On the contrary, he was a most strange sort of being, a scholar of the supernatural, a spy upon creatures such as me. He was no great Venetian, no painter, no cleric, no poet, no alchemist, and certainly no member of the Grand Council of Venice. I knew it die moment I penetrated his mind. I wondered if it corresponded to the prime of life in mortals-those years when you are strongest andĬan see with the greatest clarity, those years when you can give your trust most truly to others, and seek to bring about a perfect happiness for yourself.īut this young mortal had nothing to do with the grand society in which I moved. I wondered if for every immortal there was a Perfect Time. Just when I thought I had fooled an entire city, I was to be caught for what I was.Ĭonversation and that he must be very wise on that account. And naturally I was tempted to immediately conclude that my life in Venice had failed. Never in all my years had I known any such a threat to my secrecy. I resolved to ignore this, to see what came of it, not to allow it to impede me in the slightest as I enjoyed my life. And then to my pure shock I received a distinct mind message from him: I saw him visibly startled by the message. He did not even look up as the boat took him away. He was a tall man, lean and fair of skin, an Englishman, and he was dressed in severe clothes of black. I had caught a good look at him as he stepped into the boat. With little difficulty I heard him make his way down the staircases through the palazzo and then I saw him come out into the canal arid hail a gondola which took him away. Then he gave way to utter fear and fled the roof. Scholars? What sort of scholars? And the other words. ![]() ![]() Botticelli, Bianca, Amadeo-these were the loves of my Perfect Time.
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