Chapter 56: Niccolo Barolo

{IAA, Airport Lounge.}

It was an ordinary waiting room. Low seating, soft carpet, a wall of glass looking out over taxiways and pale afternoon sky.

Cadets boarding their flights to leave, many waiting for the queue since there was only one runway on the whole IAA Island.

Some people rushed, some stranded, most were forgettable. But the man on the corner sofa was not.

Snow-white hair, cut clean, broken by a few black strands near the temples. Sharp golden eyes that made ordinary light look dull. Black suit fitted in excellence, with a single gold line running down the dark tie.

A pocket watch rested against his waistcoat, something rare in the era of smart, and wrist watches.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, and did nothing to invite attention. But people would still look at him regardless.

*Bzzz---*

His phone vibrated once against the table. He picked it up, unlocked it, and looked.

The image in the chat he just received was sort of stupid. An aircraft mid-taxi was caught on fire. And there was a fire emoji pasted in the image with words ’YOUR FLIGHT RN!’

And then there was a sticker of tiny man roasting marshmallows on the wing of that burning flight.

Then...he received a message.

’Sir, the schedule is cooked,’

’Respectfully.’

"..." Niccolo regarded the edit. A quiet breath left him in amusement.

He locked the phone and set it face-down.

"Oh," He murmured to himself. "Who am I going to ask for a lift now?"

Across the lounge, an attendant had opened a presentation case on a side counter.

Dark bottles stood in shallow crescent. Labels facing forward, and a small tasting flight of glasses catching the light.

Niccolo’s gaze went to the bottles of wines first. Only after that to the woman handling them.

He rose, crossed the carpet with his hands inside his pockets, and took the nearest open seat at the counter.

"May I?" he asked.

"Of course," the attendant smiled the professional smile, "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Not really," Niccolo said. "Surprise me in order,"

She selected a pale bottle first, poured a modest measure and set it before him with ease.

"A coastal white," she began. "Citrus forward, grown on---"

Niccolo had already lifted the glass. He turned it once against the light, watched the wine climb and sheet down, then brought it to his nose.

Whatever line she had prepared paused on her tongue as his attention narrowed to complete seriousness.

He tasted.

A small stillness took him. He let the finish settle, with half-lidded eyes, and then nodded once.

"Schist under the vines," he said mildly. "And the harvest was early, you can feel the decision in the acid."

The attendant blinked.

"...Yes. The winemaker pulled forward by almost two weeks this year. These are local flavors of the IAA owned Islands."

"Impressive," Niccolo set the glass down with care, "Next please."

Then the contest of wines began. She moved to a deeper white, then a restrained red. With each pour his posture remained elegant.

Anyone watching him from the sofas, the snow white hair, and the golden line perfect tie, with questions precise enough to gently outpace even the attendant’s script, mistook him for some noble prince.

He asked about elevation, about barrel toast, about whether a particular plot sat windward of the old stone wall.

When she answered well, he looked genuinely pleased, when he knew more than the card behind the bottle, he did not correct her to win.

"This one," he said of a severe, dark red, after a sip that left a rare spark in those golden eyes, "is dishonest on the first nose and honest on the second. I somehow, love this one,"

By the ninth glass, the attendant had stopped performing, and started working. By twelfth, two other travelers had drifted closer, seemingly interested in his scores of vines.

Niccolo never rushed. He loved each one of them.

Then... a manager appeared at his shoulder, with a tablet in his hand. He had an apologetic expression.

"Sir...about your flight, the delay may extend further, rebooking is unstable for the next several hours. I can arrange a private suite while you wait,"

Niccolo did not look away from the glass in his hand, but he still listened.

"I am occupied for now. As it stands, just inform me if there’s a flight worth standing for, I’ll arrange my stay on my own," he replied.

He returned his attention to the counter...

"Now," he said, in a warmer tone. "the ones you were afraid to open because of the price,"

He then placed a black card on the counter, It was an Amex black card.

Not something anyone would expect form just a ’Union Agent’.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"This...is embarrassing," Maeve whispered under her breath.

Marcellus had not guided her like any normal person would choose to. There were several options, he could’ve held her by elbow, or just guided her like she usually guides him.

But no one knows what he’s really thinking.

He had her cradled against his chest in a full carry, one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. She still wore the patient dress and had her eyes bandaged up.

"I can walk on my own," she growled in a low voice.

"Oh really...where are we?" Marcellus asked.

"Just outside the suite, we’re on the floor we have to be. You deliberately took stairs didn’t you?"

Marcellus’s brows lifted to that response.

"Correct," he replied.

Then he bent down, set her down till her shoes found the floor, and let her stand.

"Go on," he said, gesturing for her to walk into the suit on her own.

Maeve remembered the map of the academy as if it was muscle memory to her. But Marcellus intentionally shifted direction swiftly and placed her on the floor. Now she didn’t know in which direction she was facing.

She took one clean step. And smiled.

And then took another.

*Thud---*

Her little finger of the foot smacked hard against a small utility shelf in the corridor.

"..." Maeve bit her lower lip and clenched her fists. ’This...motherfu-’

"Impressive," Marcellus scoffed. "You were able to take two whole steps,"

He simply moved in again, slid one arm back under her knees and the other behind her back, and lifted her off the floor again.

She sighed in defeat as he carried her through the suite and into her room.

He set her down on the edge of the bed. Maeve adjusted the bandages over her eyes, and guessed his direction to face him.

"Than-"

"So now what?" Marcellus cut her words off, and took out her phone from his own pockets, and looked at the schedule.

"Let’s see the flight...leaves in an hour, which is enough time for you to freshen up, hopefully you can do that on your own, just don’t open your bandages, do you want me select your clothes, too?" he then asked.

"Ah..." The courage Maeve had built up to thank him was now all gone.

"That does make sense, yes," she then nodded.

Marcellus locked her phone and slid it back into his pockets. He then opened her wardrobe...and what he found made him stop.

For several seconds, he simply stood there, looking at it.

Shoes occupied the lower shelves. Not a pair or three. But five rows of numerous heels, flats, slippers, sandals, shoes in colours. They were arranged by colour, style, and few appeared to have their own designated spaces.

Above them were clothes. Shirts, skirts, trousers, dresses, jackets, and things Marcelus couldn’t really identify without removing them from their hangers.

Then there were accessories. Countless small boxes in velvet, neatly arranged drawers and an entire section devoted to ornaments.

Then there were dresses of same style but different colours. Then there was a section dedicated to a lineup of perfumes which she never seemed to have used except the lavender scent. Then there were countless jewelry-watches, hairpins made of gold, and silver, and in several continental designs.

And this was all just what he could see in the front. The whole wardrobe was an arranged mess.

He had a sudden suspicion that he was living a considerably less luxurious life than his own assistant.

Actually, he was. He found it rather amusing.

He reached for a black T-shirt. Then another black T-shirt. Then another one. They were all the same to him.

Fabrics and cuts differed, but same either way.

One had a slightly wider neckline; one had a different sleeve length.

"Now...I feel like I’m the assistant here," He murmured and then looked back at her.

"What outfit would you prefer for the present day, Miss Eira?" he asked.

"..." Maeve faced the direction of his voice, and shook her head.

"Let’s see, a red oversized hoodie, and a black high-rise denim short would do," she answered.

"Pretty specific," Marcellus looked back into the arranged excess of her wardrobe.

"Yes, they’re on the third hang row, hoodies on the left side, shorts are folded in the second shelf stack. Base layer is the top left drawer,"

"What’s base layer?" he asked.

"Bras, and under wears," she replied.

"Alright," Marcellus nodded. "I might need to work on my vocabulary even more."