’ snapped Pietro. ‘I see clearly. And so should you. This is the answer to both our problems.’ 

‘I have no problems,’ Nicolò snapped back, losing his grip on his anger. ‘What do you know of my life?’ 

Pietro lifted his chin, looking at him with mild disdain. ‘If you truly had no problems, and truly wished to keep your life as it is, you would have sent me away long before now.’ Nicolò felt his cheek twitch. ‘That you remain and listen tells me all I need to know of your life.’ 

Cold from the neck down, Nicolò raised his hand to catch the barmaid’s attention, never once looking away from Pietro’s face. 

‘More ale, Giulia,’ he said, just loud enough to be heard. 

Pietro smirked at him. 

‘As I thought.’ 

‘Say I agreed to this farce,’ drawled Nicolò, leaning back in his chair with a bravado he didn't truly feel. ‘How, precisely, do you expect this to work?’

‘Perhaps listen to my plan this time? Yes?’ snapped Pietro, going abruptly quiet as Giulia refilled his tankard. He didn't so much as look at her, to Giulia’s clear irritation. Nicolò smiled at her, but she remained unappeased. 

‘I’m listening.’ 

‘The Prince has never met me,’ hissed Pietro, speaking quickly as soon as Giulia turned her back. ‘I’ll keep away from him in the run up to the wedding, and then after that it won’t matter, he’s agreed to leave me alone. You can take my place, I can take yours, and we can both go our separate ways into lives that actually suit us.’

‘Surely your family will see through this farce straight away?’ Nicolò’s voice wasn’t as strong as he would like, and he frowned at himself. Pietro didn't notice, too busy taking a deep swig of his ale. 

‘My family wouldn’t notice if I painted my face blue and paraded through the streets,’ scoffed Pietro, scrubbing the foam from his lips roughly with his handkerchief. ‘Their interest in this begins and ends with the alliance—my marriage has nothing to do with that beyond a neat button to seal it. It should have been my sister.’ 

‘But?’ 

For the first time, Pietro looked unsteady, and his eyes strayed from Nicolò’s face. 

‘She… removed herself from consideration. There is only me now—well,’ he looked back at Nicolò, suddenly appearing very young. ‘And you. There is me, who would be miserable. And there is you, who would not. Luxury would be new to you, you can’t tell me it wouldn’t be. There is joy for you to find there. But it… it would be the end of me, I think. Somewhere in my heart.’ 

For the first time in the whole surreal conversation, Nicolò felt a swell of pity for the young lordling. He was no stranger to the feeling of being trapped, but unlike Pietro, he had the means to walk away from his situation. And he wasn’t wrong, precisely. Nicolò never had known luxury. He’d never precisely desired it either, but then how can one covet what one doesn’t know?

‘I think that, should I go to Tunis, that wedding ring would be the noose around my neck. No matter how kind or honourable my husband,’ continued Pietro, staring down at the table. His knuckles were white around his tankard of ale. ‘I need… I need help.’ 

He looked up at Nicolò with shining eyes. All his bravado, all his sharpness was stripped away. He looked like a frightened child. 

‘Please,’ Pietro said, very quietly. ‘Please help me.’

‘Say I was to consider it,’ said Nicolò, slowly. He may have been mad, but there was no harm in at least hearing him out. ‘What… how would it work?’  

Pietro smiled like the sun coming out. 

They really did look frighteningly similar, Nicolò couldn’t help but think. But there were differences, beyond the obvious. Pietro’s smile was even, where Nicolò knew well his own pulled slightly higher on one side, rare as his full smile may be. Pietro also had a mark upon his cheek, but higher than Nicolò’s, by perhaps an inch. Details easily missed if you were unfamiliar with someone’s face.

‘Far more easily than you could imagine.’ Pietro’s grin sharpened at the corners. ‘Your part is the easy one, I assure you.’ 

‘Nicolò?’ 

Nicolò claps his hands over his mouth, holding in the urge to cry out when someone hisses his name in the dark. He’s lost track of time.

‘Nicolò, are you there?’ There’s a fumble, and a crash of something being knocked over, before the faint light of a ship lantern splits the darkness into a heavy gloom. ‘Nicolò, please be here—oh!’ 

Nicolò steps out from behind the crate, straightening his spine and shoulders as best he can in the cramped space. Pietro stares back at him with his own face, relief cutting across it clearer than any knife. 

‘Thank the Lord,’ says Pietro, hanging the lantern carelessly on the trailing arm of an ugly statue, poorly wrapped in raw cotton. ‘For a moment I thought—it doesn’t matter. We have to move quickly, the servants will be off the ship within minutes.’ He pulls at the laces of his wedding suit; heavy with embroidery and jewels. ‘Help me get this off, we need to get you ready.’ 

Nicolò’s never been one to have unsteady hands, but he finds a tremor in his fingers as he reaches for the laces on Pietro’s sleeves. 

‘That wedding was a farce,’ spits Pietro as he pulls his jerkin from his shoulders and tosses it at Nicolò. Once it’s off, he scrabbles out of his silken doublet, almost losing one of the delicate buttons to the dark of the hold. ‘I could have put a training dummy in my place and no one would have noticed, let alone cared. This will be so much easier than I imagined.’ He looks up, hands on his hose. ‘Well?’

Nicolò jumps, and pulls his tunic over his head, holding it out to Pietro. They strip the rest of their clothes in silence.

None of it feels real. Not the silk he clothes himself with; not the strain of the slightly too-small jerkin over his shoulders. None of it. Pietro hands him his hose, and Nicolò feels the sudden and sharp urge to laugh. He’s never worn hose in his life. His breeches feel like sackcloth in comparison. His tunic must feel like a hairshirt to Pietro, so used to fine silk and cotton. 

‘Your lodgings?’ asks Pietro, catching Nicolò’s wrist to help lace up his sleeves. ‘Did you do as I asked?’

‘Yes,’ says Nicolò, after a deep breath. This is happening. He started this, and he must see it through, no matter how ludicrous. ‘Yes, I did. Head for the taverna where we met, three streets north and left down the path with the red wooden shutters. My—your door is marked with chalk. Remove it before you go inside, if you don’t want questions asked in the morning.’ 

Pietro pats the pocket of his breeches as he crosses the hold, finding the key Nicolò left for him, nodding and mumbling the instructions over and over to himself as he digs deep in a box near the stairs. He fishes a sack out from under piles of brightly dyed fabrics and slings it over his shoulder. 

