Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Caprice couldn’t help but wonder what things could have been.

For the first time, he could trace each feature of his face back to something familiar: Massimo's signature high cheekbones from posters at the back of the shop; Nonna's thick brown hair, before it faded to silver-gray; Otto's lopsided dimples his mom complained got him into trouble with girls; his cousins' benign round ears and dull white canines; his dad's olive skin, suntanned a touch darker from the summer afternoons Caprice spent avoiding work at the shop; those warm, dark eyes that settled into his mother’s portrait down the hall.

He hadn’t changed that much of the structure of his face—he promised himself he wouldn’t get carried away—just hid away some of the acne around his nose, shaved some baby fat from his jaw, smoothed the wrinkles in his suit jacket. But the face that looked at him in the bathroom mirror was one that was completely and entirely human.

Caprice leaned closer to the mirror. He could feel strands of hair catch on broad horns like usual, but the reflection showed it falling across the face—his face, at least for the evening—without obstruction.

“Weird. Weird. Okay.” Caprice looked at himself, clearing his throat and drawing himself up to his full height. He warily made eye contact with the boy in the mirror and watched as the pupil flicked across the glass, staring right back at him. He stuck out a hand and jut his chin, trying to figure out how to fit inside this kid's skin. "Hey. What's up?" he said aloud, trying to summon some sort of confidence and swagger. "My name's… not Caprice. It's something—s-something else, like, um… shit." He watched the human boy wince and lift his hands to anxiously stroke horns that weren't there.

Caprice didn't like to dwell in what-ifs; really, he didn't like to think of anything too long, but they were a special genre of miserable thoughts he tried to push out of his head the instant they appeared. His dad always got on his ass every time he brought them up, anyway, no matter how entertaining Caprice found the idea of an alternate timeline where they were a pair of cool desert cobras.

But it was unavoidable here, in the white curve of an off-center nose and those eyes, again—dark but effortlessly readable, easygoing, nonthreatening. All this boy had to worry about was Sunday sermons with two parents that loved him and gigs at the best venues at town, where he was celebrated as a prodigy rather than accused of being the product of something Faustian. He knew his mother's family and spent his birthday at Gazpacho's instead of a graveyard. There was no 7 P.M. curfew because there were no notes slipped under the front door, no graffiti on the windows, nowhere he could go after the sun went down that wouldn't be safe. Maybe he had siblings, real friends, a girlfriend—a band that didn't drop him after a single gig was cancelled because the tavern owner realized he was that De Sesto. He probably didn't spend every other weekend pouring over musty history books documenting how horribly he'd be tortured when he died or how many different devils could have corrupted him in the womb. He certainly didn't need to spend half his allowance on dodgy magical reagents to attend a wedding he was specifically excluded from.

Caprice wasn't sure how that made him feel. He closed his eyes and tried to shake the nerves out of his hands, humming through vocal warmups. He had spent a good amount of time with the spell already, arranging his new face and timing how long it took to fizzle out. After recasting it, he spent almost ten minutes applying the finishing touches and another five studying it, a dangerous amount of time to spend on a spell that he now knew lasted only an hour, but a risk that felt necessary. If he had done his math right and Margherita hadn't sold him dummy potions, he should be able to keep up the disguise for a full nine hours, provided he drank one of the bottles just before Disguise Self ran it's course. Caprice wasn't sure about his math skills, but Otto was certain about Margherita being trustworthy, and that was enough for him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, my name's undecided, how are you?" Caprice thrust his hand toward the mirror again, smiling as wide as possible. "Lovely wedding, great flowers, great people, yeah, one hundred percent. I'm related to most of them, I think. Or none of them, because I am not a De Sesto… no, I am not… I am… uh… a-a member of the Visconti family, Miss Cadenza was my aunt, may she rest in peace. Nice lady. Nice human lady, just like me. And you! Isn't that so—"

A rap on the door stopped him short. "Capriccio, I'm heading out. Don't keep the neighbors up, yeah?"

"Hold on a second!" Caprice scrambled to pull the potions into a nice leather side bag, knocking over a container of hair gel as he struggled to arrange them in a way that wouldn't break them. He forced open the door and stumbled into the hallway, tripping over the laces of one of his untied dress shoes.

"You could have the rest of the sandwich I got from Geno's for dinner," his dad called, already in the kitchen as Caprice desperately tried to muffle the clinking in his bag and tie his shoelaces at the same time. Fortunately, Squeo was preoccupied, straightening his bow tie and combing back his dark hair with calloused fingers. He squinting into his reflection in the glass of a portrait frame, turning his head to the side to get a better look at his sideburns. "We still have some of that good country butter from your aunt's place, and some bread. Or I heard Yasna's new place is good if you want to go out. There's money by the door, just make sure to get back before it gets dark."

