I had desired my entire life—envied, praised, chased. I wasn’t used to pity. I didn’twantto be examined like some wounded creature barely clinging to life.
Turning my back on him, I rolled away and dragged the thin blanket over my head, shielding myself from his gaze.
His footsteps moved away, a heavy rhythm across the wooden floor. The door creaked open, then clicked shut. Silence followed.
Eventually, I stretched my aching limbs across the straw-filledmattress and let my body sink into the musty linens. Time slipped by in uneven gasps of breath. I didn’t know how long I lay there before I heard the distantclatterof hooves and wooden wheels.
I dragged myself to the window.
Outside, a horse and buggy had arrived. A dapper man climbed down from the buckboard, his dark mustache waxed to a sharp point, his black coat crisp despite the dust. He retrieved a leather satchel from the back and stood still momentarily, surveying the dry land around him. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the fields to fire. The broken barn in the distance looked like a tombstone.
The man disappeared, striding toward the house.
Moments later, boots tromped toward my room. The door opened, and the caretaker entered with the mustached stranger.
“Hello, miss,” the newcomer said in Italian.
I sat up fast, a flood of questions bursting from my lips. “You speak Italian? Where am I? Who brought me here? Who is he?” I pointed to the man who’d cared for me. “What is this place?”
“Wait, wait,” the mustached man said, pumping his hands in a calming gesture. “You must speak slowly. I am not fluent in Italian. But first, introductions. This is Philip Weston.” He gestured to the other man. “And I am Dr. Clive Carson. What is your name?”
I shook my head and gave my most practiced blank stare. “Non ti capisco.”
Dr. Carson didn’t flinch. “Philip tells me you’ve been unconscious for days,” he continued, slower now, his Italian passable. “He said he found you bloodied and half-dead on the plains after returning from the war.” His eyes narrowed. “Who beat you?”
“I don’t recall,” I lied flatly. “I was attacked in the forest.”
“Pity,” he murmured. “You’re… gravemente ferita.Severely injured. That’s the phrase I was searching for. May I examine you?”
My gaze flicked between him and Philip. I hesitated, then shook my head.
“Please, dear,” he said gently. “You won’t recover properly without treatment. Let me help. Philip will step outside. Won’t you, Philip?”
Philip nodded once and left the room without a word.
I let out a long sigh and gave the doctor a weary shrug. He didn’t waste time.
He pulled out a mix of polished instruments and small glass vials from his worn satchel. There were herbs, a saw, forceps… the works of a battlefield physician. He peeled open the tattered front of my dress, working with a mechanical grace, careful not to expose more than necessary. He touched and prodded, murmuring to himself. When he finished, he packed everything away and slipped out in silence.
Minutes later, he returned—his expression unreadable.
“I don’t know where Philip has gone. But I do have news. I hope…” He struggled with the words. “My Italian is… rusty.” He raised his arms and rocked them like he held an infant.
A cold dread shot up my spine.
“No…” I whispered, eyes widening. “No no no no…”
It couldn’t be.
Ithadto be Balthazar’s.
“No!” I screamed, fury detonating in my chest like a cannon blast. I lunged from the bed, pain forgotten, and snatched the doctor by his collar, my nails raking across his throat.
“Get out!” I shrieked. “Get away from me!”
Dr. Carson stumbled back, stunned, his mouth agape.
“I must leave,” I growled, panting like a feral beast. “Now.”