‘You’ll have to leave first,’ Pietro says, slowly, raising his hand to his collarbone. He looks, briefly, lost. ‘They think I’ve went looking for the latrine. They’ll be expecting to see me any moment.’

‘The head,’ says Nicolò. He can’t think of anything else. What could anyone possibly say in this situation? 

‘What?’ 

‘On a ship,’ says Nicolò, grinding his heel into the floorboards, just for something to do. Pietro’s shoes are tight and ugly. He misses his worn boots already. ‘It’s called the head. It’s in the bow.’ 

Pietro’s lip curls in disgust. 

‘Not on the ships I’ve travelled on.’ 

Nicolò shrugs. ‘You won’t be on those ships anymore.’ Nicolò will be. It doesn’t feel real.

Pietro blinks at him, that lost look slipping back onto his face, before he shakes his head firmly. 

‘I’ll have to learn.’ He reaches out his arm, looking at Nicolò more seriously than he’s ever managed before. ‘This is best for both of us but… thank you, Nicolò.’

Nicolò clasps his arm, and nods in return. 

‘I don’t expect I’ll see you again,’ Pietro continues, holding Nicolò’s arm tightly. ‘Be well, Lord Pietro.’ 

‘Be well…Nicolò.’ 

Nicolò gets halfway up the stairs in a daze before Pietro calls out to him again. 

‘Wait—wait!’

Nicolò turns sharply, nearly slipping on the damp stairs. Is this it? Has he changed his mind?

‘You—’ Pietro swallows hard, and reaches under Nicolò’s-under his tunic. ‘You need this.’ He pulls a necklace from beneath his collar, his family signet ring gleaming dully in the muted light of the lantern. ‘You… it’s your seal. You need it.’ 

Nicolò steps back down towards him slowly, holding out his hand. It takes a moment for Pietro to undo the clasp, and a longer moment still to place the ring and necklace in Nicolò’s palm. Pietro’s fingers are cold, where they brush Nicolò’s skin. 

‘I’ll follow you,’ Pietro says quietly, reaching for the lantern. Nicolò closes his hand around the ring and looks away. ‘You’ll need to take this too. It would be strange if I came back without it. They’re… they’re waiting on the aft deck.’

‘Are you… are you sure about this, still? It’s not too late.’ Nicolò isn’t sure what he wanted the answer to be. 

Pietro looks at him. His face is strange in the muted light of the lantern; the thick glass makes strange patterns in the gloom. For a moment, he looks entirely alien. 

‘I’ve never been more sure in my life,’ he says at last, holding the lantern out to Nicolò. ‘Are you? I won’t force you, Nicolò.’ 

In his whole life, Nicolò has never done anything simply because he wants to. He has always done what’s best. This might be the best for Pietro, but he can't pretend that's the only reason he's doing this.

What he’s doing may be madness, but standing there in the shadows of the creaking, overstuffed cargo hold of the wedding ship of the crown prince of Tunis, it also feels very close to adventure. For once, Nicolò surrenders his good sense, and lets himself want. 

‘I am.’ 

Ten years of sailing different vessels, and Nicolò has never once crossed the decks as a guest. He finds himself seeing with new eyes the movements of the crew; their calls take on an unfamiliar cadence. For once, he doesn’t see where his place in the dance should be. The heels of his new shoes click loudly on the deck in a way he’s never experienced, and people pause when he passes to nod their heads at him. He nods back, and it takes until the third shocked expression he receives in return for him to realise he’s possibly not supposed to be doing that. 

That is… potentially a problem, thinks Nicolò as he steps neatly out of the way of the boatswain as she inspects the rigging. Pietro told him all the facts he might have to know to impersonate him—names of family members; ancestry of both the Genoan and the Tunisian families alike; key factors of the alliance—but nothing of the behaviours he might need to know. Hopefully he’ll be able to muddle through, he can take his cue from the Prince, possibly, and his own manners have never been lacking.

Speaking of the prince, as Nicolò approaches the aft deck the bustle of sailors and servants falls away, revealing a quiet oasis of calm entirely alien on a ship preparing for a voyage.

A tall man in fine armour catches Nicolò’s attention first. He’s standing apart from the group on the aft deck, watching them closely. His hair is close-cropped, as is his beard, but otherwise at first glance he looks similar enough to the men from Tunis that Nicolò wonders briefly if he’s the prince’s bodyguard. There’s a certain set to his jaw though, a twist to his lips that tells Nicolò, maybe not. The Genoan ducal crest on his armour confirms it.

All thoughts of the tall man leave Nicolò’s mind when he looks at the group the man is watching.

Prince Yusuf and his retinue are praying. On beautifully woven rugs they move through the motions of their prayers in the golden light of the setting sun, and Nicolò is transfixed. 

It feels impolite, somehow, to admire a man while he prays, but Nicolò can’t seem to help himself. Pietro had been coldly short on the subject of his husband-to-be, reluctant to go into much detail beyond the necessary facts of his life and impending marriage. His entire description of Prince Yusuf amounted to “curly hair, tall, might have a beard—you know what men from Tunis look like”.

While these things are broadly correct, in that Prince Yusuf certainly is tall, and bearded, and has fine dark curls, he is not quite like any of the men of Tunis Nicolò has met. 

He is quite possibly the most handsome man Nicolò has ever seen. 

The Prince and his retinue finish their prayers together, faces raised to God, and Nicolò can’t help but admire the light on the elegant slope of the Prince’s nose, and the way the gentle wind tousles his curls. 

He’s still admiring the particular shape of the Prince’s shoulders against the gold-streaked rose of the sky when, as though feeling eyes upon him, the Prince turns his head. 

It’s not a particularly warm look, the glance the Prince favours him with. In fact, if Nicolò had to put a name to the expression of a stranger, he would call it annoyance. Before Nicolò can do much more than blink, however, the Prince turns back to his companions. 

It takes three calls of ‘milord?’ from a servant before Nicolò remembers that that’s supposed to be him. It’s enough to catch the Prince’s attention again, and he looks over his shoulder at Nicolò. His expression is no warmer, and Nicolò is grateful to have an excuse to turn away. 

One thing has been true of every ship Nicolò has ever set foot upon: the Captain’s quarters are always the finest. However, not even this holds true upon the Prince’s wedding ship - the Captain’s private rooms are lavish, but the royal quarters are grander still. Nicolò is shown to a richly decorated cabin containing a table set with two chairs, but enough crockery and glasses for twenty. There are five different forks on each place setting. Nicolò hadn’t even been truly aware there were different forks, but there they are. 

