His glance came up again and met hers. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Maggot. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her. The horns were the worst, slipping in and out of tune and rushing the easy sections, fighting everyone else. “I wonder if they will seem altered,” she remarked for the third time. “It is not possible,” he exclaimed. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully.
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