"No, I'll come with you! Look!" Caprice spread his arms and leaned back at an angle that certainly wasn't forty-five degrees, but was equally as cool.

Squeo sighed through his nose and did not look at him. Instead, he looked to the counter and picking up a box wrapped in white gift paper, pinching the ribbing of the large bow between his thumb and pointer figure. "We've talked about this, kid. I don't like it either, but you're not going to be let into the church, even if she wasn't that… direct with the invitation." He tucked the parcel into his jacket before finally turning to him. "Maybe we could—oh, what in the Nine Hells, Capriccio?"

"Pretty convincing, right?" Caprice shimmied a little bit.

Squeo stared at him in abject horror, looking him up and down and opening his mouth as if to speak but unable to form any words. "I—you—turn back. Now."

"Dad, c'mon—"

"No, I mean it." Squeo stepped forward, pointedly keeping his eyes on the ground, and waved his hand toward him. "I don't know what you did, I don't want to know how—just—normal, get back to normal. I don't have time for this."

"A lot of people would argue that this is normal. It’s normal for the wedding people, right?”

Squeo gave him a withering look and turned on his heel, straightening his jacket lapel with vigor and striding toward the apartment's exit.

"I'm serious, take me with you!” Caprice tailed him, quickly stepping between him and the door. “I-I'll mop the back of the store for a month and I'll actually get the bike fixed so I can deliver stuff! I'll make it up to you!"

"Capriccio—"

"Nobody will look at me for a second, our family's huge!" Caprice spread his arms out, pressing himself against the door. "I don’t even have to be a De Sesto, you know, I could just be some random guy from the shop, or someone from Mom's side—nobody who'll object to me being there will recognize me, right? I look indistinguishable from one of you, it'll be no problem!”

“Why do you want to go?” Squeo demanded, starting toward him and grabbing his side bag from it's hook. “You can't make it five minutes without mouthing off, why do you want to sit through hours of listening to someone else talk?"

“Why do you want to go?” Caprice asked, crossing his arms.

“To see a friend I haven’t talked to in fifteen years!”

“Well… I-I’ll tell you why I want to go if you bring me!”

Squeo rubbed a hand across his face. “You said that you wouldn’t mind if I went, son. If you had told me a week ago—”

"I don't mind, I just want to come with! I'll be totally cool about it, I swear. I'll keep my head down and be very polite and let you do all the talking—they'll barely register me being there."

"That's off the table and you know it. Move."

"Please?"

Squeo opened his mouth to make another retort, but his eyes locked back onto Caprice's face and his jaw snapped shut. Caprice was used to people looking at him in all sorts of ways; suspicion, fascination, anger, whatever. This, however, was a mixture of confusion and fear that he had never thought he'd see on his dad. It made his skin crawl, but Caprice stood his ground, straightening himself up again with effort and meeting his dad's eyes. Eventually, Squeo seemed to deflate, his shoulders dropping. His eyes were still fixed on Caprice, searching for something. He set his jaw and gripped his bag tighter, knuckles white on the handle.

"Do you know what they'll do to you if they figure out who you are?"

Caprice didn't. It wasn't like he was unfamiliar with people wanting to hurt him—he had read the notes his dad tried to hide from him, changed his path around the city to avoid the makeshift gallows from the newspaper, learned how to run his mouth the right way to avoid the ruder strangers—but every time he asked, no one in his family seemed to want to tell him anything about it. It was one of those things. "Yeah. Of course I do."

His dad continued to stare at him. The polished watch on his wrist ticked five, ten seconds forward; long enough that Caprice couldn't help but realize it was a quarter of a second off. He crossed his arms the other way and wrapped his tail around his ankle, trying to steady himself. Squeo shook his head and ran a hand over his face, finally looking away. "I don't have time for this. Fine," he muttered.

For the first time in his life, Caprice had no trouble hailing down a hansom cab. It was nicer than he expected, too, with well-furnished curtains over the window and smooth leather seats that kept him from the worst of the rattling. The windows were enchanted, muting the sounds of the street and keeping the passengers from the worst of the racket the clattering wheels and shaking frame made. Caprice pulled the curtain away from the curved window and watched the skinny storefronts and apartment buildings run against each other as they rolled down the street, little flashes of people and carts rising up in front of the lots like paper pop-ups in a book.

"So what's your big plan?" his dad asked. He had not been as mesmerized by the cab as Caprice, instead warily watching the driver and the way the ceiling above Caprice's head caught on invisible horns.

Caprice spread his hands out as if announcing a stellar business proposal. "Concertante."

"You're going to play a… concertante? You don't have your violin."

"No, no, that'll be my name. My alias."