He’s still inspecting the crockery when the cabin door opens again, admitting the Prince, still looking over his shoulder at someone just out of sight. 

‘See if you can get him to eat an eyeball,’ says a laughing voice in Arabic. ‘There’ll be one in the fish course—tell him it’s customary, what does he know?’ 

‘You’re terrible,’ laughs the Prince, also in Arabic, waving the unseen person away with a wide smile. ‘Behave yourself, before you get us both in trouble.’ His smile falls away when he turns to face Nicolò.

‘Good evening, husband,’ he says, closing the door sharply behind him. His Genoese is perfect, but accented. 

Panic enters Nicolò’s heart, and makes a charming home for itself. 

Yusuf, Prince of Tunis, is beautiful, and intimidating, and Nicolò has no idea why he ever, even for a second, thought he could pretend to be anyone else in front of him. Should he bow? Surely not, they’re supposed to be married. 

Upon reflection, this may be why acting not for the betterment of others, but on your own selfish desires, is a sin. 

The Prince’s eyebrows climb steadily higher on his forehead, the longer Nicolò takes to respond. 

‘Good evening,’ manages Nicolò, weakly, inclining his head to what he hopes is an acceptably polite degree. 

‘Have you been waiting long?’ asks the Prince. He still hasn’t stepped away from the door. Nicolò straightens his back, and then has to force himself to relax again. 

‘Not long, no.’ He has no idea. It could have been two minutes, it could have been two hours. Nicolò barely remembers how he got here from the aft deck. 

The Prince hums, and steps towards the table. Nicolò, because he was raised at least politely, if not well, pulls out his chair for him. 

The second he completes the gesture it occurs to him that he possibly wasn’t supposed to do that. The prince stares at him, frozen in place, before he sits with a polite, if awkward, smile. Nicolò hurries to his seat, cursing himself for not asking Pietro more questions, and Pietro for not offering more answers. 

‘I trust this table is to your liking?’ asks the Prince, idly inspecting a crystal goblet Nicolò suspects could have paid his rent for a month. There’s a certain tone to the Prince’s voice, like there’s a reference here Nicolò should understand. 

He doesn’t. 

‘It’s… certainly very grand,’ says Nicolò slowly, doing his best to match his voice to Pietro’s accent. ‘Especially for a ship.’ There are even candles burning between them. Nicolò has to fight his instinct to smother any source of flame on a ship.

The Prince hums again, but a servant enters to serve their meal before he can reply. The boy circles their table, laying plates and pouring water from a copper jug.

Figs, stuffed with goat’s cheese and wrapped in prosciutto. Nicolò hadn’t even realised he was hungry until it was set before him. Prince Yusuf’s, he notices, is absent the prosciutto. He gestures for wine for both of them though, before the servant leaves the room. Yusuf takes a sip, and appraises Nicolò over the rim of his glass. 

‘Don’t wait on my account, husband,’ he says, swirling the wine slowly. ‘Your food will get cold.’ 

Nicolò gives him a cautious, closed-mouthed smile, and looks down at his plate. 

Theoretically, one of the five forks, four knives, or two spoons must be for this course. Nicolò, sadly, has no way of knowing which, and additionally, he has never eaten a fig with any kind of cutlery in his life. Dishonesty is already settling thick and cloying under his tongue; this tiny affectation feels like a step too far.

With another smile at Yusuf, who’s looking at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved, Nicolò picks up a perfect fig and pops it in his mouth. 

It really is delicious. He's never tasted anything quite like it. It's the perfect mix of sweet and salty and creamy.

Or it would be, if Prince Yusuf didn’t look like he’d just been struck. Nicolò chews awkwardly, trying not to let his cheeks bulge under Yusuf's sudden and furious scrutiny.

‘How quickly you change your tune,’ Yusuf says eventually, scowling at him before he picks up the smallest of the forks and turns his attention to his own food. Nicolò swallows heavily, doing his best not to choke. ‘Are you always so fickle?’ Yusuf asks, cutting a slice from one of the figs before him with the side of his fork.

‘I… don’t like to think so, no,’ Nicolò says, feeling more than a little lost. This cannot be about a fig and a fork. 

‘So you say.’ 

They eat in silence. Having committed to using his fingers, and lacking an explanation for why it so angered Yusuf, Nicolò sees no reason not to continue. Each bite he eats is accompanied by a scoff or rolled eyes from his tablemate, and it’s pure obstinance that keeps him going in the end. Their plates are more delicate morsels than a filling meal, but Nicolò eats every bit, and doesn’t taste it at all.

They don’t say another word to each other until their plates are cleared and the servant is laying out their fish course. A branzino as long as Nicolò’s forearm, fragrant with oregano and lemon. It stares up at them with an eye the size of a button.

‘There’s a custom in Tunis,’ says Yusuf. He sounds very convincingly idle. ‘When eating branzino, the guest of honour always gets the most delicious part. It’s very good fortune.’ 

He pauses to sip his wine. Nicolò gets the sense he’s actually doing it to hide a smile more than any actual desire to drink. Pietro’s vagueness about his relationship with Prince Yusuf, or lack thereof now has a very different sheen to Nicolò. 

‘The most delicious part?’ prompts Nicolò, when the silence lingers. Prince Yusuf’s shoulders twitch, as does his nose. He gets himself under control admirably quickly though.

‘Yes,’ Yusuf puts down his wine and smiles winsomely at Nicolò. ‘Everyone knows the most delicious part of a branzino is its eye.’ Of course it is. ‘It’s a great honour to get the eye. How lucky you are.’

The servant, a young Genoan boy, looks at Nicolò from behind Yusuf’s shoulder with an expression of such comical shock it takes everything in Nicolò not to laugh. 

‘How lucky I am.’ If Nicolò hadn't understood the Prince's conversation with his friend, he would probably have believed him.

This cutlery at least, Nicolò does know how to use. 

He takes the slim, sharp blade from the serving platter and severs the head of the branzino. Yusuf watches him with a placid smile. 

The thing about growing up a foundling in the monastery is, fine cuts of meat or the choicest sides of fish were never wasted on him. Nicolò is not fond, per se, of consuming fish heads, eyes and all, but he has been grateful for them far more than once. 

