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Not soon enough, by Fiore’s reckoning. His heart plunged like an anchor into storm-tossed seas. But he kept his perfect smile fixed in place as he replied, “Not in the least.”
By then he’d surely have figured out how to tell Enzo what he must.
Enzo arose and began to don his cloak and mask once more. Fiore resisted the urge to leap up and fling his arms around him to make him stay. He settled for standing and catching the door for him.
“I did have a marvelous time,” Fiore assured him.Despite allwent unsaid.
Enzo almost looked as though he believed him. He caught Fiore’s hand in his gentle grasp and brought it beneath the bauta mask to kiss his knuckles with heartbreaking tenderness.
“As did I,” Enzo murmured into Fiore’s hand. Then, with evident reluctance, he released his hold and departed.
Fiore’s fixed smile faded the instant he shut the door on Enzo’s retreat. He could’ve kicked himself for getting distracted and not telling Enzo how he really felt. He’d allowed the ghosts of his past to cloud his future. First Nascimbene had stolen Eliodoro from him, and now…
Now, Fiore knew not what to do.
If it were an insincere confession, Fiore would’ve known exactly how to proceed. He’d heard (and made) plenty of those over the years. But he knew not how to make himself sound when he meant every word he spoke. How to speak from the heart when his fears blocked up his throat. It was rather like stage fright, only a thousandfold worse, because on the stage he’d stood before strangers. He knew not how soft their smiles appeared in candlelight, how their breath caught in the throes of passion, how their hair tousled across their face in the morning after, and how gentle their touch proved when he required it most. Their opinion mattered nothing. Enzo, however…
Perhaps, Fiore thought, he could solve the problem in a similar way. Actors rehearsed their speeches. Fiore supposed he must do the same. The thought of talking to himself whilst pacing his quarters seemed foolish beyond words. Yet it could feel no more stupid than his half-a-dozen failed attempts thus far.
But before he even reached that point he required a script. To that end, he brought out his zibaldone. The blank page intimidated him more than ever. He comforted himself with the notion that he could always tear out his failures and burn them afterward. He plucked up his pencil alongside his courage and began.
Enzo—I’ve decided to accept your offer.
Far too formal. Fiore struck it out and tried again.
Enzo—I’ve chosen you after all.
Too glib. He struck it out. Another attempt.
Enzo—If your offer still stands, then
Then what? Fiore stared down at the words that had emerged from his pencil almost without thought. Enzo had made his offer months ago. Before he’d nursed Fiore through deathly illness. Before he’d invited Fiore to his ancestral hunting lodge so Fiore might perform the same service for him. And while the events of the ball had only strengthened Fiore’s resolve, they might well have cooled Enzo’s desire. Fiore had allowed himself to show unforgivable cowardice. He wouldn’t blame Enzo for losing all possible respect for a man who couldn’t even attend a party without falling to pieces.
A knock fell upon his cabin door.
Fiore glanced up sharp. Nothing followed the knock. Which forced him to swallow down his nerves and attempt an even tone as he enquired, “Who goes there?”
Any hopes or fears that Enzo might have returned were dashed at the sound of Serafina’s voice. “There’s a gentleman at the bar looking for like company.”
A distraction. Just the thing he needed. “I’ll be up shortly.”
Serafina’s footsteps echoed away into the depths of the ship.
Fiore tempered his mixed disappointment and relief as he shut his zibaldone and set it aside. He felt glad indeed he’d chosen to compose his magnum opus in writing rather than in rehearsal. The sheer humiliation if Serafina had overheard him…
Even as he stepped up on deck, he retained some small hope that it might be Enzo after all. But as his gaze flicked over the already bustling crowd that’d gathered to while away the evening with drink and dance, he found no familiar black bauta mask, nor even a servant in the black-and-silver Scaevola livery. He supposed either Enzo or his staff would’ve just come belowdecks themselves rather than ask him to meet them above.
Perhaps, he thought as he wound his way through the throng, his mysterious gentleman caller was an admirer from the ball. If so, Fiore knew not whether to entertain them or send them on their way. If Enzo withdrew his offer—which he had every right to do, in Fiore’s mind, given how Fiore had toyed with him these past months—then…
Corelli caught his eye as he approached and jerked her chin towards a particular patron amidst the clamoring crowd at the bar.
The fellow stood quiet, solitary amidst the many, with only his fingertips tapping against the bar betraying his unease. He wore a well-groomed moustache and an artisan’s garb. He didn’t appear much taller than Fiore himself, though of a slightly stockier build and about a decade older. His dark hair had grown just long enough to tie back in a queue but not nearly as long as Enzo’s. Though if Fiore had compared any gentleman against Enzo, he would find them wanting.
This particular fellow turned at Fiore’s approach and swept his gaze up and down his frame. “You’re the courtesan, then?”
“One of two,” Fiore replied, smiling to smooth over the gruff introduction. “Though I’m told you prefer like company.”
The fellow swallowed hard. “Can I buy you a drink?”