Squeo stared at him again, though this look of bafflement, irritation, and vague disappointment was much more familiar to Caprice. "Concertante is a stupid fucking name."

"Well, Capriccio, Cadenza, I thought it was on theme!" Caprice leaned back into his seat, kicking his feet onto the partition between the interior of the cab and the horse hitch. "Did you and Mom have any other names planned for me?"

"Get off of there," Squeo grumbled, flicking at his shoes until Caprice sat up straight. "But no, just Capriccio. That was always the plan. Or Capriccia, like your great aunt, but… musical theme, like you said. It's a handsome name, I don't know why you insist on shortening it."

"It's so long and stuffy. Caprice is slick. It's cool." Caprice absentmindedly took his tail in his hands before realizing how strange it looked when it was invisible. He settled for twisting the ring on his right pinky, watching the center stone wink around a pale finger. "Like when you hear it, you think, 'Damn. That guy must be pretty cool if his name is Caprice.' What do you think about Pizzicato?"

Squeo sighed through his nose, again, and rest his head in his hands, massaging his temples with his thumbs. "No Visconti except for your mother is named anything musical. Nobody else in our family is named something musical, I don't know where you—sure. Pizzicato works, it has a little less… ego. Your disguise thing will last the whole time?"

"Yeah, I just need to take one of these every hour or so." Caprice fished one of the bottles out of his bag and shook it around, watching the sickly violet liquid slosh against the glass. "I think Margherita meant for me to drink them, but I'm not completely sure, so… guess we'll find out?"

Squeo started and grabbed for the bottle, wrestling it out of Caprice's hands despite his protests. He pulled the window curtain close on his window and held it up to the sliver of light from the crack. "You got this from Otto's girlfriend?"

"Don't just grab things from me, jeez!" Caprice straightened his jacket and tie. "But yeah, Otto's, uh… Margherita. I don't know if they're still dating, I think he's trying to get with her sister now."

"He knows you wanted to get into the wedding?" Squeo peered into the glass, taking a pair of spectacles out of his pocket and pushing them onto his nose. "Where did she get this?"

"Otto just knew I wanted something to extend a spell. She said it was from one of those apothecary's on 32nd." Margherita had not mentioned where she sourced the bottles, but Caprice figured that having any location was better than none.

"I need to have a talk with Stella about who Otto's hanging around," Squeo muttered. "Or at least about getting you wrapped up in it. I don't know what this is, but it doesn't look safe."

Caprice made another grab for the bottle, but Squeo dodged him, shaking it again and pushing him back. Caprice huffed and slumped back in his seat. "You're being paranoid."

Squeo ignored him and and uncorked the bottle, wafting it under his nose. He wrinkled his brow and dabbed his kerchief against the rim, collecting some of the liquid before stopping the glass and slowly handing it back to Caprice. "So why should Pizzicato be here?"

"Say I'm a favorite nephew from Mom's side or something," Caprice shrugged, trying to make the idea seem as casual and spontaneous as he could. "I-I run errands and clean up the back of the shop on weekends and really, really enjoy weddings. The son you wish you had, Pizzicato Visconti."

"I don't want any other son than the one I already have," Squeo said sharply. "Don't say things—"

"They don't know that!"

"Capriccio."

"They don't know that, that's all I'm saying. It would be a tidy little… uh… y'know, cover story."

Squeo tapped his fingers against his knee. "I don't know about that. There's a good chance Netta has been in contact with the Viscontis since I saw her last."

"I thought the lady was your friend?" Caprice slipped the bottle back into his bag.

"Your mother and I dated a solid couple of years before you were born, obviously our friends knew each other. What do you think married people do?"

Caprice shrugged. "Stella and Dante are always yelling about friends they don't know about."

Squeo sighed through his nose again. "Stella and Dante should not be your frame of reference for a relationship." The cab took a tight turn at the curb and jostled the bottles in Caprice's bag. "Netta—Annetta Scarpa, I mean, or… she's Annetta Abatangelo now, isn't she. Well." He looked down at the ground, rubbing his knuckles against the old scar across his palm. "Annetta, she's the one getting married. She and I grew up together, went to school together, ran errands for our family's businesses together when we had the chance. Her parents owned that shoe store that got bought out a couple years back. Stella and Cadenza were friends with her too. She didn't get along with Cadenza's family, none of us did, but things might have changed."

"You think she hated me so much that she was willing to get along with them?"

