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The hallways of the abbey were comfortable, warmed slightly by the last of the afternoon sun slanting through the narrow windows. Alessandro moved at an unhurried pace, hands tucked into the folds of his coat, his steps quiet despite the way his boots met the floor. It had become a habit, this walkâhalf-conscious at first, something he told himself was routine. Now, he didnât bother with the pretense.
The corridor curved gently ahead, and from the bend came the sound of footsteps. He didnât need to look to know who they belonged to. He slowed all the same, giving her time to reach him.
Lune appeared in the light, her veil pinned back slightly, allowing the breeze to catch the wisps of hair at her temple. She was not rushing, but there was a certainty to her stride, as if sheâd known he would be here and had chosen not to be surprised by it.
âYouâre early,â she said lightly as she fell into step beside him.
âIâm always early,â he replied. âYouâre the one who insists on arriving on time and pretending that makes us even.â
She glanced at him sidelong. âPunctuality is a virtue.â
âOnly when itâs yours,â he said. âWhen itâs mine, itâs apparently brooding.â
Lune gave a soft laugh, adjusting the folded edge of her sleeve as they walked. âYou do have a talent for stillness. Some of the novices have started calling you the shadow in the south wing.â
âNot terribly flattering,â he murmured. âThough itâs good to know Iâm leaving an impression.â
âShadows tend to.â
Their shoulders brushed faintly as they turned down a narrower hall. Neither of them remarked on it.
The walk toward the library had become a rhythm, something they rarely discussed but often repeated. There were always small things to talk about. Lately, their conversations had slipped toward less structured things; banter that hovered just close enough to the edge to make her smile longer than she meant to, and him glance sideways with more intention than habit.
Lune let the silence linger a little longer as they passed beside a row of arched windows, the light striping the stone floor beneath their feet. Then, with her voice pitched just low enough to sound like something meant only for him, she asked him about the letter. He hadnât touched it since the night it arrived, since she had been sitting beside him in the library, when Matteo handed it to him.
He glanced at her, then ahead again. âIt was from Antonio.â
She nodded once, unsurprised. âI guessed as much.â
âHe asked me to meet him,â Alessandro continued. âAt the west bell.â
Her steps didnât falter, but she turned slightly toward him, brows drawn in quiet thought. âDid you go?â
âNo.â His voice was calm, steady. âHe wanted a confrontation, whether he admitted it or not. It was all couched in polite phrasing, of course, all very noble, but it was a challenge.â
Luneâs eyes stayed on him, unreadable in the shifting light. âYou didnât answer, then?â
âI answered by not showing up.â
They rounded a corner, the familiar entrance to the library drawing nearer.
âIâm not interested in theatrics,â Alessandro said. âOr in trying to outmaneuver someone who wants me to act like a boy again. Thatâs not who I am anymore.â
Lune was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful. âYou could have told me that night.â
âYou were beside me when it arrived,â he said softly. âI didnât want to bring him into that room with us any more than he already was.â
A pause passed between them, light and difficult all at once.
She nodded again, this time slower. âThen Iâm glad you didnât go.â
He looked at her. âAre you?â
She held his gaze for a moment before answering. âYes. I am.â
Alessandro didnât look away, though something in his posture eased, almost imperceptibly. âHeâll take it as cowardice, I feel.â
âThen let him,â she said. âItâs the only language he knows how to read. If you spoke in your own, he wouldnât understand it. He doesn't understand much..â
The doors to the library came into view, half-cast in shadow, the iron handles catching what little light remained in the dim part of the hallway. Their footsteps softened as they neared, the hush settling around them like an exhale.
