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Fiore snapped his gaze back to the lady, who seemed altogether unperturbed by his rude behavior. He swallowed hard and endeavored to answer her in a conversational tone. “Most of my life, yes.”
“Do you get out to the countryside often?” Her words remained light, balanced on the knife’s-edge between friendly and indifferent, but Fiore couldn’t help suspecting an ulterior motive behind her interrogation.
Still, he could hardly do otherwise than answer honestly, “Not often, no.”
The limonata arrived far quicker than Fiore had anticipated, interrupting whatever subsequent enquiry the lady might have for him. If Enzo dwelled here then he certainly enjoyed excellent service. And the bright tart-sweet of the limonata itself cut through even the heavy fog of Fiore’s anxiety.
“Refreshing,” he said, setting the glass down again after his initial sip.
The lady’s smile showed his compliment had landed precisely as he’d hoped. She seemed nice enough, or at least had the grace to act so. That didn’t stop Fiore from wondering exactly who the fuck she was.
The far door creaked open.
Fiore whirled towards the sound, half-hoping to see Enzo emerging through it. Instead he beheld a figure in a black-waxed gown—though, mercifully, he wore a plain paper mask over his nose and mouth rather than the traditional hideous glass-eyed beaked mask of the trade.
The chirurgeon paid no attention to Fiore’s stare. He approached the lady, who stood to speak with him. Their voices remained too low for Fiore to catch more than a few snips of phrases. The words “resting comfortably” eased his nerves a fraction. He kept his gaze on his limonata to disguise his eavesdropping.
“You may see him now.”
A marked silence ensued. Fiore glanced up to find both lady and chirurgeon gazing down upon him. Belatedly, he realized the chirurgeon had intended that particular remark not for the lady but for himself.
Fiore set down his glass and arose. With what dregs remained of his dignity, he bowed to the chirurgeon and lady both.
Then strode past them to the door the chirurgeon had left ajar.
Enzo’s bedchamber appeared at first as dark and solemn as the rest of the hunting lodge. The mural covering the walls depicted a forest so startlingly lifelike that for an instant Fiore thought he’d stepped if not into the wild wood then at least into an arboretum. The skins of slain beasts served as rugs across the wide walnut floorboards. The coffered ceiling loomed above him at twice his own height. The enormity of the cavernous interior made the bed within seem small—all the more ludicrous, for as Fiore approached it he realized it rivalled the size of his own entire bedchamber. No mere half-a-whaleboat this. Green silk curtains, hand-painted with myriad ferns, hung from four black-walnut posts carved with scaled coiling serpents whose enormous claws, at the base of each, clutched eggs the size of Fiore’s skull.
And in the enormity of such a bed, a gentleman whose towering frame Fiore knew well appeared very small, indeed.
Enzo lay with the bedclothes drawn up under his arms, leaving his throat and shoulders bared. His hair spilled across his pillows like the rays of a dark sun. A gigantic black hound lay across his feet, but even this monstrous presence left plenty of room for whoever cared to join them. And while the hound appeared ferocious, it seemed no moreso than Enzo himself, whom Fiore knew to be sweet and gentle.
The hound raised its head at Fiore’s approach. This alerted Enzo, who lolled his head across the pillow toward the door. His face held the pale hue of candle-wax, with his sharp cheeks sunken and his dark eyes hollowed by fever.
And yet Fiore couldn’t help but find him handsome, for when this ghastly visage turned toward him, it greeted him with a smile.
Fiore closed the distance between them in a dash which bordered on leaping. His hand found Enzo’s amidst the bedclothes and clasped it tight—far too tight, yet he couldn’t will his fingers to loose their hold.
“Fiore,” Enzo said softly, his deep voice no less affectionate for its hoarse tinge.
“Fiorenzo,” said Fiore.
Enzo blinked in alarm.
“You don’t like it, then,” Fiore observed.
“I like it well enough,” said Enzo. “Though I don’t hear it often. Where did you…?”
“From a lady pacing outside your chambers.”
“Giovanna,” Enzo groaned. At Fiore’s confused glance, he added by way of explanation, “My sister. The Duke of Bluecliffe.”
No wonder she hadn’t bothered to introduce herself to Fiore. “Which makes you…?”
“Fiorenzo Scaevola, Duke of Drakehaven, brother to Prince Lucrezia, Serenissima of Halcyon.”
Fiore blinked.
“Just call me Enzo,” he added—pleaded, more like.