"She wouldn't—I doubt she hates you, Capriccio, her family's just very involved with the church. That's how she knew your mother before Cadenza transferred to our school." He paused for a beat, then two; "They were in the choir together." His voice had taken on that rare softer, wistful tone that stilled Caprice; he sneaked a glance back at him and watched as Squeo stared down at his hands and cleared his throat, again running a hand over his hair. "Played the ocarina, too, right when it was becoming popular. Netta was always very kind. I doubt that she's… the church has made it clear that we're not welcome there. I doubt it was easy to convince them to keep us on the guest list, they had to make some kind of a, a demonstration for the church, that's what the card was. There's a good chance it was from her parents, anyway, and they were always more intense."

Caprice remembered the invitation and the delicate cursive handwriting to the side of the typewritten cardstock notice, specifically and coldly requesting that Squeo not interrupt the evening with any creature with devilish or demonic blood. Caprice had picked it up from the mailbox first and brought it to his father without comment. He had quietly read the invitation, torn off the offending ink, and scratched the event into the calendar. They hadn't spoken about it directly, but the word 'creature' still turned in Caprice's head in bed at night and through the long, suffocating shifts at the front of the shop when customers skirted the register, whispering and casting glances at him rather than ringing up their rosin.

"Alright. I'm not—I'm sure she's great, I'm not trying to accuse her of anything. Just trying to scope out the vibes." Caprice wiggled his fingers in a gesture meant to convey some light emotion.

"The 'vibes' are bad, Capriccio," Squeo said shortly. He looked back up to Caprice and began to say something, but faltered again, his eyes locking onto some feature on Caprice's face before he tilted his head away and pointedly looked out the window. Caprice used the opportunity to kick his feet back up on the partition.

The Church of the Shining Hand was located about twenty minutes north of De Sesto's Music Shoppe and was one of those things Caprice had learned to ignore. It wasn't the biggest religious establishment by any means, especially compared to the temples and cathedrals in the northwest of the city, but it was placed in such a way that it was irritatingly visible. It fit oddly within the pattern of brownstones and roads, a simple two-story building with slim but tall domed windows and a tapered roof, sitting squat by the intersection with one large artistic window at the front constructed of panels of glass forming the shape of Pelor's sun. He couldn't avoid it, whether he was walking back from school or exploring the city, and it came up in conversation constantly, in his aunts and uncles nostalgic stories and the colorful flyers that advertised fantastic celebrations for every holiday basked in the light of the sun. It was rented out as a venue for every musical act and event that allowed admission to children and, according to the older kids at the taverns, had some of the best acoustics this side of the district. In the sweltering heat of summer, volunteers stood outside offering water from a well in the back and inviting passersby into the shade of the foyer; during the depths of winter, it lit it's hearth for the poor sick children of the neighborhood, each one tended to by the only cleric in this corner of the city—well, each one except Caprice, of course.

He had learned to walk past it with his head down, or better yet, alter his course so that he would always be just across the street or block. He had seen into it just once, when a group of his friends had ducked inside while they were out together to talk to someone else. His friends hadn't told him not to enter, but they hadn't questioned when he stopped by the door, either. Caprice had waited just outside with his thumbs in his pockets, trying to seem nonchalant; peering into the cracked door, he had seen little but a polished tiled floor and a fine rug. Barely five minutes had passed before an older man had stepped outside with a switch and threatened to beat him if he didn't leave. Caprice had made more of an effort to avoid the church after that and eventually stopped seeing those friends—something that seemed to become the norm with the different groups he found himself cycling through.

So the church wasn’t unfamiliar to him, and when his dad paid the cab driver, Caprice set up the steps first, the same way he had watched everyone else do. He summoned some semblance of swagger, fixed his lapels, and greeted the person at the door—a middle-aged bearfolk woman wearing a pair of spectacles and a bemused smile—with an over-eager handshake.

"Ca—Pizzicato!" Squeo rushed after him, swearing under his breath and grabbing him by the shoulder. "Don't go running off like that. Sorry about that, ma'am. Should be under De Sesto."

"De Sesto?" The woman asked, smile on her face slipping. "I'm assuming you're Squeo?"

"Yes, that is… I am he. You know me, Mrs. Tonia." Squeo nodded at her and grabbed onto Caprice's shoulders again, a bit tighter this time. "This is my, ah, plus one. My nephew, Pizzicato Visconti."

"You can call me Pizzy for short!" Caprice said cheerfully.

"Nobody calls him that. Don’t call him that."

She looked as wary as a bear could look, but crossed out a name on the curling guest book she held. "Well," she said, smoothing some of her linen skirts, and looking back up coldly—looking back up only at his dad, Caprice realized with a jolt of surprise—"Enjoy."

"Thank you kindly," Squeo said, bodily leading Caprice into the church.