âI saw you tuck it away before I could read the name,â she said. âAnd I saw something change in your face.â
He gave a short breath of acknowledgment, more sigh than laugh. âI didnât know how to explain it without sounding petty.â
âYou donât,â she said. âAnd you havenât.â
He reached for the door but didnât open it yet, his hand resting on the wood. âHe wants me in his world. Playing by his rules. Same as always.â
Lune stood close enough now that her voice barely had to rise. âYou donât have to go to his world. You could make your own.â
Alessandroâs eyes flicked toward her, his gaze sharper than before. âI prefer not to live in fantasy,â he said, pushing the door open now and letting her walk in ahead of him. âI have mine right in front of me.â
The door closed gently behind them, muffling the distant sounds of the hall. The library greeted them with its usual hush, warm and weighty with the scent of aged paper and the faint trace of candle smoke, the room bathed in a golden, half-dreamt quality. Lune walked ahead toward the windowsill where she often perched now, after the night where sheâd initially made the space her bed. She didnât reply right away, as if carrying his words in her hands, turning them over, feeling their weight before deciding what to do with them.
Alessandro followed more slowly. His fingers brushed against the nearest row of books, not for any particular volume but as a way of grounding himself, or perhaps itching to touch something, although it was a habit he had never kept before. He watched her settle into the wide sill, her knees drawn up slightly, arms curled loose around them.
âYou shouldnât say things like that,â she said at last, her voice low and unhurried, eyes fixed on the dim pane of glass. âNot if you donât mean them.â
âIâve never been very good at saying what I donât mean.â
That drew a soft look from her. Not a smile exactly, but something quieter, more private. âThen maybe I shouldnât have said anything at all.â
He leaned against the edge of the nearest table, arms folded across his chest. âToo late now.â
They let the silence linger, both of them content to rest in it. It had changed over the weeks, losing its brittleness almost entirely. It had become a kind of language between them, and both treasured the brief comfort they took in the otherâs company.
Eventually, Lune turned to him. âWhat happens now?â
He blinked once, then tilted his head as if the question had struck him sideways. âYou mean with Antonio?â
âWith all of it.â
He considered. âNothing,â he said. âIf he means to push, heâll push. If heâs decided Iâve become an inconvenience, heâll find a more elegant solution than confrontation. I donât believe the situation to be high-stakes: only childish jealousy.â
âAnd you?â she asked. âWhat do you intend in the meantime?â
Alessandro was quiet for a long moment, the firelight from a nearby lamp catching faintly in the hollows of his face. âI intend to be here. With you, when I can. Around you, if I canât.â
Her brow knit, although not in resistance. âYou say it so simply.â
âI hadnât intended to oversimplify,â he said. âBut it feels simple. When Iâm near you, it does, and I fear weâve both spent many a year overcomplicating our personalities and⊠hiding things.â He supposed he could have worded it better. That curious glimmer in her eye that bordered on ferociousness was now aimed at him. She slid down from the windowsill and approached him, her expression resolved in its intention, although that made him somewhat uneasy.
âYou still havenât told me what the letter said in full,â she said firmly. un-avoidantly.Â
âI didnât want to give it that much power,â he said. âThough I suppose itâs too late for that now.â
âIf he writes again?â she asked, and he knew what she was telling him to do.
Alessandroâs mouth twitched, though it was hard to call it a smile. âThen I suppose weâll read it together.â
She nodded, then stepped closer and offered her arm in invitation: an echo of the evening rituals theyâd started weaving into their days. They walked without hurry, arm in arm through the tall, close aisles. The presence in the library was no longer heavy. It was lightâplayful, almost, as if it had grown to welcome Lune just as much as it had Alessandro. Occasionally, she glanced at Alessandro beside her, and each time he looked perfectly at ease, though in a way that made her feel he was listening for something beyond her voice. It was as if something else walked these corridors with them, quieter still.
Then he said, âItâs strange how life folds in on itself, isnât it?â
She tilted her head, unsure what he meant. The statement was general, but she knew he had some deeper meaning he was going to continue on with.
