As I lay in the afterglow, panting softly in the dim room, my thoughts turned dark again.
What would Signor Zampa think if he knew the truth?
That the blood of darkness ran through me—that I enjoyed the murders.
That I didn’t just want Balthazar to find me?—
I needed him to.
But what if he never came?
What if he let me go?
Unable to stand the flood of doubt, I bolted upright and stormed out of my bedroom, skirts swirling around me as I descended the stairs in haste.
I found Signor Zampa sprawled on the drawing room settee, sunken into the cushions like a man caught in a drunken stupor. His hand clutched an empty tumbler to his chest, while the half-drained bottle of whiskey glinted beside him like amber poison.
His bleary eyes lit up when he saw me, and a crooked grin stretched across his face.
“What can I do for you, Lady Tocino?” he slurred, his voice heavy with warmth and liquor.
My throat tightened. I hesitated, but then the words spilled out.
“Will Lord Balthazar be able to find me after I travel for a certain amount of time?”
Zampa blinked, then pushed himself upright with effort. The alcohol made his movements sluggish, but his mind, still sharp beneath the haze, latched onto the question.
“No,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “He won’t be able to trace you. Not unless he’s traveling with a group or finds someclue. You’ll disappear, and he’ll have no idea where—orwhen—you’ve gone.”
He smiled as if that were a comfort.
But to me, it felt like a blade sliding between my ribs.
I wanted him to find me.
I craved the chase.
The collision.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered, my voice trembling despite every effort to keep it steady. “What if I land in the wrong era? What if I’m alone forever?”
Zampa let out a low, lazy chuckle, thick with whiskey and weariness. He patted the cushion beside him with a heavy hand.
“Oh, my dear,” he slurred gently. “You worry too much. Just picture when you wish to go, and the dagger will take you there. That’s all there is to it.”
I hesitated before lowering myself beside him. The sofa’s velvet was cold beneath my fingertips, almost unwelcoming—like it, too, resented what I was about to do.
“What if I can’t do it?” I asked again, more quietly this time. My words barely carried, but they felt heavier than anything I’d said all day.
Zampa’s smile flickered. For a heartbeat, something in his eyes looked clear, sober. But then he reached for the bottle again, took a long swig, and placed it back on the table with a dull thud.
“You’ll do it,” he said. “Enjoy the journey. And the safety you’ll find far away from Lord Balthazar.”
The name hung in the air like the scent of blood.
His words were meant to soothe—but they only deepened the pit in my stomach.
I thanked him, murmuring something polite, and rose to my feet. A spark ignited in my mind as I walked back to my room.
