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Fiore’s blood ran cold. Still, he kept his voice even-keeled as he added, “I promise I won’t smash it. No matter what it shows me.”
“It isn’t that,” Enzo said quickly. “It’s just—all fresh wounds look worse than they truly are. It won’t do you any good to worry over them now. In fact it may do you a great deal of ill. Better to let it heal and examine it afterward, if you still wish to.”
Fiore didn’t remind Enzo that he hadn’t asked for his medical opinion. Instead he said, “Give me a mirror.”
A long and dreadful pause ensued between them. Fiore’s nerves drew out alongside it. Just when it seemed they would fray and snap, Enzo arose and went to the washstand. He returned with a palm-sized hand-mirror.
Fiore held out his hand for it.
After another moment’s hesitation, Enzo gave it over.
Fiore drew a bracing breath, clenched his fist tight ‘round its pearl-inlaid silver handle, and raised it to his face.
At first glance, Fiore found it difficult to keep his promise regarding not breaking the mirror. Then, as the horrible moment stretched out over minutes, his eyes grew accustomed to the sight, until the discordant image no longer seared his mind to consider it. A long gash ran down his cheek on the right-hand side, from just above his ear down to his chin, sutured shut and smeared with some glistening salve that didn’t disguise the gore beneath. He supposed he ought to give thanks he hadn’t lost his eye. He let the hand holding the mirror fall to the bed with a soft thud.
“Just as you promised,” Fiore muttered. “We’ve become a matched set.”
Enzo didn’t seem to find it even the least bit amusing. Fiore supposed that had been rather too much to hope for.
It likewise seemed rather too much to hope that he could return to his trade. A beautiful and unmarked face had set him apart. Now he’d be lucky if Enzo still wanted him. Certainly he’d wanted him enough to retrieve him from the catacombs. But now, seeing what catch had turned up in his net, there remained nothing to convince him not to toss it back into Neptune’s embrace. Fiore wouldn’t blame him in the least. Still, he had to ask the practical question.
“How long may I remain here?” Fiore enquired.
Enzo’s brow furrowed in unaccountable confusion. “As long as you wish.”
Fiore had no patience for romanticism. “How long, truly.”
Enzo blinked. “Until you’re well again, at the very least. Forever, if you’d like.”
Fiore scoffed and turned his head away. Empty promises were the last thing he needed to hear right now. If he were lucky, he’d be permitted to stay until he could walk on his own two legs.
Enzo’s hand sought his, still clasped around the pearl-handled mirror. Fiore let him have it.
“You need never work again, if you wish.” Enzo’s soft words cut all the deeper for their apparent sincerity. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“That’ll wear off.”
A stunned silence ensued, broken at last by Enzo’s bewildered, “What?”
Fiore forced himself to draw breath. “You’ll wake up a month from now—maybe six or twelve months from now, if I’m particularly lucky—and wonder why you’re supporting a bitter, withered husk of an invalid. You’ll realize my ugliness can’t be healed and cast me off.”
A second silence fell. Fiore couldn’t bear to turn his head to see whatever realization dawned on Enzo’s face.
“If you’d prefer,” Enzo began, his tone more restrained but no less soft.
Fiore waited for the blow to fall.
“I’ll draw up a contract,” said Enzo.
Shock whipped Fiore’s head towards him. The dizzying headache that resulted made the room swim before his eyes. When his vision cleared, he beheld Enzo’s somber face. Unmistakable hurt shone behind his gaze, but no less affection. The sight broke Fiore’s heart.
“Ironclad,” Enzo continued. “Signed and witnessed. Establishing a pension that will see you living in comfort for all your days. You’ll have your pick of where you’d like to set up a household, with staff to look after you and tend you. You need never see or speak to or think of me ever again if you truly wish it.”
If his expression had broken Fiore’s heart, then the sound of his voice shattered it—the restrained recital of an aristocrat determined to cloak their true emotion that nonetheless carried the undercurrent of agonies with a glinting hint of hope.
“But,” Enzo added, softer still, “I’d prefer to remain by your side, if you would permit it.”
Fiore’s heart felt as if it would rip itself in twain between warmth and ache. Every joy was weighed down by bitterness. He’d been a fool to say nothing before, and even if he told Enzo the truth now—that he chose him, that he’d always chosen him, that if Enzo would deign to give him forever, then Fiore would hold fast until the end of his days, and only the fear of having it ripped from his grasp had held him back—there was no chance Enzo would ever believe him.