He cuts out the eye. 

He eats the eye. 

He keeps eye contact with Yusuf every step of the way. 

‘It’s delicious, thank you.’ Nicolò’s Arabic isn’t the polished fluent Arabic Yusuf speaks, rather the rough Arabic spoken by sailors, formed of a hodgepodge of dialects and accents, but it’s good enough for this short sentence. 

Yusuf blinks, hard, and his fingers slacken on his wine enough that the glass dips worryingly. 

‘Since when do you speak Arabic?’ he snaps, shock stealing his good manners and his Genoan both from him. 

Nicolò shrugs, and takes another bite of his branzino. When Yusuf’s shocked expression lingers, he reaches for the serving knife again.

‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you the eye,’ he says, his Arabic feeling clumsy in his mouth. He can’t keep Pietro’s accent and speak Yusuf’s language at the same time. ‘But you must be hungry.’ 

Nicolò cuts the loin of the branzino, and lifts it carefully onto Yusuf’s plate. Yusuf watches him through narrowed eyes, his gaze flicking from Nicolò’s hands to his face with quick flutters of his eyelashes.

‘Buon appetito.’

Yusuf sets his glass town with a gentle ringing of crystal. Nicolò would’ve preferred he slam it; he would have known what to do with an angry slam. This new stillness to Yusuf puts Nicolò in mind of a cat waiting to pounce on a mouse. 

Their next course is a beautifully pink rack of lamb, crusted with the freshest, richest pesto Nicolò has ever tasted. He doesn't hesitate over forks this time, just picks the heaviest and dives in, playacting a confidence he doesn't feel. 

It's hard to keep his eyes from Yusuf as he licks a smear of pesto from his knife.

When their young servant circles the table to top off their glasses, Yusuf holds out a hand to stop him. His eyes are fixed on Nicolò as he speaks. 

‘White wine with this course I think, Guido, if you don’t mind.’ 

Guido nods immediately, and crosses the room to set down the decanter of red. Nicolò had been rather enjoying the red wine—he’s never had wine so sweet without it being thinned with water and honey, or so clean of sediment—but he’s not about to argue here. He’s done far too much of that already. 

Yusuf’s eyes get narrower when Nicolò sips the new wine. 

‘Do you like it, husband?’ 

There’s a silky quality to Yusuf’s voice that Nicolò isn’t sure he trusts. 

‘The lamb?’ 

‘The wine.’ 

Nicolò was educated at the monastery. He was taught to read by reading the scriptures, and taught to write by doing the same. He never sat any tests or exams, but he imagines this is what it might feel like to be sat before one. 

Wine is wine; what could Yusuf be looking for? It’s missing the sour tang of vinegar that’s haunted every wine Nicolò’s ever consumed at sea or in tavernas, so it’s already better than anything else. 

‘It’s delicious,’ Nicolò says at last, deciding that as much honesty as possible within the lie is the only way he’ll survive. 

‘Once again you change your tune,’ replies Yusuf sharply. ‘Have you been playing games, husband?’ 

Nicolò really hopes Pietro hasn’t gone too far. He suspects this night is going to end with Nicolò swimming for shore, if he’s very, very lucky. 

‘Not at all,’ Nicolò says, as smoothly as he possibly can with his heart in his throat. ‘Can a man not enjoy a glass of wine?’ 

‘A man can,’ Yusuf says, leaning forward over the table and shoving aside the candelabrum that sits between them. ‘You, my darling husband, very much assured me you could not.’ 

Oh no. 

‘What was it you said again?’ continues Yusuf, unblinking. ‘“Only a savage would serve wine without properly considering its accompaniment; to serve white wine with red meat is to destroy both”, I believe?’ 

‘Did I?’ 

Pietro had promised to avoid his betrothed as much as humanly possible in the week between meeting Nicolò and marrying Yusuf. Nicolò is very much getting the sense that that promise was not kept. 

‘You did.’ Yusuf lifts his hands away from the table and gestures for Guido to clear their plates. Nicolò does the same, even though his plate is mostly full. 

They’ve used three out of five of the forks. 

‘It—it’s been a difficult time,’ Nicolò says carefully. ‘I’m sure we both said things.’ 

‘Oh?’ Yusuf raises an eyebrow. ‘What have I said that you would like to discuss, Lord Pietro?’ 

'I—that is—' Nicolò swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and reaches for his wine. Yusuf watches him patiently. 'Is this…truly the moment for squabbles?'

Yusuf's eyebrows are very high. Nicolò plows ahead, unsure of where he's going, or if he'll like it when he gets there.

'Surely…husband, this is the time to start afresh?'

'Really?' 

Guido enters the cabin with such flawless timing that Nicolò almost wishes he could embrace him. Yusuf falls silent, and Nicolò breathes a small and silent sigh of relief at his possibly-literal stay of execution.

Although, if he is going to die for this farce, doing so after a full meal is hardly the worst way to go. 

Guido drops their plates with none of his prior quiet grace and flees the cabin as quickly as he's able, but Yusuf doesn't seem to care. Nicolò definitely doesn't, but he's grateful for the distraction the beautifully presented dishes provide. Pears, poached in what smells like marsala, with fresh cream and flower petals. Nicolò hadn’t thought himself a person particularly concerned with food beyond the necessary, but the even smell of the dessert is enough to prove him wrong. He restrains himself just long enough to see which spoon Yusuf selects, and then dives in. 

It’s wonderful. Even Yusuf stays quiet to enjoy it. Nicolò eats as politely as he’s able, carefully avoiding loudly scraping the spoon through the syrup. 

It’s becoming painfully obvious that Prince Yusuf is markedly more shrewd than Pietro gave him credit for, and that this plan of theirs is never going to work. If Nicolò can make it through dinner though, he might be able to sneak off into the night after—

‘Look at me.’ Prince Yusuf’s voice is quiet, but very sharp. Nicolò looks at him immediately, drawn more by his tone of voice than his words. 

Yusuf lifts his arm, and holds his hand upright so his palm faces Nicolò, with his thumb outwards. Then he squints, his eyes darting between Nicolò’s face and his own hand. 

‘Your mole has moved.’

Yusuf says it very quietly, with absolute finality and very wide eyes. Nicolò feels ice slip down his throat and into his chest, freezing him from the inside out. There’s a ringing in his ears. 

‘W—what?’ Nicolò can’t help the shake in his voice. ‘No, of course it hasn’t.’

