A heavy velvet curtain draped the tall window, muting the palelight as it filtered through layers of lace. In the corner sat a massive mahogany desk, atop it a tarnished typewriter—its keys worn and silent. The steady tick of a grandfather clock kept time like an eternal heartbeat.
A loud clatter came from the foyer, startling me. I bolted to my feet and raced to see if Balthazar had arrived home again. I was oh, so eager to see him.
A strange but beautiful man carried Balthazar in his arms, walking across the floor with purposeful strides. He looked up when I slipped through the doorway, and I was met with eyes the color of emeralds.
“Ah, you’re home, Lady Tocino. Where might I put him?”
I was shocked he knew my name, yet deeply disturbed to see Balthazar hanging limply in his arms.
“Is he dead?” I said, my hands fluttering around my face like birds.
“Balthazar?” the male said, his eyebrows arching. “No. But he’s quite ill. He killed the wrong person. He killed a sick person and took on their bad energy. Where might I place him, mademoiselle? He’s growing heavier by the second.”
As he drew closer, I became lost in the stranger’s green eyes and sculpted face. His strong jawline was lined with a day’s dark stubble, and his high, prominent cheekbones gave way to a wide forehead that spoke of intelligence and strength. His eyes were almond-shaped and bright, with long, dark eyelashes that danced like a fan when he blinked.
My breath caught in my chest, and my skin flushed with heat. I’d never felt such a physical reaction to anyone before, and the sensation was dizzying.
The stranger smiled at me, his eyes twinkling with mischief and understanding. “Mademoiselle?”
His gaze flitted toward Balthazar, who sagged in the stranger’s arms.
“Oh! Of course,” I stammered, snapping out of my daze. “Bring him into the drawing room, if you please.”
I hurried ahead, gesturing for him to follow. With a quick sweep, I snatched my diary off the settee and stepped aside to clear space.
The stranger lowered Balthazar with exquisite care, as if placinga child in a cradle. There was something almost reverent about the way he handled him.
Balthazar groaned, his face pale and slick with sweat.
“You’d best fetch a basin,” the stranger said, not missing a beat. “He’ll be violently ill when he wakes. Do you have any tinctures or draughts for gastritis?”
“Gastritis?” I repeated, my brows knitting together.
“A stomach condition,” he explained, casting me a kind and quietly commanding look.
He perched beside Balthazar, fingers brushing the damp hair from his fevered brow.
“Quick,” he urged, eyes still on Balthazar. “He’s burning up.”
Balthazar curled in on himself, drawing his legs toward his stomach with a soft, pained moan.
I spun on my heel and hurried from the room, heart pounding. I returned a few minutes later, clutching a basin and a small satchel of medicinal supplies—but the stranger was gone.
Vanished.
Balthazar had shifted on the settee, hunched over his abdomen, eyes glassy with pain.
The moment he saw me, he waved an impatient hand. “Over here with that basin.Quickly.”
I rushed to him and knelt just in time.
His body heaved, and a violent stream of vomit splashed into the basin. The stench was revolting—thick, acidic, and unnatural. I turned my head and clenched my jaw to keep from gagging. I was not built for nursemaid duties, which was beyond what I could stomach.
It took everything in me not to throw the basin out the window and run screaming from the room.
At last, the retching subsided. Balthazar collapsed against the cushions, pale and trembling, his skin clammy with sweat.
“Water,” he croaked. “And get that putrid mess away from me.”