He didnât elaborate right away. âI mean that we walk through these rooms, these moments, and they feel new. Present, but theyâre not. Theyâre echoes. You and Iâweâve been here before.â
She let a soft breath escape her nose. âPhilosophical tonight.â
âNo,â he said, glancing sidelong at her. âNot philosophical. Personal.â
She slowed, letting her hand rest flat on a shelf, the leather bindings pressing cool against her skin. âWhat are you saying?â
He stopped beside her. âI mean that I was always going to find you here. Not because I was looking, but because you were in here, too, always.â
She smiled. âYou make it sound like I was waiting for you. I assure you, I was not⊠but I am glad for that first chance encounter,â she said. âSecondly, you sound like someone with too many thoughts and not enough sleep.â
âIt wouldnât be the first time,â he responded, looking at her pointedly. âAnd I would not be the first person.â
She hesitated. âI donât know very much about you. I think I should.â
He lifted a brow. âYou know quite a bit more than most.â
âDates and reading preferences arenât the same as knowing someone. They donât tell me what sort of boy you were, or why you chose to stay here when most others would have left, or what you believe happens when we die.â
Alessandroâs gaze lingered on her, longer than she expected. âWould it matter if I told you?â
âI think it might,â she said.
He glanced around, as if confirming they were alone, though they, mostly, always were. âYouâll think less of me.â
Luneâs lips twitched in something like amusement. âI already think youâre odd.â
âMm.â He nodded, folding his arms. âYou asked about what I believe.â
She nodded.
âI donât believe in the God our father bent his knees to, nor the devil he rumoredly gave Him up for,â he said slowly. âNor in the God whom Antonio says his prayers to with his eyes wide open, checking to see whoâs watching.â
Lune frowned. âThen⊠nothing?â
âNo. Something,â he said, and his voice had changedânot in tone, but in texture, as if the words themselves remembered something old and unwelcome. âNot what they taught us, but something quieter, older. Iâd like to believe that the creator, or whatever force influences our lives, doesnât expect us to be good. It only expects us to be human⊠which, I fear, is why Antonio keeps losing his luck.â
Her eyes narrowed slightly. âThat sounds dangerous.â
âOnly if you mistake it for something it isnât.â
âWhat is it to you?â
He met her eyes again, and this time, something flickered in his, like reflection, or recognition, or something else entirely.
âIt doesnât promise reward,â he said. âIt only sees what is already there. The things we hide and those we protect. It waits. And when it comes, it doesn't come to save. Perhaps to assist, but never to grant any miracles.â
Lune felt the quiet press a little more closely around them. The hush that used to feel companionable now wrapped closer to the skin.
âAnd youâŠâ she said carefully, âyou believe this thing sees you?â
âI believe it always has.â
She looked away for a moment, scanning the spines of unreadable titles, their letters worn down to pale shadows. âAnd does it see me?â
Alessandro didnât answer at first. Then, softly, he said, âIt sees you, and it stays. For a while⊠I thought it left when you arrivedâI didnât hear it for a while, but now I see that isnât true. â
Her throat worked. âThat isnât comforting.â
âNo,â he agreed. âIt isnât meant to be.â
They stood in stillness. Then he turned from her and walked a few steps further, resting his hand lightly against a tall volume. âMy life has been like this because of you,â he said.
Luneâs breath hitched. âWhat do you mean?â
He turned, half-shadowed now by the row behind him. âIt changed when you came. I had been living quietly. Alone. You turned the pages.â
âAnd now?â
Alessandro stepped toward her again. âNow I find I cannot go back to the silence that came before.â
She looked at him carefully. There was a strange kind of reverence in his eyes, and not the kind that came from worship. It was older, weightier, akin to fear, much as his now-revealed beliefs were.Â
âYou said you didnât want to live in fantasy,â she said. âThen what is this?â
He held her gaze. âThis is the part just before the story becomes something else.â
And again, the hush closed in. Somewhere behind the walls, the wind moved faintly, like breath.
They didnât speak again for a long time.