The foyer was simple, with a clean tiled floor that ended abruptly with a pair of large double doors opposite of the entrance. A panel of windows cast light across a fresco above the doors, lined with white curtains and accented by sweet yellow flower bouquets placed in white vases by the side of the door. One table to the side was covered with gifts of all shapes and sizes, pinned with cards and white bows. The doors, propped open, looked into a larger hall, where white aisle runners and gold, brass, and white intricacies bedecked the simple pulpit and buoyed collections of candles that shed light across the spaces the tall windows couldn't quite reach. Orderly oak pews lined the room; a handful of people filled them, but more milled around the room in conversation. A band in the corner played something classy but generic—Caprice couldn't help but notice that the cellist was struggling to keep up with the tempo and the violinist's attempts at being expressive just made the tune embarrassingly pitchy.

Squeo stopped at the table, placing the gift box from his jacket near the corner. "The central hall's there," he muttered to Caprice, gesturing to the large open doors. "Back on the other side of the chapel are the bathrooms and stairs that lead upstairs to the fellowship hall, classrooms, whatever. We're going to go sit in the pews and wait for the ceremony to begin, and then we're going to sit through it quietly—no, silently—and politely. After that we'll head up to the fellowship hall for the reception. Got it?"

Caprice leaned toward one of the larger gift boxes, tapping the note card. "What did you—"

"Got it, Pizzicato?"

"Yeah, yeah, I've got it." Caprice absentmindedly reached to stroke his horns, but quickly moved to rub the back of his neck instead. "What did you get her?"

Squeo ignored his question and strode toward the central hall, smoothing his mustache. Caprice followed on his heels, shoving his hands into his blazer's pockets and paying close attention to how loudly his shoes clicked against the polished floor. He wasn't sure what he expected entering the hall—a shock of holy power up his spine, some stillness and peace unique to sacred ground, a holy blast of sunlight smiting him—but the only difference was a pleasant breeze cast across the room. Squeo selected a bench toward the middle left side of the room, ushering Caprice down the row to the end.

"You'd think they could afford more comfortable seats with all the sponsors they have," Caprice muttered, trying to find a position on the bench that didn't dig into his spine or bend his tail.

Squeo flicked his shoulder, gentle enough not to hurt. "Be quiet."

"And get a better band. These guys are shit."

"Watch your language. And be nice," Squeo hissed. "They're perfectly fine. You know, if you're going to perform seriously, you have to build a good reputation for yourself. You can't do that if you're being rude."

Caprice crossed his arms. "I'm just saying that I would've done a better job. And I wouldn't bring any Malfatto instrument to a professional performance."

"Is that what he has?" Squeo craned his head around to get a better look at the band. "Goddamn. It's no De Sesto, that's what it is. No wonder his vibrato is all—no, no. Cap—Concert—Pizzicato, whatever your name is, keep the mouthiness to a minimum."

"It is at a minimum! I haven't even said anything about the decorations."

"We haven't been here a full minute yet and you've already found two things to complain about. Save it for later."

"Fine." Caprice slumped into his seat, but quickly righted himself after a pointed glare. "I just don't get it. Sure, benches, windows, candles, whatever, it's nice. Gazpacho's has all those things, what's the difference between there and here? What makes all this holy?"

Squeo paused for a moment. "You really haven't been to church before."

Now Caprice stared at him. "Can't say I've had much of an opportunity, Da—wait, can I call you by your first name while we're here?"

"Absolutely not."

"I haven't had much of an opportunity, Uncle Squeo, considering everything about me."

"I know that, I just… maybe didn't realize what that actually meant." Squeo looked out across the hall, tapping his foot against the ground.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Caprice asked. Squeo made a vague gesture with his hand. "That's not an answer," Caprice muttered.

"It's holy because we've decided it is," Squeo said, determinedly. "Because it was built for this purpose. I'm sure that the pastor would tell you something different, but there's not much more to it than that. We've decided it's a place to honor Pelor, a place to purify ourself with his light, a place to learn how to reach out our hands to him and to others, and… now it is. At least on the tax forms."

"Huh." It took a second for Caprice to process what he had just said. He wasn't unfamiliar with the jargon of worshipers of Pelor, considering how many of their pamphlets he found slipped into his bag at school, but it was strange to hear it coming out of his dad's mouth. "So I could just go out and start declaring anything I wanted holy?"

"Sure, as long as you've got enough people behind you. Isn't that what your… what was your genasi friend's name," Squeo said, snapping his fingers. "Allen Djinnsberg. Wasn't that what he was out doing?"

"No, that's not at all what he was doing. And I–I wouldn't call that guy my friend, I just went to a couple of his performances. He got, uh… a while back he started backing some weird folks so me and Kayla left. That whole group was a bit of a mixed bag." Caprice was, not for the first time, very glad that his dad didn't have an appreciation for the experimental poetry scene. It made hiding the more unsavory habits of the self-proclaimed visionaries easier. If Squeo did bother to stay up to speed, there'd have to be an argument—or Gods forbid, a conversation—about the vapid political stunts Caprice backed out of, or the snarky comments they made just out of earshot, or the guys who grabbed at his tail and horns and face, and it would turn into a whole thing.

