You walk to Adamo's Personal Library carrying a few basic components, plus a couple you think might be useful in making gunpowder. You can't help but feel your heart beating a little faster than normal, and not in the fear-of-death kind of way you're used to. How long has it been since someone excited you like this?

As you reach the door of Adamo's Library, you see it is already flung open, with the principle man of the room propped up by his elbows on the floor. “Monsieur, are you quite alright?” You ask. He hurries up from the ground and tries to bow, though he seems shaky, like he's just seen a ghost.

Still, he does manage to give you a warm greeting, leaning over slightly and extending his hand for you to place yours in. He kisses your knuckles in the most gentlemanly manner, and you curtsey in return, placing your vials on the small table where he has set up a rather impressive distillation apparatus made out of simple household items.

“I understand we may be making some ah… helpful assets for the upcoming battle today?” It is not the first time you've seen a man fawn over you like this. It is common given your youth and fashionability. But it is the first time you have not overlooked it. Adamo seems nervous and eager to impress, and you can't help but find it endearing despite his clumsiness. “Oh yes, of course. I was thinking to make some firecrackers in case a few bright lights would make a good distraction,” he replies.

“And to enjoy with our sparkling wine post victory, non?” You quip back at him playfully. He chuckles and gets to work. When he smiles, you can see small wrinkles crinkle around his eyes. Adamo seems to see you staring and puts his head down, getting to work on boiling a few chemicals while you crush the solids in a mortar and pestle. As you work, you talk about your different time periods and your shared chemical interest. While it is clear you know more about the substances being used themselves, Adamo is in the curative business, and can throw out an antidote or curative therapy for almost any ailment you mention. It is… a little impressive. You have found few people (besides Al-Dimashqi) who can go toe to toe with you in your speciality.

As you work, you notice Adamo is holding a sieve far too close to a jar to be able to pour a distillate through it. On instinct, you reach for his hand and lift it higher, giving it small swirls as the liquid pours through.

“This method prevents bubbles from forming in the final solution. It makes for a much finer powder when baked dry.”

You feel his hand tighten and look up at him to see what is wrong. With his face barely a foot from yours, you see how war has aged him. There are dark circles under his eyes that will probably never heal, and a small crook to his nose. But he is rather handsome nonetheless. As you realise you are staring, you pull yourself away. “Monsieur, I am so sorry. I have overstepped.”

When did this giggly, giddy girl become you? You used to stalk ballrooms full to the brim with such vapid personalities: girls fawning over men like flies and swooning over soldiers with the hope they could be wed to their inheritance as well as their bed. You never thought that was you. You had other hobbies, other interests besides… romance. And yet, when you least expect it, here it comes: love taking you down harder than any poison you've ever tasted.

“Signora, it is an absolute pleasure to have you coach me on a topic of which you are clearly a master. I appreciate all your guidance.” Adamo finishes the gunpowder and looks to you with a mixture of reassurance and desperation indicative of a man who cannot have any other motive to say this to you, other than to convey its genuine meaning.

That you are an expert, and that he respects your craft.

“Monsieur Adamo…” You giggle nervously, not quite knowing how to respond to such honesty in a world of pleasantry and lies.

You turn to look at him as he speaks, catching the flecks of light in his hazel eyes, he stops mid-sentence as he meets your gaze, and in a sigh releases a string of unintelligible mumbling: “Il tuo sorriso è bellissimo, bella.” You are about to ask him to repeat what he said when he cuts you off to clarify.

“Your smile! I meant, I meant your smile, Signora. It's, it's beautiful.” The simplicity of the confession hits you like a freight train, shattering every courtly conversation you've ever had. It is as if all your interactions with the Italian have distilled themselves into a single poison which has left you asunder.

And it tastes like olive oil.