I shrugged, barely able to hold on to the conversation, let alone offer an answer. Especially when I still had questions of my own. “Then where did I come from?”
He carefully took both my hands, his fingers still cold from the wind, his skin still smudged with dried blood beneath the black chains.
“I don’t know,” he said again. “What I do know is that you helped me when I needed it most. You knew what I did not. You gave me the truth—and hope.” He paused, a bright light in his blue eyes. “And now I will do my best to return the favor. I don’t know where you came from, but I promise I will do everything in my power to help you return home.”
Home. The word conjured the sensation of family, of refuge, of chocolate melting on my tongue. Longing welled up deep within me, but I knew that, as much as I wanted to go home, there was something I had to do first.
If I could only remember what it was.
Chapter 5
Father Marchello returned with two bowls of broth in his hands and a large blanket draped over one arm. He left them on the edge of the pew, carefully straightening the folds of the blanket. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Orlando replied. “You have done more than we could have expected. We are in your debt.”
The priest bowed and silently receded into the shadows.
Orlando waited until we were alone before reaching for the bowls with trembling hands. His face was haggard and pale. His dark hair was stiff with dried sweat and his blue eyes were smudged with exhaustion. As he handed one bowl to me, his sleeve pulled back over his wrist, revealing the hard edge of the black bands marked on his body.
Our eyes met at the same time as our hands did, and I quickly accepted the food, allowing Orlando a moment to tug his sleeves down, hiding the brands.
My eyes caught on the gesture and a wave of memory slid over my eyes. Another cold night. Another hand tugging a sleeve down over a slender wrist. Another set of black chains. And then the memory was gone, lost in the shifting fog. Had I really seen something? Or was my tired mind simply playing tricks on me? I shook my head. It hurt to try to think around the block in my memory. I had just left behind my last headache. I really didn’t want to invite another one in.
I swallowed down a mouthful of a warm broth flavored with basil and sweet milk. I could feel the warmth travel all through me. “This is delicious.” I sighed with satisfaction and quickly took another drink.
Orlando watched me with a smile. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“I can’t remember,” I said around another mouthful. “Too long.”
“Here,” Orlando said, pouring some of his broth into the bottom of my bowl.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“I insist.” He used his finger to stop the drip of the broth that had spilled over the side. “There is more than enough to share.”
I cradled the warm bowl in my hands and looked up at him. “Thank you,” I said, knowing that those two simple words were not capable of carrying the weight of emotion that I felt. “For the food, the cloak. And for the information. You’re like some kind of hero—rescuing a damsel in distress and everything,” I said with a half laugh, quickly brushing my hand across my eyes to prevent the tears I felt welling up from falling. I wanted him to think I was brave, even though I felt small and lost and alone at the moment.
“Oh, no, my lady,” he murmured. “I’m no hero.” A mask of sadness covered his face, seeming to age him as I watched.
The fog in my mind shifted, an almost-memory stirring, but before I could bring it to light, he leaned forward. For a moment I thought he might touch my cheek, but instead he lifted my empty bowl from my hands and set it to the side.
“You should try to rest a little. Morning will be here soon.”
I nodded, yawning. I was warm and fed and feeling at peace in a quiet and still place. Rest sounded wonderful. I lay down on the pew, curling up to cradle as much of my body heat next to my chest as possible.
Through half-closed lids, I saw Orlando quietly slip from the pew and wrap the blanket around his shoulders. He walked the few steps to the main doors of the church and stood in front of the window, watching, guarding, protecting.
Between one breath and the next, I closed my eyes and let myself drift away.
• • •
The dream was as dark as midnight and as vast as the sky. Woven into the darkness was a thin mist of light, a curtain of song that swayed and chimed. The song wasn’t anything fancy or grand, just a few simple notes strung together in a gentle harmony.
And then out of the blackness, out of the mist of notes, a man with a bandage across his eyes emerged.
I had seen him before, hadn’t I? I couldn’t quite remember.
He strode forward, a lion on the prowl. In his hands, he carried a polished golden guitar like a fresh kill. He wrapped the embroidered strap around his fist and his mouth twisted into a snarl.
“You should know better than to leave your prize possessions unattended,” the blind man said. “Why, anyone could just come by and take them and break them into pieces.”
For a moment, I thought he was talking to me, but then I saw, standing along the edge of shadow, someone else. A second man. But he was just a blurry outline. Just a shape in the margin of my dream.
Without warning, the blind man lifted the guitar high above his head and brought it down hard, smashing the instrument with a sound of split wood and torn strings. The neck snapped in half. The sudden violence rippled through the dream like a shock wave, silencing the music that had been playing.