Caprice understood plenty, thank you very much—or at least he knew well enough of the world to trust the tight feeling in his chest that last night and follow Kayla when she walked Caprice home, as much as Otto said it made him a killjoy. "W-we weren't really welcome there, anyway. You know how it is."

Squeo nodded sagely. "Kayla doing alright?"

"Last I saw, yeah. Otto would probably be able to tell you more."

"You heard about her little sister?"

"Nope." Caprice picked up one of the books slid into pockets of the back of the pew in front of them and flipped through it, catching bits of musical notes and song lyrics. "I didn't know you were still big on all this god stuff."

"Well, I wouldn't put it like that," Squeo sighed. He looked back at Caprice before quickly looking up to the ceiling, settling his hands on his knees. Caprice followed his gaze, but didn't see anything but the wooden support beams and dust motes. "About twenty-one years spending every weekend here… it'd be a miracle if I didn't soak anything up. And it's not like Pelor is an unreasonable god. Most of what he preaches is just common sense; people just take it and run with it."

"Uh-huh." Caprice continued to flip through the hymnal, hoping that if he appeared disinterested enough this wouldn't go where he though it'd go. A fragment of a lyric caught his eye and he hesitated on a page, thumb tracing a bar that felt eerily familiar to him.

"Maybe I should've put more of an effort into teaching you about his tenets," Squeo said ruefully, eyes still trained on the ceiling. "De Sesto line and everything like that, it's basically tradition. Give you something to talk about with the Taghavis and the Campbells and some hymns to sing. It might've done you good."

"I think I'm alright. I know plenty about Pelor already, he invented sunlight and compassion and farming and all that jazz."

"That's… well, he embodies those things and preaches them, and he's also a god of creation, but I wouldn't say he invented them. And there are multiple sun gods, you know, like Pholtus, Amaunator."

"Amaunator?"

"Yes. That one's interesting, actually, there's some people that theorize that he and Lathander—"

"But I hardly know her! Eh? Eh?" Caprice shot him anachronistic finger guns, extremely pleased with himself. Squeo just sighed. "Anyway, what's this song?" Caprice tapped Squeo's elbow and tilted the book toward him.

"'Just as I Am'? Your nonna likes that one, she may have sung it around the house once or twice. It's fairly—Marta!" Squeo startled, looking up past Caprice. Caprice snapped the book shut and swiveled, almost catching Squeo on the shoulder with his horns.

"Squeo De Sesto, is that you?" A short woman, not quite middle aged, with a pleasant demeanor and meticulously styled hair laced with pearls stood at the end of the pew. She was smiling, to Caprice's surprise, and clutched a small handbag that matched a modest powder blue dress. "And, ah… a guest?"

Squeo froze, mouth ever so slightly agape, before quickly standing and stepping forward to hug her. "Oh, Gods above, how long has it been? Last I heard you were off studying in Anzu!"

"It really has been a while then!" She stood on tiptoes to return the hug, her flats creasing. "I got back years ago, found a curator job at the museum. Are you still working at the shop? How're your parents?"

"Well, Dad passed about nine years ago, so I own the place now. Mom retired early and got a nice brownstone uptown with Stella and Dante and their kids."

"Ah, sorry to hear about Gio, he was a good man. I'm glad Piera's doing well. Stella didn't put up a fight for the store?"

"No, too busy with her songs and her children. Her and Dante are… prolific, they just had their seventh," Squeo said wryly. He suddenly seemed to realize that Caprice was there, turning back and placing a hand on his shoulder. "And this is my nephew, uh, Pizzicato Visconti, Alfonso's kid. Pizzicato, this is Marta Bellandini. She's an old family friend, used to babysit me and your… my sister. Stella."

"H-hey, how—uh, miss—ma'am—nice to meet you?" Caprice rushed to extend a hand to her.

"Gosh, I should've guessed you were related to Cadenza!" Marta immediately clasped his hand with hers, stepping towards him. She tilted her head, eyes flitting across his face in a way that made Caprice's heart jump into his throat, trying to think of anything that he might've forgotten—could he have structured his forehead wrong? Were his eyes too white or too dark? How long exactly had it been since he cast the spell? "Oh, you must get this all the time, but you look just like her."

Caprice felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him. "Can't say I've heard that before."

Marta squeezed his hands before releasing them. "Really? You're almost identical to her when she was your age, it's uncanny! But how old are you, love? Did you get a chance to meet your aunt before she passed?"