It’s astounding, the similarities between him and Pietro. The fact that they share a mole on their face at all is practically miraculous. 

But Nicolò’s is below the corner of his lip, and Pietro’s is above. 

There’s not even half an inch of a difference—Pietro had been so sure that not even his family would have been able to tell the difference. Yusuf has barely known him for a week.

‘You must think me truly an imbecile,’ says Yusuf, still in that quiet, terrible voice. ‘To not see the difference in you.’ 

Guido enters the cabin again, bringing with him a fine copper kettle fragrant with coffee. His face is the picture of reluctance. It would be comical, if Nicolò could breathe to laugh.

‘Not here, Guido,’ Yusuf says, very politely, but Nicolò watches rage enter his features like ink spilled in water. ‘To our cabin, if you please.’ 

Guido, for all his obvious youth, is both well-trained and clearly able to read a room. He limits his response to a bob of his head, and is out the door before Nicolò can so much as open his mouth.

The cabin is silent. The ringing in Nicolò’s ears is all that remains. He watches as if from a distance as Yusuf picks up his napkin with frightening steadiness and dabs at his lips. 

‘I think it’s best we retire to our cabin now, husband,’ he says, no longer looking at Nicolò. ‘It's long since past time for us to get to know each other.’ 

Prince Yusuf stands, straight-backed and tall, and rounds the table towards Nicolò. 

Nicolò’s never been one to particularly care about rank or royalty. People are people at the end of the day, no matter what title precedes their name or what jewellery they wear. He finds himself rethinking that, however, when faced with Prince Yusuf in a quiet fury. It’s impossible to look at him without picturing a crown upon his head. 

‘Come along, husband.’ Yusuf’s voice is a hiss. He grips Nicolò’s chair, and when Nicolò stands on shaking legs he pulls it out for him with the greatest of chivalry. 

With a gentle touch, Yusuf takes Nicolò’s hand and leads him from the room. Somehow it’s worse that his grip is gentle. If he was rough, it would give Nicolò an idea of what he could expect from him. That he’s gentle makes him a mystery. 

Nicolò isn’t particularly fond of mysteries. 

Prince Yusuf’s berth is as lavish as a berth upon a ship could possibly be—it has a desk, a sitting table, and even a true and proper bed, rather than hammocks strung across the space. It would sleep nine crew members at once. That it's for the use of only two of them is almost obscene.

It offers privacy for what will doubtlessly be the last conversation of Nicolò's life, however, and for that he's grateful.

Nicolò sits heavily on the foot of the bed and watches Prince Yusuf talk quietly with the guards outside the door. He can’t hear what the Prince is saying, but Nicolò doubts very much that he’s ordering them a nightcap. 

Prince Yusuf shuts the door with a decisive click, and turns the key in the lock. He waits a moment before he turns, every second feeling like a year to Nicolò. 

‘Who are you?’ asks Prince Yusuf quietly, looking at Nicolò from the corner of his eye, over his shoulder.

Nicolò opens his mouth, but can’t seem to speak. Excuses, explanations—he can't seem to find any words at all.

‘Don’t even consider lying to me,’ continues Yusuf, when Nicolò fails to make a sound. ‘I think we’re far beyond that now, don’t you?’ 

‘I do,’ manages Nicolò, guilt and shame rising to choke him further. 

Prince Yusuf nods slowly, and walks away from the door at last. He grasps the chair from behind the desk and drags it to face Nicolò, where he sits, barely two handspans away from him. 

‘Who are you?’ he demands again, his calm attitude starting to fracture. His eyes scan Nicolò's face with closer scrutiny than Nicolò has ever experienced before. ‘Some bastard son of the Duke? Was this entire farce some trick to get rid of an inconvenient heir and Tunis both?’ 

‘That would be a good explanation,’ manages Nicolò at last, breaking and staring down at his feet in shame. He almost wishes it was true. At least then there would be actual thought in this mess, and not just emotions and stupidity and really, a vein of such casual cruelty he’s revolted with himself. Neither of them truly considered Prince Yusuf at all. ‘But no, not that. I’m… I’m no one.’ 

Prince Yusuf’s lip curls in disgust.

‘What is that supposed to mean? You’re someone enough to have replaced my new husband in the time it took me to pray. I hardly expected Allah, blessed be the Almighty, to be so quick in answering my prayers.’ 

‘Just as it sounds,’ says Nicolò, struggling to meet Yusuf’s eyes. ‘I am no one. Truly. Not a bastard son, nothing to do with Tunis at all. Barely even anything to do with Genoa. My name is Nicolò.’

With his name out in the open, the rest follows, like wine after finally freeing a stubborn cork. The whole suddenly sordid and shameful story pours out of him as Prince Yusuf watches him impassively, the tips of his fingers pressed to his lips.

‘Pietro’s… going to live as a commoner?’ asks Yusuf slowly, when Nicolò runs out of words at last. 'Pietro, who threw a tantrum like a child when asked to eat one meal with his fingers?'

Nicolò shrugs. Yusuf's eyes linger on the movement of his shoulders, and he vaguely wonders if the seams of his too-small doublet are starting to unravel under the strain. 

‘So he says. Whether he lasts will be a different matter.’ 

Prince Yusuf huffs a small laugh, and sits back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

‘I understand, I think, his part in all of this.’ Yusuf’s eyes really are arresting, Nicolò can’t help but think. Such a rich shade of brown. ‘But yours eludes me.’ 

Nicolò spreads his hands, shrugging helplessly once more, and then grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes, groaning.

‘I was foolish, and thoughtless, and selfish.’ It takes all of Nicolò’s strength to look at Yusuf again. ‘Pietro asked for help, and I could have just spirited him away. It would have been possible. But he suggested this,’ and here Nicolò gestures between them, ‘to save the alliance, and made it all sound so easy, and so pleasant, and I supposed I just… I just let myself believe it. Chose not to think. Especially about… about—’

‘About me.’ Yusuf's face is unreadable.

‘Yes.’ Like lancing a poisoned wound, admitting the truth relieves something in Nicolò.

Yusuf nods slowly, and sits forward again, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on Nicolò’s face. It almost hurts, but Nicolò holds his gaze. 

When he truly can’t bear the silence anymore, the not knowing, Nicolò breaks first and looks away. 

‘What happens now?’ 

‘Hmm?’ Prince Yusuf blinks, as though surfacing from a dream. 