The shadow man dropped to his knees, and in the quiet that descended, a roar of rage and pain tore through the dream, blowing the curtain of music to tatters.
The blind man stood tall and still, listening to the wild sound as it built to a piercing crescendo.
After an endless time, the scream finally faded away.
In the silence that followed, the blind man dropped the broken remains of the guitar at his feet, turned, and walked away. The outline of his body blurred along the edges as he vanished.
The shadow man vanished as well, leaving behind the lumps of wood and strings that had once been a guitar.
I was alone again in my dream.
The darkness reached out for me like shadows.
Slowly, the music returned, but hesitantly, the chimes only occasionally ringing.
I thought they sounded a little like a voice, like they were speaking a language I could almost understand. They sounded a little like my name. A little like . . .
“My lady?” The voice came to me on a hurried breath, a tone mostly filled with deference, but underscored with a thin thread of demand.
The shape of my dream shattered as I jerked awake and sat up quickly. I hadn’t been asleep for long; the windows were still dark with night. I could feel my heart beating faster, anxious and unsettled. The fragile images from my dream were already fading. There had been two men and a guitar. And there had been music. A song I almost recognized, almost remembered.
I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus, and saw someone in a worn, black cassock standing next to me. He was young—maybe the same age as Orlando, maybe a year or two older—though his black hair was snow-white along the edges. His dark eyes held mine and the light I saw shining in their depths was bright, wild and intense. He hummed a quiet tune, something insistent, something that sounded like the same song I had heard in my dream. The music of my name.
At the touch of those notes inside of me, my heart woke up. A buzz built in my mind, a high, clear note that lifted me with it as it spiraled up through my memories, cutting through the darkness that had weighed me down.
The music was everywhere. The music was everything.
And I suddenly recognized him. I remembered him. Seeing him made me smile; I couldn’t help it. I loved him. I remembered loving him.
He returned my smile. “I’m so glad to see you.” His silky vo
ice matched the music inside of me. “I was worried that perhaps you’d forgotten me.”
I shook my head, not daring to speak. Filled with a sudden rush of shy adoration, I felt like I was dreaming again, the world drifting and slowing into softness around me. It was so good to see him. I felt safe, and the lingering darkness inside my mind was comfortable instead of oppressive. I wanted to stay as close to him as I could for as long as possible.
He glanced over my shoulder, and I half turned, following his gaze. Orlando had left his post at the window and was walking slowly down the far aisle toward the nave, his head tilted back so he could look up at the sculpted pillars and the filigree work around the windows.
When he reached the front of the nave, he slid into the first pew and knelt down. He locked his hands together in prayer and closed his eyes.
I turned around. The man standing before me had gone rigid. His breathing turned quick and shallow. A line of sweat broke out across his forehead. I saw an expression of pain pass across his face, tightening the skin around his eyes, before he quickly masked it. When he turned his attention back to me, his face was smooth. His eyes were the black of a raven’s wing. I could see how carefully he held himself, as if any sudden movement would break him or make him lose his tightly wound control.
A flutter of emotion filled me, a blend of fear and desire.
“I want you to trust me,” he murmured, the music of his voice winding its way deeper into my mind. He reached out to brush the hair back from my face. He wore leather gloves on his hands, the material smooth and soft and strangely warm. The wide sleeves of his cassock reminded me of angel’s wings, though in shadow instead of stone. “You know you can.”
My doubts disappeared at his touch. Of course I could trust him. I loved him.
“Will you come with me?” he asked, low and urgent.
I nodded immediately and stood up. I would go anywhere with him; I would do anything for him.
He slipped a gloved hand beneath my elbow and drew me deeper into the shadows, leading me to the foot of a statue of an angel. The carved marble wings were curved, not quite unfurled, and the angel’s head was bowed, stone tears frozen on his smooth cheek. Standing in the shadow of the angel made me feel like I was sheltered in a protective embrace.
He slid his hand from my elbow down to my fingers. A shudder passed through his whole body, but he controlled it immediately. “Will you do something for me?”
“Anything,” I breathed. I leaned forward, eager to hear his request and obey.
“Say my name. I want to hear it from your lips.”
My response was automatic. “Lorenzo,” I said, and felt a secret thrill pass through me. “Your name is Lorenzo.”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
He kept his eyes on me as he gently turned my bare hand in his, lifting my wrist and breathing a kiss along my skin.
His mouth never touched me, but I shivered as though it had. I felt heat radiating from his skin with a feverish intensity.
Lorenzo released my hand and my fingers tingled, aching to return to his grasp.
