“Oh, Papa. I’ve been seeing someone sinceTomaso was murdered. I didn’t think I could tell you about him, but now I must.” My heart quivered in my chest, fearing my father’s rejection. “He’s the only man I want to be with.”
Papa’s jaw tightened as if he were biting iron. “Who is it? Who is this man?”
His fingers balled into fists by his side.
Anxious by his reaction, I slid from the chair arm and stood before him. “It’s Lord Balthazar. He’s my true love.”
Papa’s face grew red, and he looked like he might hit me. “You will not be with Lord Balthazar!” he roared. “He’s lived in our village since I can remember, here for lengths of time and gone for equal amounts. Foul deeds happen when he’s here. He’s a dangerous man!”
I folded my arms across my chest. The room had grown chilly despite the fire crackling in the fireplace behind me. “He is the most beautiful man I’ve ever been with—he understands and adores me, Papa, don’t you see?”
“I don’t see, amore! Everyone knows Lord Balthazar. He has a horrible reputation and, most importantly, is dangerous. There are whispers of him and the darkness and danger he carries. People say that he is a killer and a murderer.”
Could the rumors be true? Balthazar had never shown me anything but passion and love.
Gooseflesh rippled over my skin, and I had to look away from the journal.
I turned to Emily. “Can you believe this? How our mother fell for Balthazar—how he ensorcelled her?”
I shoved the journal into her hands, my mind reeling from what we had just uncovered. Balthazar had seduced my mother when she was only sixteen. A sickening wave of loathing coursed through my insides. Wrapping my arms around myself, I rocked as if that could soothe me.
Emily’s voice finally pierced through the silence. “Let’s finish reading.”
“I need water first.” My eyes landed on a ceramic pitcher perched at the edge of Malik’s desk beside a delicate teacup painted with tiny violets. I rose, poured water into the cup—its rim stained brown from years of tea—and downed it in a single gulp. “Want some?”
Emily shook her head.
Setting the teacup aside, I drifted to the window. Outside, the wind howled, shrieking like a wounded creature through the eaves.
“Olivia, come sit with me again,” Emily urged.
Sighing, I returned to the velvet sofa, sinking beside her. She handed the journal back, and with a deep breath, I flipped to another page.
Once more, we huddled together, bracing ourselves for the ghosts of our mother’s past.
My father stood before me and said, “I’m not your birth father.”
I frowned at this and turned the page. Was Mom adopted?
“Why are you telling me this now?” I cried out. “Are you trying to distract me from your fears about Balthazar?”
“Hear me out, child. I’m your adopted father,” my Papa said. “Your mother and I couldn’t have children, so we adopted you. We were in the park—you know that beautiful park with all the statues of gods?”
I numbly nodded but still stood with my arms crossed. I was reeling at this new admission, barely tracking his words. Adopted? Me? My legs trembled like they couldn’t hold me aloft, so I sat on the sofa across from him.
A cascade of sparks shot above the flames in the fireplace, perhaps in keeping with my mood.
Father continued speaking. “So, we were walking, arm in arm, enjoying the park’s beauty, and we saw a baby in a basket with a note. A baby! Can youbelieve it?”
His eyes shone as he looked at me, but I could barely meet his gaze. How could I be adopted? What kind of parents would give up their child?
Several small blotches stained the page, slightly smearing the ink.
Had Mom been crying when she wrote this?
I turned the page.
Father spoke again. “There was a handwritten note in the basket. And you were tucked inside a blanket, staying quiet, like someone had told you not to make a sound.”
