My patience thinned to a brittle thread. His voice grated on my nerves, each word like a drop of hot wax on exposed skin. I clenched my fists, resisting the urge to act on the violent fantasy forming in my mind—a strike to the throat to silence him once and for all.
“Lastly, O God,” the priest intoned, “we pray for the souls of the Tocino family. May they find rest in your everlasting presence. Look upon them with mercy, and grant them eternal life. May their suffering be transformed into glory, and may they bask in your eternal love and forgiveness.”
I was ready to scream. Or laugh—or both.
“...We offer these prayers in the name of your son, our savior, Jesus Christ, who conquered death and offers us hope. Amen.”
“Amen,” I whispered dryly, hidden behind a stone statue of Jesus, my lips twisting in a smirk that held no reverence.
Then—a jolt.
A firm hand clamped onto my shoulder. My breath caught as I whirled around.
Signor Zampa stood beside me, tall and composed, his dark eyes locked on mine. There was a flicker of concern in his expression, but it was quickly buried beneath firm resolve.
“I’ve been looking for you all day,” he said quietly. “Lady Tocino, you need to rest. Let us leave. Now.”
The mask slid back into place.
Tears streamed down my face—perfectly placed. My voice broke on command, trembling with grief as I clutched at his coat.
“Please…” I sobbed, voice hollow and broken, “please take me home.”
The next morning, I found Signor Zampa waiting at the bottom of the stairs like a sentinel cast in stone. His face was drawn tight, his eyes shadowed and severe.
“Lady Tocino,” he said, low but forceful, “there is no time to spare. We must begin studying the sacred scriptures.Now.”
His tone was different—a fervor, a fire that hadn’t been therebefore. It echoed down the hallway. I hesitated, taken aback by the shift in him.
“Might I have breakfast first?” I asked cautiously.
“Go, go!” he snapped, waving me off. “Time is of the essence. I’ll be in my study.” He turned and disappeared down the corridor.
My heart kicked against my ribs. What had changed?
Why did it feel like we were running out of time faster than the moon could rise?
I rushed through breakfast, barely tasting the food, then hurried to his study, anxiety twisting like a thorned vine.
When I entered, Signor Zampa was already at his desk, smoothing out a fragile, yellowed parchment with shaking hands. The paper crackled as he flattened it, and then—slam. His palm struck the desk with force, making me jump.
His eyes blazed. “Memorize this. Now.”
He didn’t wait for a protest. The scripture lay before me like a curse waiting to be spoken.
I stared at the words, tongue dry, throat tight. Then I began.
“Ya hamiat alqamar fi allayl, ’adeuk litutliq aleinan lilnuwr waturshiduni khilal alzalami. Dae alshams aleazimat tarqus min hawlik bialhubi walmawadati...”
Each syllable scraped across my nerves like broken glass.
Zampa stood over me, relentless, barking corrections with the severity of a warden breaking in a prisoner. Every slip of the tongue, every faltering breath, was met with a pointed rebuke.
Finally, he slumped into his chair, rubbing at his temples, exhaustion written across his features.
“I know I’ve been harsh, Lady Tocino,” he said, voice low. “But I saw Lord Balthazar at the funeral. Lurking in the shadows. When I couldn’t find you, I feared the worst.” He clenched his fist against the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening. “He’s watching. Waiting. And I won’t let him touch you.”
My breath caught.
