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The door opened into a quaint antechamber about twice the size of Fiore’s own quarters. A handsome balcony overlooked the garden courtyard. Another identical door stood on the opposing side. Since the antechamber had no other apparent egress, Fiore assumed this must lead him nearer to his Enzo, whom he felt more desperate to see now than ever before.
Between Fiore and this door, however, stood a lady.
Her gown alone marked her out as such. Her bearing confirmed it. For, even though it was evident Fiore and Carlotta’s entrance had interrupted her in the midst of pacing, she turned toward them with remarkable poise, her shoulders back, head held high, and chin upraised in silent enquiry.
Fiore knew not how to answer her.
The lady’s gaze searched Fiore’s face, then fell to the scarlet sash tied ‘round his waist to mark his trade. She looked to Carlotta with a raised eyebrow.
“This,” said Carlotta with a slight bowing of her head, “is Fiore.”
“Oh!” The lady spun to regard him. Her voluminous skirts billowed with grandeur to equal any sweeping cloak. “Soyou’reFiore!”
Fiore admitted as much.
She declared it a pleasure to make his acquaintance, adding, “We were wondering why our dear Enzo kept saying half his own name. Particularly when no one calls him that. We thought the brain-fever had taken him. It’s quite a relief to find you’re a real person. Is yours short for Fiorenzo, too?”
“Not to my knowledge,” Fiore replied, his mind whirling. Then again, the people who’d named him that had died before he might’ve grown out of any childish nicknames and taken the longer version with them to their graves.
Reflections of an unhappy past were overshadowed by an alarming present, for the lady had revealed disturbing details. As gratifying as it might have felt under other circumstances to learn how oft Enzo mentioned his name, the remark of a possible brain-fever, in particular, painted a portrait which gave Fiore considerable unease.
“Simply Fiore, then,” the lady declared with an approving nod. “Enzo will be delighted to see you, or so I’m told,” she added, glancing at Carlotta. “The chirurgeon is with him now. You may go in once they’re done.”
Fiore’s whirling confusion ceased as her words struck him with dread. “Has something happened to him?”
The lady blinked. “Has no one told you?”
Fiore shook his head.
“Oh, you poor dear,” she continued, her astonishment and concern apparently genuine. “Yes, a little something, I’m afraid. A hunting accident. Too dreadful for me to speak of more, forgive me, but he has pulled through, and the chirurgeon declared him out of danger and on the mend. You may go in just as soon as they’re done.”
What Fiore might do in the meantime, he knew not. The thought of harm befalling Enzo had sent his mind reeling. He stood stupidly clutching the shoulder-strap of his satchel in some strange and grand estate with very little idea of where he was and still less idea of his purpose here. He hadn’t felt so small since he’d first arrived at the conservatorio. His glance flicked to Carlotta, the sole point of familiarity in these unknown surroundings despite their scant few hours of acquaintance.
And for the first time in those scant hours, he saw a hint of something besides stoicism in her features. A slight downward twitch at the corner of her mouth. Or perhaps it lived in the hairs-breadth descent of her brows. Regret, maybe. More likely it was pity.
“His Grace the Duke forbade me to speak on what befell him,” Carlotta said. After a slight pause, she added with the faintest hint of warmth, “He didn’t wish to cast a pall over your journey.”
Fiore didn’t think the shock felt much better.
The lady’s reassuring smile waned. Fiore realized the silence between them had stretched far too long. He knew not what to say to make up for it.
“You’ve come all the way from Halcyon, haven’t you?” the lady said, startling him. “And in the span of a single day! You must be exhausted after such a journey.”
“Really, it’s nothing,” Fiore said—half because it was the polite response in these situations and half because thinking on his own mere discomforts seemed selfish beyond words when Enzo lay in the hands of a chirurgeon and possibly suffering a brain fever alongside whatever wounds he’d sustained.
“Nonsense,” declared the lady. “You must take some refreshment at the very least. Belladonna,” she called, turning toward one of the many shadowed alcoves the corridor contained.
A young woman in a stark black gown—the skirted version of Carlotta’s own garb—emerged from the dim corner with a curtsey.
“Bring up some limonata for our guest,” the lady continued, adding with a glance at Fiore, “If that will suit?”
“Yes, thank you,” Fiore replied, glad at last to feel certain of the correct response.
The lady beamed at him and sent her handmaiden on her way with a nod. No sooner had the door shut on said handmaiden than the lady swept across the antechamber to the card table and chairs set up along the balcony. There she sat and with a gracious wave of her bejeweled hand invited Fiore to join her.
Fiore could do little else. He perched on the edge of his seat. His fingers refused to unclench their hold on the strap of his bag across his shoulder. He glanced out from the balcony to the courtyard. It held another draconic fountain, this one surrounded by benches. Rhododendrons and hydrangeas filled the remainder.
“Have you dwelled in Halcyon long?”