‘What happens to me now?’ There can be no running now. He has to face his fate with eyes wide open. 

Prince Yusuf’s mouth twists at the corner, and he stares a moment longer before he speaks. 

‘Here’s the thing, Nicolò,’ he says, tapping his thumb on his chin as he stares at Nicolò. ‘This alliance is very important to Genoa, yes, but also to Tunis.’ He waits for Nicolò to nod before he speaks again. ‘Neither country can afford to go to war, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t significant interest on both sides for this alliance to fail.’ Yusuf laughs, a soft, mean thing, without humour. ‘There’s more money to be made in war for some than there is in peace.’ 

‘What does that have to do with me?’ It occurs to Nicolò that it’s been quite some time since Yusuf spoke with the guards. 

‘This marriage,’ and here Yusuf laughs again, before rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. He looks exhausted. ‘My marriage was—is—supposed to be the cornerstone of that alliance. A living embodiment of the trust our nations are placing in each other.’ 

Yusuf breaks off, jaw clenching. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again. 

‘Pietro has betrayed that trust. But I cannot.’ It’s shallow, and Nicolò is not proud of it, but he can’t help but appreciate how handsome Yusuf is with determination and righteousness written across his face. 

‘No?’ Of course he can’t. Pietro had had little to say about Yusuf, but one of the few things he had said without hesitation was that he was an honourable man. Of course he couldn’t bear to step away from something that would keep his land and people from war. 

‘No.’ There’s a fire in Yusuf’s eyes, and Nicolò can’t look away. ‘You asked what happens to you now. This is what happens now, Nicolò. You can take Pietro’s place, and we can proceed with this farce.’ Yusuf raises an eyebrow at the look on Nicolò’s face. ‘If that’s disagreeable to you now, somehow, then we can go together to Duke Isnardo, and you can be tried for treason while I prepare my country for war.’ 

‘You… want to continue to pretend to be married to me?’ 

Yusuf has a beautiful smile. Nicolò saw it, in the brief moment he was laughing with his friend before their disastrous dinner. 

This is not Yusuf’s beautiful smile. This is something pained, and difficult. 

‘Of the two of us,’ Yusuf bites out through clenched teeth, ‘you are the only one who truly chose to be here.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Guilt rises to choke Nicolò once more. ‘Of course I—’

There’s a terrific pounding at the door, heavy enough to shake the wood in its frame, and Nicolò breaks off, leaning to see around Yusuf, who twists in his chair to look too. 

‘Your highness?’ The door continues to shake in the frame as someone tries the handle. Yusuf turns in his chair to face Nicolò again. ‘Is everything alright, your highness? Why have you dismissed the guards?’ 

‘He means you,’ says Yusuf quietly, looking at Nicolò with raised eyebrows. ‘Rather, Pietro. But you will have to do, if you mean to help me.’ 

‘Your highness?’ 

‘I would answer him,’ says Yusuf, eyes boring into Nicolò’s. ‘Unless you want to explain what has truly happened here.’

Nicolò’s mouth moves as he looks between Yusuf and the door. 

‘Who is—?’ 

‘Captain Keane,’ says Yusuf in a sharp and quick whisper. 

‘All is well, Captain Keane,’ Nicolò calls, raising his voice as loud as he can, praying it doesn’t crack under the strain. ‘Leave us, please.’ 

Yusuf shakes his head at him.

‘Lord Pietro never says “please,”’ says Yusuf, under the sound of renewed banging from the door. 

'He did to me,' Nicolò hisses back. 'Everyone says please!'

'Lucky you.' Yusuf smirks. 'I'm sure that will be a comfort when you're discovered by someone other than me.'

‘I insist we speak, your highness,’ Keane demands through the door, trying the handle again. 

‘Make sure you hold onto your accent this time,’ advises Yusuf, standing and gesturing towards the door. ‘Don’t let it fall the first time you get annoyed like you did at dinner.’ 

Yusuf’s still smirking at him, Keane is still banging the door like he’s ready to batter through it with his bare hands, and something in Nicolò snaps. 

He crosses the berth in two strides, unlocks the door, and snatches it open just before Keane’s fist makes contact, causing him to jerk backwards violently in an effort not to punch Nicolò in the face. 

Keane, it transpires, is the man who had been watching Yusuf and his retinue pray. The look on his face is no more inviting now than it had been when Nicolò first spotted him. There are two guards behind him, watching.

‘Are you alright, your highness?’ asks Keane, searching Nicolò’s face. 

‘I’m fine,’ Nicolò snaps, holding his back as straight as he can, lifting his voice into Pietro’s accent. ‘What gives you the right to summon me?’ 

Keane’s eyes widen, and he rocks back on his heels until he stands in a soldier’s perfect posture. 

‘I was concerned, sir,’ says Keane, staring into the middle distance over Nicolò’s shoulder. ‘When your guards were dismissed, and no one heard from you.’ 

‘It’s my wedding night, Captain.’ Keane’s jaw clenches at Nicolò’s words, and his eyes flick briefly to Nicolò’s face before he averts his gaze again. ‘Are you married, Captain?’ 

‘No, sir.’ Keane’s posture is painfully straight. Nicolò's shoulders would ache in sympathy if he could focus on anything other than the quiet terror of lying to someone who could end your life. 

Keane looks at Nicolò once more. Longer this time, and with an odd look in his eye. Nicolò stares back, evenly as he can. His heart beats like a drum in his chest as anxiety catches up with him.

‘No matter,’ says Nicolò quietly. ‘I’m sure you still know well what a wedding night involves.’ Keane looks away, finally. ‘Don’t you, Captain?’ 

‘Yes, sir.’ Keane’s jaw is so tense Nicolò is vaguely worried for the integrity of his teeth. 

‘Leave us now, Captain Keane. We have no need of guards tonight.’

Keane snaps his heels together and nods his head. The two guards watching impassively at his shoulders do the same. 

Nicolò closes the door in his face, and listens carefully for him walking away. It takes a moment longer than he expects.

‘Masterfully done,’ says Yusuf, making Nicolò jump and spin to face him. Yusuf’s eyes are heavy-lidded, and he watches Nicolò with his head tilted. ‘If I didn’t know better, I would have believed you that time.’ Sitting on the desk, glass of wine held loosely in his hand, Yusuf looks less like a prince and more like a man at the end of a long day. He’s even untied the high collar of his tunic, baring his throat to his collarbone. 

