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“Tell Louis to procure this for me as soon as possible. He will have to travel to Paris. I expect it is there.”

Laurence reads.

“And have Louis be accompanied by Ivan,” I add. “I do not wish for unforeseen events.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“Now, Laurence.”

He bows his head and leaves the room with no other sound but his footsteps receding along the corridor. I run my fingertip over the signature once more, then again. I feel it under my finger the suppressed tension, almost a rage.

He lost his cold composure just by reading my surname.

I feel the corner of my mouth rise.

The memory of the evening at the club washes over me. I still see his gesture, the finger dipped into the champagne, the surface trembling just slightly. I don’t know what came over me. I brought the flute to my lips and drank from that very spot.

The taste seemed sweeter.

Why do I accept the provocations of that boy?

I huff and push the letter away with two fingers.

The moment the Viscount rose from the table flashes before my eyes. The slight movement of the chair, the air shifting behind him, leaving only the trail of his scent. I found myself remaining motionless. Around me, I heard Nabil talking, that idiot of Julian laughing with that irritating voice of his, someone else touching my elbow to draw me back into conversation. But there was nothing I heard or saw except him crossing the room. The line of his shoulders. The controlled step. The distance growing between us as if it were necessary... or inevitable.

Why did he run away?

I must know.

A strange sensation continues to buzz in my chest. It digs into me like a craving scratching at the bone.

And it shows no sign of fading.

10

Verbum Signum

Evander

The violoncello rests against my hip, its warm body pressing against my chest.

I slide my fingers along the neck, searching for the strings that quiver and whisper beneath my touch.

The bow glides, the wood groans, and a shiver runs down my spine. I close my eyes, and the sound becomes more mine than the instrument’s.

Every broken note bounces off the parquet, the heavy curtains, the velvet of the rug beneath my bare feet. My arm’s movements grow faster, notes chasing one another in rapid succession. I feel heat at a specific point on my wrist. I tighten my grip on the bow, the rhythm born from the strings is new yet simultaneously familiar, like blood pulsing through veins, slow, furious.

One note lingers as long as his pearly gaze once lingered on me.

I snap my eyes open.

I cannot allow that idiot to corrupt my art.

I stand up abruptly, annoyed by the impulse still vibrating in my fingers. The bow flies from my hand, landing on the small damask sofa with a sharp sound, too light for the pique coursing through me.

I pick up the cello with both hands, clutching it for an instant, before returning it to its dark wood stand. The curve of the body vibrates one last time before falling silent.

I rake my hands through my hair, digging my fingers into my scalp and pulling slightly to wake myself from the torpor assailing me. As I approach the desk, I slowly let go and rest my palms on the wood, letting it absorb the tension in my arms, bared by my rolled-up sleeves.