Another shudder suddenly passed through him, but this time he inhaled sharply in pain. He hunched over and pressed his fist to his chest. A drop of sweat slid from his forehead down the side of his cheek.
“Are you all right?” I asked in concern. “What is it? Is there a problem?”
Lorenzo forced himself upright, though I could see the effort it took him. His smile was a fixed grimace. “Nothing I can’t manage. Although, there is something you can do for me.” He held up his thumb and forefinger, so close they were almost touching. “A small something.”
My heart leaped at the chance. “Of course. What can I do? How can I help?” I didn’t feel like I had much to offer. But I wanted to do whatever he asked. I wanted to be needed.
Lorenzo closed the distance between us with a single step. He placed his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs brushing down along my collarbone to the heart-shaped locket resting against my throat. The leather of his gloves creaked over his hands.
I held my breath at the nearness of him.
“I need you to give me your heart,” he said.
“Is that all?” I said with a smile. “It’s yours, you know that. It always has been.” I reached up and unfastened the silver chain. I held the locket in my hand, the chain spilling through my fingers like a string of stars. As I looked at the finely engraved lines that crisscrossed the heart, the music that had been in my head turned to a sour note of warning. I hesitated. A shadow of a feeling emerged. A brief memory that the locket was important and that—like my name—I wasn’t supposed to give it to anyone.
I shook my head and closed my fingers over the locket, hiding it from sight. The music returned to its familiar sweet melody. This was Lorenzo. He wouldn’t ask me for it if it wasn’t important. If it wouldn’t help him somehow.
I reached for his hand and placed the locket in his palm. A flicker of electricity zinged through me as our fingers touched, and I looked up in surprise. Lorenzo’s dark eyes seemed to be even darker and his smile even wider.
“Thank you, my sweet,” he said, tucking my locket into a secret pocket of his cassock. “You have indeed given me a gift. One that means more to me than you can imagine.”
“I’m glad I could make you happy,” I said.
“I know.” He tilted my face toward his with the tip of his finger.
I closed my eyes. A fire burned inside me and I knew only his touch could grant me relief.
His kiss was like nothing I’d felt before. A wild storm passed from him to me, filled with unexpected emotions: controlled anger, a hard confidence, a darkly sweet hint of humor. His was a kiss that demanded, that took, and gave nothing in return.
The block in my memories shuddered at the touch of his mouth on mine. The warning note returned, but now it had increased in volume and pitch. This was a warning. This kiss. This moment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
I opened my eyes in alarm at the same moment a voice said, “What’s going on?”
Lorenzo snapped away from me, his head whipping around, his body humming with controlled tension. “Orlando. It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it?”
Chapter 6
I pressed my lips together, still feeling the touch of Lorenzo’s cold fire kiss on them. My neck felt bare; I wanted my locket back. I wrapped my hand around my wrist, hoping to stop the trembling in my fingers. How could a kiss be so wrong? But it was. The sensation of being lost in a dream started to fade, my senses sharpening and alert. Something bad had just happened.
But when I looked at Lorenzo, I feared that what was about to happen would be even worse.
“What are you doing here?” Orlando demanded, his gaze never leaving Lorenzo’s face.
“What does it look like?” Lorenzo asked, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “I’m kissing a pretty girl.”
I flushed and looked down, confused and embarrassed.
“You’re not supposed to be here.” Orlando took a step forward, managing to angle his body so he was partway between me and Lorenzo.
“Neither are you.”
Orlando frowned.
“Besides, is there somewhere else I’m supposed to be?” Lorenzo took a step closer to the angel statue, lounging against the wings. The angel rocked a little on the base, unsettled by the extra weight. “Maybe someplace darker? Less sacred? Am I defiling this holy church simply by being here?”
With each mocking question Lorenzo asked, Orlando inched closer to him, his right hand locking into a fist.
“Tell me, Orlando. Why, exactly, are you surprised to see me?”
“Because—” He shot a look at me over his shoulder and then lowered his voice. “Because I thought—”
“You thought I was in prison.”
The truth turned Orlando’s face red, and I stifled a gasp, looking between the two men
.
“And yet, you are the one standing here in chains.” Lorenzo nodded to the black bands around Orlando’s wrists. “After what you’ve done, I’m surprised they allowed you to walk free. Then again, I know more about what you’ve done than you think.”
I looked from Lorenzo to Orlando. What had they done?
Lorenzo turned to me, his dark eyes snapping with a wild light. “How much do you know about Orlando? Because he is not who he appears to be.”
“He’s not?” I blinked. That strange discordant note of warning sounded in my head again, but before I could focus on it, Lorenzo continued speaking, his words clipped.