‘Thank you,’ Nicolò says, resting his shoulders against the door and heaving a sigh of relief. 

‘I assume you’ve decided then?’ asks Yusuf, rhetorically, reaching out to pick up a second glass of wine. He tips it towards Nicolò like the question mark at the end of his sentence. 

Nicolò nods, slowly, and steps closer to accept it. 

Yusuf holds up his own. His eyes roam over Nicolò once more but slower this time, with more deliberate care.

‘To your health then, husband.’ Yusuf's voice is very smooth. 

They toast, watching each other as they each take a sip. 

‘Tell me, Nicolò,’ Yusuf begins, in that same idle tone he used over dinner. Nicolò once more feels like an animal just stepped into a trap. ‘What does a wedding night involve, exactly?’ 

Nicolò cringes internally, and fights to keep his face straight. Yusuf watches him closely. 

‘Pietro was very clear on what a marriage with him would involve. Or not, as the case may be,’ Yusuf looks Nicolò slowly up and down, and Nicolò’s cheeks grow warm under his attention. ‘What does a marriage with you involve?’

That is…not remotely where Nicolò expected this conversation to turn. He feels rather like he's slipped into a dream. 

‘I could be anyone,’ Nicolò’s voice is husky, and he can’t seem to look away from Yusuf’s bare collarbone for more than a blink at a time. ‘I am anyone.’ 

Yusuf shrugs. It's a loose, graceful movement of his body.

‘I’ve had a very trying day. How I choose to relax is my business.’ He takes a sip of his wine, licking the last drop from his lips with a slow swipe of his tongue. Nicolò doesn’t realise he’s stepped forward until he’s standing between Yusuf’s knees. ‘You haven’t answered my question, Nicolò. What does a wedding night involve for you?' Yusuf smirks, raising his chin as Nicolò takes another step. 'Parlour games and conversation?’ 

Nicolò drains his glass in one swallow and sets it aside. Yusuf puts his own glass beside it without looking away from Nicolò’s face. 

‘We can play games if you like,’ says Nicolò softly. He’s so close he can count the freckles on Yusuf’s nose. He can feel Yusuf's breath on his lips. ‘Any games you want.’ 

‘Let’s play then,’ Yusuf says, breathless, before he fists a hand in Nicolò’s doublet and pulls him into a kiss. 

After, curled around each other on the bed, breathing heavily and smeared with spend and sweet oil, Nicolò strokes his fingers along the soft skin of Yusuf’s inner arm, and chews quietly on his guilt. 

‘I truly am sorry, Yusuf,’ he says into the warm space between them. ‘I understand that you cannot trust me, but it’s true.’

Yusuf shrugs in his arms. His shoulder bumps gently against Nicolò’s ribs.

‘I couldn’t trust Pietro anyway. This is already far better than I expected of my marriage.’ He kisses the nearest patch of Nicolò’s skin he can reach without moving. 

Nicolò holds him closer. 

‘I really didn’t think this through,’ Nicolò muses, resting his head on the gentle cushion of Yusuf’s curls. ‘It’s very unlike me. And monstrously unfair on you. How can you stand to be near me?’ 

Yusuf runs the tips of his fingers from the notch of Nicolò’s collarbone down to the bottom of his ribs and back again, a ticklish path that leaves goosebumps in its wake. Nicolò makes no move to stop him.

‘In a way,’ Yusuf says slowly, as though the thought is forming even as he speaks. ‘This marriage is far more in my favour now.’

‘How so?’ 

Yusuf twists, dislodging Nicolò’s head, but he doesn’t go far. Just enough to see Nicolò’s face. 

‘With Pietro, I could never fully trust him not to have an ulterior motive,’ Yusuf explains. ‘I suspect I would have spent the rest of our marriage wondering if he was planning some kind of Genoan treachery. Suspicious of every letter; every visitor, every casual comment.’ He shrugs, and settles down again, laying his head back on Nicolò’s shoulder. ‘You, however, don’t seem to know or care enough about any of this to be a threat to me or Tunis.’ 

There’s an implication there that Nicolò is an idiot, which he can’t particularly argue with at the moment, but he hopes to have the chance to prove Yusuf wrong. 

‘I swear to you, Yusuf,’ murmurs Nicolò in his ear, lovers’ whispers turned to a solemn oath. He grips Yusuf’s hand where it rests on Nicolò’s chest. ‘I will never betray you. I owe you my life. I will not repay you by bringing you to harm, or Tunis. I may not have sworn marriage vows to you, but I will honour them as if I had.’ 

‘You owe me your life?’ asks Yusuf after a long moment. 

‘I do.’ 

‘Was this,’ and here Yusuf gestures between them. His movement is lazy, but Nicolò can feel the sudden tension in him. ‘Because of that debt?’ 

Nicolò presses a kiss to his head.

‘No. This was because I wanted to.’ 

Dawn brings the return of their guards to wake them, and with them the realisation that this truly is Nicolò’s life now. Yusuf is no less beautiful in the gentle morning light through the cabin porthole than he was in the murky lamplight the night before. If anything he’s lovelier, sleep-soft and warm, snoring gently into Nicolò’s neck. 

For the first time in his life, Nicolò has no desire to get out of bed. 

It’s gratifying to find Yusuf is just as reluctant to rise when the guard’s gentle knocking finally gets through to him too. Nicolò could have helped them along, probably, but he didn't have the heart.

Above their heads they can hear the crew making ready the ship. It feels strange to not be adding his own steps and voice to the chorus, Nicolò finds.

‘We cast off with the dawn tide,’ says Yusuf as he dresses. It would seem off the cuff, if he wasn’t making a concerted effort to avoid Nicolò’s gaze. Nicolò has only Pietro’s wedding suit to wear, at least until he figures out where Pietro’s luggage might have ended up, and he pulls it back on with more than a little reluctance. ‘If you’re thinking of running, now’s the time.’ 

Nicolò pauses in lacing up his sleeves, peering Yusuf over his shoulder. 

‘Do you want me to run?’ 

Yusuf shrugs, eyes averted. 

‘I won’t hold you to promises made in fear.’ 

Nicolò crosses the few feet between them to Yusuf’s side, and grips his arm gently until Yusuf looks at him again. 

‘I made no promises in fear,’ says Nicolò, eyes fixed on Yusuf’s. ‘I came here to try and do a good turn, and because I wanted to. I will stay for the same reasons, and no others.’ 

