I adored him, and I hated him for making me adore him.
I was furious at him for criticizing me, and I was terrified that there might actually be a thread of truth in his criticism.
But mostly, I was disappointed in him for giving up on us.
I wanted him tofightfor me.
Instead, he had left . . . looked me up and down and then shook his head,No. Rejecting me. Proving once again, I wasn’t enough for a man I loved.
Okay, so clearly I had lingering Daddy issues. When would the pain of Babbo’s betrayal end?
Naturally, rather than deal with the problem, I did what I did best—I avoided thinking about it, buried myself in work and cursed the world, men and Jack in that specific order. The whole time firmly telling my broken heart tobuck up and deal.
I heard nothing from Jack personally, though he did speak with Tennyson every day, often via video chat. Which meant I had to sit one room over—I couldn’t physically force myself closer or farther away—listening to Jack’s sexy laugh and rounded aristocratic drawl as he discussed podcasts, museum display schedules and media interviews. Apparently, Jack also continued to explore the D’Angelo archive, laboriously reading Cesareil Pompaso’swritings, trying to find more clues.
As for the black vellum pages, Claire had taken them to be scanned by an expert in Rome. We hoped to get the results back any day.
I was sitting in the drawing room nine days after leaving Jack, sorting through research materials on the couch, when Tennyson plopped himself down beside me, his laptop under his arm.
I smiled at him. “You seem to be doing better nowadays.”
His lips curved up at the edges before he shrugged. “I don’t know if I’m doing better, per se. I still feel fractured and fracturing. But, as I’ve said, helping others makes me feel more whole. Acting as a true oracle makes me feel less divided.”
His gaze drifted away as he spoke, eyes looking out the open windows, across the terrace to the space where the old tower had once stood.
The summer air hung with humidity, the kind of humidity that swathed the Tuscan hills in hazy smoke and turned even breathing into a muggy chore. The rural roads around Volterra showcased fields of giant, yellowgirasoli—sunflowers or ‘turn suns’ if you took the translation literally—obsessively tracking the sun across the sky as they danced along the horizon.
Tennyson turned back to me. “How are you?”
“Fine. Just researching.”
“And your visions?”
“Meh. I’m the same as I’ve always been.”
A murmuration of starlings swept past the window, darting and swirling into the sky.
“A storm comes.” The words passed my lips before I thought.
“You’re getting better at that.”
I gave a one-shouldered shrug. Anyone who lived in Tuscany knew that it only took a tiny bit of cold air to turn dense humidity into a powerful thunderstorm.
But me? A psychic?
I had spent my life thinking I was merely a victim of the D’Angelo curse drama. I struggled to accept that I might be part of it.
“Do you think I’ll go insane?” I asked.
“Goinsane? You mean you can travel farther down that path?”
“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”
“C’mon, that at least deserved a rim shot.”
“Not a chance.”
Silence.