"Unfortunately not, just missed her," Squeo said, smooth in a way that Caprice knew meant he had been rehearsing. "He's fifteen in a couple weeks."

"Shame, shame. I'm glad you still get to spend time with the De Sestos, they're good folk. And I'm glad you're back in the church, Squeo!" Marta tapped his elbow with her bag. "Someone needs to keep the band in check."

"Well, it's only for tonight, but… I'll try my best," Squeo chuckled. "You here alone, Marta?"

"Ah, Abdul had something come up for work. Mind if I sit with you two?"

"Not at all, of course you can."

Marta shuffled into the pew and sat down next to Squeo, who took his seat again and cleared his throat. "I was just telling Pizzicato about some of the hymns. Most of the Viscontis started frequenting that new Pholtus chapel, so he's not too familiar with the Shining One."

"You like to sing?" Marta asked, tilting her head to get a better look at Caprice and again offering him a smile.

"Yeah," Caprice said, faintly. An uncommon tightness gripped his chest and he reached for his tail impulsively before course correcting, rubbing his hands against his pants leg and settling to twist the ring on his pinkie. He could feel his dad's eyes on him. "I–I–I play the viol too, uh, uh, that's how I—that's how I know, um, he got—I got lessons from him."

"From Squeo, dear?"

"Uh-huh. And I help in the… shop." Caprice used his last modicum of self control to restrain a wince at the stilted words coming out his mouth.

"He means I taught him the violin," Squeo muttered to Marta, and rest a hand on Caprice's back. "Mixes his words up sometimes. But he's very talented, knows all sorts of instruments and picks up tunes like you wouldn't believe. He's been performing in taverns uptown already."

"Wow, Pizzicato! You're already giving the De Sestos a run for their money, huh?"

Caprice didn't know what unnerved him so much about this. Marta wasn't too dissimilar from his aunts or his family friends, really; maybe they didn't take his hands as easily, or make so much eye contact, or compare him to his mother, or mention her at all around him, really, but… well, maybe he needed to stop thinking about this. But he wasn't Caprice now, not really—he was Pizzicato. Pizzicato didn't stutter over his introductions or make a fool of himself because a family friend was polite to him. Maybe he didn't go to this church, but he knew how they operated and knew the routine. This was second nature to him. Caprice reminded himself that it was just another performance—no different than playing on the street.

"You know it!" Caprice said, much louder than he intended. "You should come to a show sometime, Ms. Bellandini, we—my band and I, or, well, sometimes the band changes. I'm kind of out of a band right now, but we'll—there is a band. And we're really good. And we could get you a free drink at whatever tavern we perform at, I–I think I have enough money to do that, Ms. Bellandini. Or is it Mrs.? Is there a Mr. Bellandini, mayhap? Or another Miss? Or, well, you'd both be Mrs. Bellandini."

Marta smiled indulgently. Squeo ran a hand over his face.

Caprice spent the next half hour trying to keep his tail still as the room filled with people. Most were human, and most unfamiliar to him, again. A surprising amount of people approached them, greeting Squeo with warm handshakes and kisses and excitement. Caprice tried to keep track of their names at first, but as more and more filtered by, he slowly began to realize that he had underestimated how much his dad was liked.

Squeo mentioned people from the church sparingly, usually in a disparaging manner. Saying someone was from the church was his way to tell Caprice that someone couldn't be trusted; that no matter how graciously he greet them on the street or how well he spun his business proposals, they would not be allowed upstairs into their home. It was often accompanied by a handful of descriptors Squeo seemed to consider synonyms with the turn of phrase—sanctimonious, prudish, volatile.

Caprice knew religious people that were kind to him, of course; cousins far enough removed from the De Sesto name that they were welcome at church and friends who worshiped gods from all corners of Avantris. He knew some of the closer members of his family practiced as well, though it wasn't something he would ever bring up to them. Vaguely, he knew not to ask too many questions and to assume that he was excluded from the birthdays and sleepovers and performances of friends worshiping gods of light, which seemed to be most of gods en vogue in Galtica, and he was more or less accepted without comment. It wasn't impossible that there would be people who would treat his dad the same. But those weren't people 'of the church', really, unlike these people, streaming by in their fine clothes with well wishes and polite conversation and blessed hearts. And yet, here they were.

"I didn't know you were that popular," Caprice said quietly, after the last visitor—a young man with two small children tailing him, who insisted on stepping past Marta to give Squeo a hug—left.

"Well, you know how it is." Squeo rubbed his knuckles against his palm

Caprice waited for him to continue in a way that clarified what that meant, but he did not. "I… do not know how it is."

"Squeo's trying to be modest," Marta chided, tapping his arm. "Your uncle has always been very popular here. He's bound to be, with how much he does for everybody."

"Don't say it like that, Marta," Squeo muttered.