Yusuf’s smile is small, but there, and Nicolò kisses the corner of his mouth softly before he lets him go.

When Yusuf and Nicolò reach the deck, the Genoan guards surrender their posts to their Tunisian counterparts, and walk to the gangplank in a final ceremonial display. In a neat line they clasp their fists to their hearts in unison, and bow their heads first to Yusuf, and then to Nicolò. Standing at parade rest, they lower their eyes and wait. 

Nicolò isn’t watching them, though. He can’t. At the end of the row, Captain Keane surveys them with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He does not bow his head, but stares at Nicolò with a question clear on his face. 

‘Can I help you, Captain?’ asks Nicolò in his best drawl. Yusuf smirks beside him, and turns his face away to hide his expression. 

‘You seem different, my lord,’ says Keane, his eyes moving slowly across Nicolò’s face. 

‘Your highness,’ corrects Yusuf, looking at Keane once more and lifting his chin imperiously. Keane glares back. ‘Your lord became a prince yesterday, you will recall.’ 

‘My apologies, your highnesses,’ says Keane through gritted teeth. 

‘Do you always speak so freely, Captain Keane?’ Yusuf asks, not looking at him, instead watching his own hand as he runs a finger up the length of Nicolò’s arm. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that a particularly popular trait in the Duke’s household.’ 

‘Only when I believe it to be crucial to Genoa’s interests,’ Keane snaps, before he visibly reins himself in. 

‘Oh?’ Yusuf raises an eyebrow in Keane’s direction. ‘And what are Genoa’s interests this morning that force you to delay our departure with your insolence?’ 

Nicolò very much doesn’t like the way Keane’s looking at him; the sharp edge to his gaze that lingers on the same places Yusuf’s eyes had the night before at dinner. His mole, his eyes, the extra inch of wrist protruding where Pietro’s doublet is just slightly too small in the sleeves for him. 

‘Lor—Prince Pietro looks… different, this morning,’ says Keane, shifting as though about to step forward. On Yusuf’s other side, one of the Tunisian guards rests his hand casually on the hilt of his saif. ‘I have some concerns, your highness.’ Sarcasm drips from the honorific, and he doesn’t look at Yusuf as he speaks. Around them, more guards reach for their weapons. 

The Genoan guards are no longer quite so disciplined in their neat row. Their eyes move between their commander and Nicolò and Yusuf restlessly. Some place their hands on their swords too. 

The air grows thick around them, even as the morning sun burns off the dawn mist. 

‘It’s not your place to have concerns about me, Keane,’ Nicolò snaps. ‘It’s your place to do as you are ordered, and I order you to leave this ship.’ 

Keane lifts his chin. 

‘It’s my place to protect Genoa.’ 

‘Protect Genoa?’ asks Yusuf, his voice deadly in its softness. ‘By jeopardising the very treaty that promises to save it?’ 

‘Captain,’ murmurs the guard nearest Keane. Unlike his commander, he’s been watching the Tunisian guards. ‘What’s happening, Captain?’

‘You don’t see it?’ hisses Keane, not taking his eyes off Yusuf. ‘That’s not Pietro.’ 

Almost as one, all eyes on deck turn to Nicolò. 

‘How dare you?’ Nicolò snarls, pushing all his sudden terror into affected, affronted rage. 

‘You accuse my husband of lying?’ Yusuf does ‘insulted royalty’ better than Nicolò ever could, unsurprisingly. ‘Who are you to do such a thing? Where is your proof?’ 

‘Where is his?’ demands Keane, with the triumphant air of one who holds the winning card.

‘I owe you nothing.’ Nicolò desperately hopes the fury in his voice masks the shaking that his hands and knees seem to have acquired. Yusuf is quiet beside him.

‘Because you haven’t got anything,’ laughs Keane mirthlessly. He steps forward, to a quiet chorus of swords loosened in scabbards. ‘You can’t prove it, because you aren’t Pietro.’ 

No. He’s not. He’s a man in disguise, inches away from ruin. He doesn’t even want to be Pietro. He wants to be Nicolò, as he was half an hour ago, wrapped around Yusuf in the warm and the quiet. 

But then again, not even Pietro had wanted to be Pietro. He’d given it all up at the first opportunity, leaving Nicolò his clothes and a wave to remember him by. 

His clothes, a wave, and a ring. 

‘A cat can look at a king,’ says Nicolò slowly, reaching into his pocket. ‘But you, Captain Keane, have questioned out of turn.’ 

With deliberately exaggerated motions, slow and sweeping, Nicolò pulls the signet ring and chain Pietro had pressed into his hand from his pocket. The ring shines in the sunlight, the gold so polished it’s almost a mirror. 

The wheat, the cross, the crown. The seal of Genoa is visible even at a distance.

All eyes follow as Nicolò raises the ring to hang in front of his chest. 

‘I trust this is to your satisfaction, Captain?’ asks Nicolò, tilting his head at Keane. Keane looks like he’s bit into his dinner only to find it rotten.

‘You could have got that anywhere—’ 

‘That’s enough,’ barks Yusuf, drawing himself back to his full height. ‘Lieutenant—’ Here the guard beside Keane jumps sharply to attention. ‘Remove yourself and your Captain from this ship immediately, or Tunis will consider this an act of aggression on the part of Genoa.’

‘Your highness,’ says the lieutenant, bowing his head and saluting across his chest once more. With a sharp nod towards the now viciously protesting Keane, the other guards move as one to remove him. 

‘Somehow I feel we haven’t heard the end of that,’ murmurs Yusuf in Nicolò’s ear as they watch the Genoan contingent go. Around them, the crew starts to move again. The captain’s voice echoes across the decks as she commands the crew to cast off. 

‘Nor I,’ says Nicolò, putting Pietro’s seal away again. 

‘Nothing to be done about it now,’ says Yusuf, taking Nicolò’s hand. Nicolò looks down curiously. Yusuf strokes his thumb across his knuckles. ‘Provided Pietro keeps his word and never shows his face again, no one else need ever know.’ Yusuf lifts their joined hands and presses a kiss to Nicolò’s knuckles. ‘Come, husband. We have a wedding breakfast to enjoy.’

Yusuf leads Nicolò back off the deck, away from the heave and bustle of movement as sailors find their posts and get them on their way. 

It won't be easy—certainly not the way Pietro believed it would be—but with Yusuf's hand in his and the sun on his shoulders Nicolò can't help but think it will all be worth it, in the end.