“Not yet.”
Beatrix has always found time a strange companion. Tonight, it is fleeting, the night rushing toward dawn too fast. She blinks, and the two bronze figures on top of the clock tower are striking their bell: midnight, one, two. She blinks, and she is leaving the piazza with the man, her arm slipped through his. Her feet ache from a night of dancing and her head buzzes with icing sugar and bubbly wine. She isn’t sure where they are going. She is sure she doesn’t care.
They stop on the Rialto Bridge. Beatrix leans over the side of the stone railing, watches the Grand Canal flow beneath her feet. The man leans next to her, his arm brushing against hers. The sound of revelry has faded with the coming dawn. She should get back to the manor before Jane finds her missing, but her goodbye dies on her tongue.
Beatrix pulls the heavy felted wool hat from her head, lets the breezeoff the water drift through the loose strands of her hair. The man tucks one behind her ear, his fingers grazing her neck. His touch lingers. Her pulse quickens.
He reaches for the ribbon securing her mask. “May I?” he asks, his voice low in her ear. It sends a shiver through her.
“Yes.”
He tugs on the ribbon. The knot releases, and something in Beatrix does, too. The man gingerly pulls the mask from her face, and the tips of his fingers brush against her skin.
Beatrix meets his gaze. Her porcelain mask slips from his grasp, shatters against the white stone bridge. It’s the single word from his lips that breaks the illusion. “Beatrix?”
She takes a wary step away from him. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” He’s still masked, still only a ghost of Carnevale.
“You’re the one who’s following me,” he says pointedly.
“I beg your pardon?”Is he drunk?
“Don’t you remember?” he asks. “You tried to pick my pocket.”
“I’ve done no such thing,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest. “And that is quite the accusation.”
“Oh, not tonight,” he clarifies. “In London. About a hundred years ago.”
Her heart lurches. That’s impossible. She takes another step back.
The man reaches into his trouser pocket, pulls out a silver coin, and tosses it to her. She catches it in her cupped hands.
The memory hits her like a bolt of lightning. The Globe.A Midsummer Night’s Dream. An impromptu feast and a tour around London. “Oliver?”
She didn’t know she remembered his name until she’s spoken it. That is the least of her concerns.
He pulls off his hat and mask and runs a hand through his hair with a bemused smile.
Beatrix’s blood runs cold. Oliver looks exactly the same as he did when he left her standing on a different bridge, overlooking a different river, 106 years ago. Same mop of brown hair. Same dazzling blue eyes. Same endearing smile. She can’t look away. It’s impossible. He’s impossible.
Just like her.
“What are you? A devil? A faerie?” Her heart races.Cursed?
He steps closer, erases the space between them. “Listen, I know it’s breaking protocol, but please, tell me who you are. I swear I won’t breathe a word of this to Lucy.”
Beatrix pulls away. “I’m here with Lady DeSallowe.JaneDeSallowe.”
A shadow passes over his face. “Didn’t Lucy send you to keep an eye on me?”
Beatrix shakes her head. “I don’t know anyone named Lucy.”
His brow furrows. “You’re not here with Aevum?”
“No.”
“Another agency?”
She still doesn’t know what he’s saying.