"It's true! Pizzicato, Squeo's always been very well-liked here. He used to help anyone who asked when he was a teenager, always running off with the kids to give his mother a break and carrying things for the old pastor." She settled her hands on her handbag. "He'd always visit me when I got sick and tell me about all the little things going at the church, arranged all the youth events, showed around new people. That's how he met Cadenza, you know. And later he was always out helping her sneak out to the—"

"Don't bring that up."

Marta gave Squeo a pointed look. "A lot of people remember you very fondly."

"Pizzicato, didn't you say you needed to use the bathroom?"

Caprice looked back and forth between them. "Did I?"

"It's been about an hour since we left," Squeo said tersely. He tapped the watch at his wrist, and Caprice nodded, as if he knew how to read watch faces.

"Oh! Yeah, uh… yeah." Caprice clasped his hands together, turning to Marta. "Well, Ms. or Mrs. Bellandini, it's been a pleasure to meet you—"

"Just go, boy."

Caprice left, begrudgingly, to find the bathroom. A couple of people filtered in and out, but he was able to find a stall out of the way with enough space to balance the bag of potions on his lap and uncork a bottle without much noise. The smell was stronger than it had been earlier in the day—acrid and pungently sweet. Caprice was, unfortunately, reminded of a cousin that had spent the first couple weeks of the summer sitting outside the shop telling people he'd eat whatever disgusting combination of food they suggested for a silver. This had not lasted long, and Squeo had made Caprice mop up the front steps for having passersby bet on it.

He decided that the best way to get it over with would be to do it fast. Caprice pinched his nose and tilted the bottle upside down, trying to chug it as quickly as possible and bracing himself for the taste. Thankfully, it tasted better than he expected—faintly herbal, like the imported teas Squeo enjoyed for reasons completely incomprehensible to Caprice, but largely tasteless. It was thick and lukewarm, but went easy enough down his throat that he didn't have to linger on it. He had time to cork the empty bottle and place it back against the others before something in his chest began to burn.

Caprice barely managed to avoid pitching forward by scrabbling for the walls of the stall, bracing his hands against them. His vision tunneled, sparks of something painfully hot dashing against the interior of his head, setting his lungs ablaze and gripping his ribs with sharp fingers. It felt like he had swallowed the head of a sparkler, as if something was trying to burn through his ribcage. Caprice did all he could to stifle a string of expletives and hung his head by his knees. His throat burned from shallow breaths and those same sparks, tingling up his sinuses and across his tongue. He couldn't think of anything but Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, this is how I die.

Slowly, the pain abated, and he found himself dripping with cold sweat and hunched over the bag of potions, putting a dangerous amount of weight on them. Once spots had stopped floating across his vision, Caprice got to his feet and stumbled out of the bathroom, grabbing onto the sink. Thankfully, the face in the mirror was the same one that he had spent so much time designing that afternoon. Caprice rubbed his hands together, dimly watching how the skin paled each time he applied pressure. He was uncomfortably aware of the feeling of blood rushing beneath the white skin, the way his skin pulled tight around unfamiliar wrists, the weight of his hair on his neck and stuck in his collar.

He barely registered a hand on his shoulder through the haze. "You alright there, lad?"

"Yeah," Caprice said weakly. "Just, uh…" his mind blanked as he tried to find some excuse, tried to steady his breathing the way his dad always reminded him too. Glancing at the man next to him out of the corner of his eye, he realized, with terror, that he was familiar. Between the thick graying hair, the ruddy face, and the solid built of the man, he recognized him as the same one that had stepped out of the church to threaten him while he had been waiting for his friends all those months ago. Caprice bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and reminded himself that he was Pizzicato now. Pizzicato had a right to be here. Pizzicato had no reason to fear men like that. Pizzicato would be able to come up with an excuse without fucking spacing out. "Felt a bit nauseous," he said halfheartedly, ears pounding with the sound of his heartbeat.

The man patted his shoulder sympathetically and released him. "Enjoy the wedding."

The second he left, and Caprice was sure the bathroom was empty, he washed his hands with vigor and set to smoothing back his hair, trying not to focus too much on the way his heart rattled too loud in his chest and the dizzy way his legs swayed. A quiet part of him wanted to go out to his dad, latch onto his arm, and tell him that he had been right and he wanted to go home. Squeo might sigh, but Caprice knew he would take him, without a lecture or complaint like one of his aunts or uncles might have—he always did. Caprice didn't let the thought be anything but fleeting. He couldn't let it be anything else, not after the way he saw Squeo smile while introducing Caprice to Marta; how he greeted each and every person approaching him by name; the way he ran his fingers down the ridges in the back of the pew facing them. It had been a long time since Squeo had laughed quite like that.