The papers had appeared after I had angrily chased Chiara into her bedroom during an argument the week before. In my defense, it was an honest mistake. I knew a gentleman should never wander into a lady’s bedroom, but I was still adjusting to my altered state of corporeality.
I stood before her door, clenching and unclenching my fists. That tightness in my chest flared, constricting my movements.
I had chased her away. Again. Why did I keep arguing with her? Why did I lash out like this?
Even as I voiced the question, I knew the answer.
Not long ago, I was a lord. I was a Someone.
I inhabited a world that made sense to me. I had a definite past and a clear, bright future. Ironically, the horror of my current situation muted the pain of Sofia’s betrayal. At least if I were still living in 1818, I would have my title and wealth and the ability to woo another womanlikeSofia.
But now?
Gone.
Everything. Everyone.
My mother. Brother. Sisters. All my relatives. Friends. My entire world, vanished in a blink.
Lost.
I stood bereft with a past no one understood and an endless future of stasis. No change. Not even a whisper of physical sensation.
I inhabited a liminal space—a slice of reality trapped between life and death.
Vastly alone.
The echo that no one hears.
Chiara was the lifeline I clutched. Without her . . .
I swallowed.
Without her, I had nothing.
TWO
Florence, Italy
July 2016
Two weeks later
Chiara D’Angelo
An honest person knows when they have hit their limit—that point where a change needs to happen or someone will get hurt.
I hit mine about 10:43 on a Thursday morning in July.
If anyone could drive me right up to the edge of insanity, it was Jack Knight-Snow.
A female electronic voice drifted down the hallway from the great room, wafting into my home office.
“Born into the English aristocracy on the eve of the French Revolution, John Knight-Snow, Lord Knight, displayed an early love of antiquities and archeology. His father, Richard Knight-Snow, had conducted some minor excavations in Florence while on his Grand Tour. Unfortunately, his father died in 1812 in London, leaving his excavations incomplete. His son, John Knight-Snow, was determined to complete his father’s legacy—”
“Pardon, Siri. Pause, please.” Jack’s posh aristocratic accents silenced the woman’s voice. “Siri, start over.”
Dutifully, Siri started reading his Wikipedia page.
