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Angelo shook his head, frustrated anger rising in his chest. “Ignoranti,” he muttered in Italian. “Country folk who see demons in everything they do not understand.”

It was unconscionable that in the modern age, people still clung to such medieval superstitions.

“I cannot believe,” Angelo continued, “that such a talented and beautiful woman is forced to hide from company, that others would see anything other than a person worthy of respect and companionship.” And then, to himself, because he could not help but state the sentiment out loud, he switched to Italian. “Forse il Signore mi ha sorriso, tenendoti qui dove avrei potuto trovarti.”

“You think I am beautiful?” Isolde’s voice held wonder and disbelief in equal measure. “You call me beautiful but you have not truly seen me.”

“I have seen your work,” Angelo countered. “Your garden that speaks of years of study and careful attention. Your music moves the soul. The evidence of your mind and heart is in everything you create. That is beauty, Isolde. The rest is merely … packaging.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw her raise one hand to her face in a gesture that might have been covering the mark she referenced.

“Forse il Signore mi ha sorriso, tenendoti qui dove avrei potuto trovarti.” Isolde repeated his words back to him in flawless Italian before pausing to translate. “Although perhaps the Lord was smiling on me, keeping you here where I might find you …”

Angelo blinked in surprise. She spoke Italian? Spoke it well enough to translate his selfish musing from moments earlier?

“You understand Italian,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily.

“My father believed in thorough education,” Isolde replied. “Languages, music, sciences, philosophy. He said ignorance was a prison, and knowledge the only true freedom.” Her voice caught slightly. “Though I wonder sometimes if knowledge without the ability to use it is not simply a different kind of prison.”

“Forgive my thoughtless words,” Angelo said, his mind still reeling from the revelation. “I should not have assumed … that is, I did not mean to imply⁠—”

“That God arranged my isolation for your benefit?” Isolde’s tone held a trace of amusement beneath the sadness. “It is all right, Angelo. I know you meant no harm.”

“Sì,” Angelo said, seizing on her understanding. “In Florence, birthmarks are sometimes seen as marks of distinction rather than damnation. Saints and martyrs bear wounds, stigmata, marks of the divine. We see no contradiction between a mark and holy purpose.”

He took a careful step closer, emboldened by her continued presence. “In truth, many in Florence would view a birthmark as a sign of individuality, perhaps even divine touch. Only small minds see the devil where nature leaves fingerprints.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “And speaking as a pharmacist, a birthmark is a natural condition of the skin, not a supernatural curse. It may be a port-wine stain—nevus flammeus—or a congenital vascular anomaly, or a benign discoloration owing to capillary malformation.” He gestured gently toward her shadowed face. “If you would allow me to examine it properly, I could tell you which it is. I could perhaps even suggest treatments that might lighten it, if that is something you desired.”

“You must think I am mad,” Isolde cried, shaking her arms out in what seemed like a fit of nerves. “To care so much about something so small. To let it dictate my entire existence.”

“Not mad. Rejected.” Angelo’s voice was gentle but firm. “The world has been cruel to you. But there are people who are not. … who would understand.”

She turned her gaze on him more fully, and Angelo caught a glimpse of the right side of her face for the first time. In the dim candlelight, he could see the wine-dark staining that spread across her cheek and down her neck. Prominent, yes, but hardly the monstrous disfigurement she seemed to believe it was.

“People like you?” Isolde asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Sì, people like me.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, so quietly Angelo almost missed it, Isolde spoke. “You may approach. If you still wish to.”

Angelo’s heart soared even as he forced himself to move slowly, carefully, giving her every opportunity to change her mind. He crossed the remaining distance between them with measured steps, watching her face for any sign of distress.

Isolde remained still, though he could see tension in every line of her body. She was terrified, he realized. Absolutely terrified of what he might do, what he might say, when he saw her clearly.

Angelo stopped an arm’s length away and raised his hand slowly, demonstrating his intention before actually touching her. Using just his forefinger, he gently nudged her chin up and slightly to the right, turning the marked side of her face toward the candlelight behind him.

The port-wine stain was extensive, covering much of her right cheek and extending down her neck to disappear beneath the neckline of her dress. It was darker than some he had seen, the color of good burgundy wine, with irregular borders that followed no predictable pattern.

But it was simply a birthmark. A capillary malformation, exactly as he had suspected. Nothing supernatural, nothing cursed, just an accident of blood vessels formed incorrectly before birth.

Angelo examined it with the clinical detachment of a pharmacist, noting the exact coloration and extent, the way it seemed to follow certain anatomical boundaries. Then he let his gaze travel to her eyes, meeting them directly.

And he smiled.

Isolde’s eyes widened, as if she could not quite believe what she was seeing. As if she had expected horror or revulsion or pity. Anything but the simple warmth of his smile.

Angelo leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away, and pressed his lips to hers in a kiss as gentle as he could make it.

Isolde gasped softly but did not retreat. Tenderness swelled in his chest, a feeling he could not identify but found intoxicating. Angelo kept the kiss chaste, a simple press of mouth to mouth, not wanting to overwhelm her with too much too soon.