I smile gently at the admission, a smattering of butterflies flitting about in my stomach.
Not wanting to push him, I say, “One day, I hope you’ll trust me enough to talk about them. About your parents.”
He peers over at me, expression unguarded. It allows the pain to seep past the small frames of his glasses, revealing a piece of his soul that’s dark and cold and alone. “I hope so too.”
And I don’t take offense to that. People should be allowed to keep their most precious secrets, and, as much as I’ve decided to trust Bes and Cec, certain things are still off limits—including my father.
I’m not sure how much time Bes had with his parents, whether they died together or some years apart, but it never would’ve been enough. His only other family besides Cec is his uncle Ansaldo, and I can’t imagine he’s ever been the nurturing sort.
Nonna, though,isthe nurturing sort. She might not have given me life, but she was as good a mom as any of the other kids’. Not because she was my blood—because shecaredfor me. She was someone who I knew would drop everything to be there if I needed her. Did Bes have anyone like that? He had Cec, of course, but they’re both young. It’s not the same as being raised by an adult who cares about your well-being before anyone else’s.
I again wonder if Nonna is involved in this place and its secrets—something I’ll have to demand from Ansaldo later.
I take in Bes’s shadowy profile. Though we both lacked parents, my childhood was nothing like Bes’s—not when he had to live in this place for however many years. The only semblance of a parent offered to him was the order—an unfeeling religious patriarchy, worried more about the rest of the world than what might be poisoning their own house.
A few silent paces more and we come upon a row of thick wooden doors, pinned to the walls with solid iron brackets. I wonder if these doors are as old as the castle above our heads, when Bes grabs a key from a hook beside the handle of the second door and opens it. It creaks minimally, revealing by lamplight a simple room with a small bed, a wooden armoire, and beyond us, another closed door. I step inside and set my luggage down, marking where Bes places the key on a hook inside.
“You’ll find a bathroom with running water straight through there, and a few changes of clothes in the armoire. Dinner is at eight o’clock sharp.”
I turn to look at him with new eyes. He stands uncomfortably just inside the threshold. He’s dead on his feet: the skin beneath his bloodshot eyes is darker and slightly puffed, and the black eye he earned the night before has yellowed even more aroundthe edges. Dark stubble peppers the lower half of his face. His dark, untamed hair nearly covers the edges of his spectacles.
I swallow hard. Even in exhaustion and injury, Bes is sort of beautiful.
He’s tired of running too.Although, from what I’ve gleaned, being back here isn’t much of a reprieve for him.
“Eight? But that’s so late.”
He smirks. “No, it’s not; Americans eat early. A good number of Europeans don’t eat until nine or ten, sometimes eleven.”
I shrug. “If you say so.”
I expect Bes to leave, but he lingers.
“Your room is larger than mine,” he says finally, stepping inside. As if he’s not ready to leave my side just yet.
“Not like you ever use yours,” I counter, sitting down on the bed. I hate that I don’t know what to do with my hands. If I fold them in my lap, I’ll look like I’m nervous. But if I leave them untethered, who knows what they’ll do. In a last-ditch effort, I decide the best course of action is to sit on them.
Smiling absentmindedly, Bes concedes. “Fair enough.”
He peers around the space, his head on a swivel. The sharp angles of his profile, coupled with us being alone, warms and empties my belly all at once. When he’s not pissing me off or lying to my face, Bes brings a calm with him that I can’t help clinging to. His presence at this moment soothes my anger instead of igniting it.
He stops beside the opposite wall, next to the armoire, and beckons me with a wave. “Look at this.”
I do as he asks, though I stop short. I stand close enough I’m certain I’ll be able to see whatever he wants to show me, but far enough away I won’t be affected by him.
“Closer,” he summons me.
So much for keeping my distance. Against my better judgment, I move in, my shoulder brushing his.
He points to a particular piece of stone embedded into the wall. “See this?” I nod. “What’s different about it?”
Ignoring our proximity, I scrutinize the rectangular section of rock: it looks to be the same color as all the others around it with some expected variation, and its size is similar as well. I lean in further, angling my head to the side, where I catch the edge of a shadow underneath.
“It’s raised slightly more than the rest.”Just like the hieroglyphs at the Temple of Seti I.
“Well done,” he commends. My cheeks warm. I shouldn’t blush for what amounts to him giving me a gold star for being observant—which is what I’m apparently known far and wide for—but Bes doesn’t often dole out compliments.
He knocks on it. “It’s a hidden compartment. Most of the order members have no idea that one exists in every room, but it does. When the order first found this place, before the blood oath seal was carved into the stone floor and the metal door installed, they were built to hide blades and poisons and all sorts of small, helpful items.”
