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Enzo breathed again only when the door had shut after her. He trailed his hand through Fiore’s dark curls and took comfort in his ease. Endymion did not enjoy so serene a repose as Fiore did now. Nor did he look even half so beautiful. Enzo could remain as he now lay content for hours. He might even fall asleep himself at last.
Another knock fell on the door.
The noise sent a spike of anxiety through Enzo like an icicle hammered into his spine. It was not Carlotta’s knock. Indeed it wasn’t a knock like any servant in the house. It was a knock he hadn’t heard since before he’d left for university.
One which demanded answer.
Gently and with great reluctance, Enzo disentangled himself from Fiore. He arose from the bed, slipped on his wrapping-gown, and went to the door. Against all his better instincts, he opened it just the slightest crack. He required no more than that mere glimpse to recognize the shadowy figure in the antechamber.
Lucrezia stood erect, hands clasped behind her back, and one severe brow cocked at her brother.
Enzo supposed he ought to feel grateful that she’d bothered to knock at all.
“Good morning,” said Lucrezia. She kept her voice down, at least.
“Farewell,” said Enzo, and attempted to shut the door on her.
Her boot on the threshold halted any such efforts. “There are matters I would discuss with you.”
“Matters which are nothing to me until he is hale again,” Enzo hissed.
“You would do better to listen—”
“And you would do better to leave him well enough alone!” All the fear that’d consumed Enzo throughout the past three days, briefly held back by Fiore’s tentative recovery, now surged forth in the guise of rage. He struggled to rein it in, succeeding only in keeping his voice quiet but by no means restrained. “He’d be perfectly well by now if you hadn’t kept me from—”
“Enzo?”
Enzo shut his jaw with a click. Slowly and deliberately he moved so as to block any possible view through the slender gap between door and frame. Then he turned over his shoulder and attempted to appear at ease for Fiore’s sake.
For it was after all Fiore who’d roused and spoken.
Fiore arose with furrowed brow and dark hollows beneath his eyes. What little sleep he’d caught had already mussed his fever-tangled curls. He raised just his head at first, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand, but the moment he caught sight of Enzo at the door he shoved himself up onto his elbows and seemed intent on rising further.
Enzo resisted the urge to dash to his side and prevent him from sitting up. He settled for begging. “Go back to sleep. It’s nothing.”
Fiore did not go back to sleep. Instead he leant over and craned his neck to try and see beyond Enzo. “Who’s there?”
“No one of consequence,” Enzo insisted.
To Enzo’s great dismay, Fiore’s eyes widened in alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Enzo repeated. His voice cracked as he added, “Please lie down.”
Fiore remained upright. His chest heaved. The nightgown hung loose about his collar, the neckline dipping low and revealing his sternum, stark against his skin, so much flesh had fallen away from his form in just a few short days—
Without turning ‘round, Enzo shut the door on Lucrezia. He hesitated before turning the key in the lock behind his back. Then he forced himself to take slow and measured steps to Fiore’s bedside.
“Who is it?” Fiore demanded as Enzo knelt beside him and laid his hands on his shoulders.
Despite Enzo’s gentle efforts, Fiore remained upright. Enzo knew he’d never get him back to rest without an honest answer. “Lucrezia.”
Fiore’s face, already ghastly pale, somehow drained of further color. In a voice of dull horror he intoned, “What does she want?”
“To speak with me.”
Fiore’s hunched shoulders relaxed the merest fraction. “Why don’t you go to her, then?”
“Because I’ve no wish to speak with her.”
