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“Perhaps,” Fiore echoed. Echoing was easy. Particularly with those who resembled Narcissus. Just feed them back a taste of their own reflection and they would delight in the flavor without ever suspecting its hollow core. Everyone had a touch of Narcissus in them.
Everyone except Enzo, his mind supplied, as if it were determined to prove as unhelpful as possible when he needed it most.
Nascimbene didn’t seem to notice. “I realize my offer must seem audacious. Particularly when you’ve already dallied with viscounts and cavalieri. To say nothing of the duke himself. But I think I have the means to make a handsome young man very happy.”
Fiore smiled and nodded.
“Do you enjoy opera?” Nascimbene enquired.
Fiore resisted the urge to throw him to the ground and stomp on his throat. He kept his smile fixed in place. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“No?” Nascimbene sounded astonished. “We must remedy that at the earliest opportunity.”
This did nothing to assuage Fiore’s murderous impulses. But, mercifully, the dance came to a close, and the applause rippling through the throng disguised his lack of an answer.
And, still more mercifully, no sooner had their dance halted than a most welcome dark shadow swept over them.
Nascimbene released his hold.
Before Fiore could blink, his arm was enfolded in Enzo’s, and Enzo stood between him and the impresario. The bauta mask bent down to meet Fiore’s ear.
“Carlotta is dispatched,” Enzo murmured. “The gondola will be ready for us by the time we reach the portico.”
Fiore had never heard such welcome tidings in all his days.
Enzo straightened and turned to Nascimbene. “Your pardon, signore. Good evening.”
Nascimbene bowed and would doubtless have echoed the same parting words if a certain lady had not approached at that very moment.
“Your grace!” she gasped. Her fan fluttered furiously to regather her breath. Whatever her purpose, she had come with haste. “My staff tell me you intend to depart. I do hope our ball has not offended you?”
This, then, must be their host—the Lady Grimaldi herself. Fiore supposed he ought to have guessed from the splendor of her gown.
“Not at all,” Enzo told her over Fiore’s head. “On the contrary, we’ve enjoyed a most pleasant evening amongst delightful new acquaintances. Thank you again for indulging us.”
Fiore could hear the polite smile in his voice, no matter how impassive the mask remained. He wondered at how Enzo could sound so satisfied. Perhaps he had encouraged his mind to wander back to earlier in the evening to their shared dance. It seemed so distant now. Fiore tried to recall it himself; twirling across the dance floor, Enzo welcoming him with every step, the two of them perfectly in time as if their very hearts beat as one, the sweeping flight of their leap—
Lady Grimaldi beamed. “You gratify us, your grace. Do come again. The both of you,” she added, turning her smile upon Fiore. “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Signor Fiore, and I’m sure all my distinguished guests would say the same.”
Fiore’s heart ceased beating.
Before he could catch himself his eyes flicked to Nascimbene. Had he heard the discrepancy? Did he realize Fiore had given him a false name? Hearing Elio’s name hadn’t seemed to catch his notice, but perhaps the two names combined—did he even remember the names of the failed sacrificial bellwethers, or did they cease to occupy his thoughts the moment they escaped his grasp? Fiore had just time to glimpse a frown line deepening at the corner of the impresario’s mouth. Then he mastered himself again, fixed his gaze on their host, and forced a smile.
“Good evening, Lady Grimaldi,” Enzo intoned overhead.
Lady Grimaldi curtsied and withdrew from their path.
Which meant there remained no obstacle to prevent Fiore from half-dragging Enzo out of the ballroom and into the night.
~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Fiore hardly dared to draw breath again until he and Enzo were secluded and secure within the gondola.
Enzo likewise remained silent. He rapped his knuckles against the ribs of the felze’s roof. The gondola slipped away from the portico into the canal proper. The brilliant lights of the party grew dimmer and dimmer through the woven wicker.
And still Fiore couldn’t speak.
