Cec would absolutely abandon the kind of loyalty expected from the order, free spirit that he is. But Bes? I think about what happened in the car, about his blind spot for Gino—probably one of the only true mistakes he’s made in his life. Ailsa, though, he knew well and trusted completely because of her allegiance to the order. He trusts them more than he’s letting on, and, in my mind,thatis a conflict of interest.
Does protecting me mean fromallof my enemies, including the very order he serves?
“It wasn’t that long ago you would’ve chosen your order over me,” I reason gently. “Why the change of heart?”
His eyes flick to my lips, deepening. “People change, Miss Hawkins. They learn new information, and shift their opinion accordingly. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?”
I don’t answer; instead, I find myself staring at his lips too. This close to him, the urge to erase the closing gap between us, to run my fingers through that unruly hair, is—
“Belzoni,” someone barks from down the hall; I flinch, the spell he cast over me broken. “Ansaldo wants to speak with you. Now.”
Bes holds my gaze for a moment longer. Reaching out with his free hand, he grazes the inside of my palm at my side. Then he turns on his heels and heads in the direction of whoever interrupted us.
Before I can think better of it, I close the door on him like I planned to do before, turning the key he left me and locking it from the inside. Unfortunately, it does nothing to quiet my mind, my emotions rolling around inside me like a bag of marbles.
Leaning against the door, I stand there for a moment and touch my lips. I imagine what would’ve happened if Bes and I hadn’t been disturbed. If he’d done more than tuck my hair behind my ear and brush his fingers against my hand. I remember how he held me at the underground club, as if I meant more to him than just a ward to protect, or a thorn in his side. And Lord knows I wanted more from him in that moment.
Kissing Bes, though… it would only complicate things.
But there’s a difference between “shouldn’t want” and “don’t want”. Because Ididwant to kiss Bes just now. If I admit it to myself, I’ve been wanting to kiss him since that night at the museum. He’s frustrating and complicated, but loyal to the people he cares about. And even though he lied to me about who he was working for, I can’t help wanting him.
Doesn’t mean Ishouldwant him.
Despite having stepped beyond the seal that breaks his blood oath, hestillwon’t tell me anything about the Order of Cavendi and why they’re more trustworthy than the God Men to keep the Amulet of Amun safe. Has Ansaldo forbade him from telling me that as well? He promised me no more lies, no more secrets, yet he continues to keep them. Then again, who’s to say Ansaldo isn’t keeping plenty of his own secrets from his family and flock?
Just because Bes has no nefarious purpose for my being here—that he truly believes I’m safer here than out there—means nothing if he doesn’t have the whole story.
I need to think about something else,anythingelse.
Staring at the closed door to the bathroom, I wonder if it has an actual bath. I’m normally not a bath person, but I have a great need to soak in hot, soapy water until my skin prunes.
I untie my boots and strip down, tossing my dirty clothes into the far corner beside the bed and placing my watch, Nonna’s signet ring, and my father’s switchblade on the nightstand. My injured knee catches my eye, and I remove the gauze and linen strips I placed over them to maintain the integrity of the jumpsuit. No new blood, at least.Maybe they have hydrogen peroxide here.
Itwouldbe my luck to get an infection in a foreign country without access to a hospital.
I don’t remove the Amulet of Amun from around my neck, though. I don’t want to risk someone sneaking in and taking it. Staring down at it, I’m more certain than ever that I want—no, need—to know more about it. If Cec wasn’t lying when he told me Arturo—Ansaldo—would have texts on the amulet, then they should have some information on its history. Or, definitive proof that it can or cannot do what it promises.
My situation may have changed, but my curiosity has not.
Stark naked, I pad across the room and crack open the door, seeing Bes was telling the truth about the bathroom. Even more fortuitous: a porcelain clawfoot bathtub awaits me against the back wall, placed directly below a large faucet. A sink, toilet, and short hutch set beside the bathtub complete the room.
I’m surprised they took the time to add these modern amenities to such an old castle. I suppose even people who are part of a secret spy organization need to keep clean.
Probably no more than I do right now. I raise my arm and smell myself, eyes widening at the sharp scent. I’m shocked Bes stood so close to me. The dip I took in the Tyrrhenian Sea, the night before we snuck into the Port of Civitavecchia, removed the sand and grime from traveling—and, of course, there was my unintended swim in the aquifer water of the Temple of Seti I—but I’ve done plenty since then to warrant another wash.
Once I reach the tub, I turn the knob labeled “F” for what I assume is hot water, instead of the one labeled “C”. I place my hand underneath the stream. At first it comes out lukewarm, but the longer I wait, the colder it gets.I should’ve known running water didn’t meanhotwater.Refusing to give up, I turn down the “F” knob, and turn on the “C” knob. Within minutes, hot water pours from the faucet, steaming up the room. A modern marvel. Unless, of course, the Romans were here first.
I step into the tub, errantly curious about what the Italian words for hot and cold are.
Sinking down into the water, I don’t even try to stifle the moan that escapes my throat.God, this is heaven.The amulet floats gently from my chest. I grasp it in my palm, only a little surprised to find the blood undulating beneath the surface. There’s no pattern of when it does it, but it does affirm my assumption that I’m not going insane. And that coming here in search of answers was, at least for now, the right thing to do.
I plunge fully beneath the surface, coming back up to leave only my head exposed. Bathwater dribbles down my wet hair into my face. I welcome the sensation, even as it brings on an odd bout of homesickness.
I reach for one of the glass bottles set atop the hutch beside me. It has no label, but when I remove the stopper, the soft aroma of rosewater engulfs my senses and hits me like a punch to the gut.Another thing to remind me of home.
Figuring it’ll at least help my hair smell better—even if it’s unlikely to be actual shampoo—I pour some in my hand, scrubbing it into my scalp and threading it through my long, thick hair. To my surprise, it gently suds. Leaving the rosewater in for a few minutes, I close my eyes and sink into the warm water, attempting to empty my mind.
Those few minutes do wonders for my hair, but they wreak havoc on my thoughts. Without anything to busy myself with, the thoughts I pushed down and locked away break out and rise swiftly to the surface.