Alessandro broke the silence with a wry curl of his mouth, the tension in his frame slackening just enough to feel human again. âWell,â he said lightly, almost teasing, âit seems Iâve ruined my chances of accusing you of witchcraft. Not when Iâm clearly the heretic between us.â
Lune exhaled, the edge of a laugh slipping free. âNo longer the voice of piety and order, then?â
âIâm afraid not.â He studied her more carefully now. âI hope I havenât disturbed you.â
She tilted her head. âYou havenât,â she said, and there was no doubt in her tone. âI think Iâm more disturbed by the people who wear sanctity like a veil.â
Alessandroâs gaze lingered on her. âThen I have to ask: what do you believe?â
Lune hesitated, the pause not from reluctance but from precision. She wanted to say it clearly, perhaps even for herself. âI donât believe in God,â she said at last. âI never haveânot in the way others seem to. If He exists, Heâs never spoken to me.â
She stepped toward the window, resting her hand on the stone ledge as if she needed something to ground her while saying it. âSometimes I wonder if anyone actually hears Him, or if they only pretend to, mimicking the right words and expressions so no one accuses them of rebellion or spiritual laziness. Itâs hard to tell the difference between faith and fear in this place.â
Alessandro listened without interrupting. She glanced back at him once, expecting some reaction, but his face was unreadable.
âI used to think maybe it was me,â she continued, voice quiet but steady. âThat I was broken in some way. That the silence was punishment. Eventually, I stopped expecting to hear anything at all.â
âAnd in the absence of a God?â he asked.
âI was drawn to other things,â she said. âThings people didnât talk about. Old beliefs. Ghost stories. Little rituals I wasnât supposed to know. They felt more honest somehowâmore human. I donât follow any of them fully, not enough to say I belong to them, but if thereâs something out there, something with a voice... it hasnât spoken to me yet.â
Alessandro stepped closer, his hands resting at his sides. âThen maybe itâs time something did.â
Luneâs brows drew slightly inward.
âI want to show you something,â he said. âTomorrow night. In my room.â
She stared at him for a long moment. Her first instinct, she realized, was to withdraw because the idea was strange, unexpected, and because his surname carried weight whether he wanted it to or not. Trust was not something easily given, especially not here.
He seemed to sense it, but didnât rush her.
And stillâthis man, this shadowed figure who haunted the library like a rumorâshe didnât believe he could ever bring her harm. His cruelty, if he possessed any, was not the kind that struck in the dark or waited in closed rooms. He would tell her first. He would ask if it was alright.
âAll right,â she said finally, her voice calm. âIâll come.â
Alessandro gave the smallest of nods, acknowledging something that had long been decided, though neither of them had said it aloud. They didnât return to their lighter conversation. The quiet they walked in now was layered with something newly formed and closer to a pact than a pause. The walls no longer felt like they were pressing in. Instead, they listened, and perhaps, somewhere deeper in the building, something else did too.
The west bell tower stood like a sentry above the cloistered grounds, weathered stone catching the last of the dayâs light. The sky had dimmed steadily, the sun finally giving up its contest with the clouds, which now hung in thick, unmoving silence. Below, the abbey-churchâs gardens were dark, the walkways pale with dew, but Antonio remained above it all, waiting.
He had arrived early.
At first, he stood still, posture squared, eyes fixed on the horizon as if Alessandro might emerge from it. A kind of performance, even in solitude. As the minutes passed, his stance shifted, at first subtly, and then not. Then, he no longer looked at the path below. He was pacing now, a slow, measured path from one worn edge of the bell tower to the other.
Ten minutes.
A single crow passed overhead, cawing once into the growing dusk. Antonio didnât flinch, but his jaw flexed. He stopped pacing, turned, and waited again.
Fifteen.
The stone beneath his boots was uneven. He noticed it only because his toe caught the same spot twice. A deep breath hissed through his teeth, barely audible. His eyes flicked toward the stairwell and back again, more than once, but no sound rose from it. The wind picked up, sharp and dry, tugging at the edges of his coat as it grew colder.
Twenty-five.
His hands clenched and unclenched.
He looked up to the moonâhigh now, ghost-pale in the bruised skyâand muttered something under his breath. The bell loomed above him, still and silent. Shadows clung to its base like moss. Below, the garden paths remained empty. No footfalls. No sign.
Thirty-five.
He kicked at a loose stone, hard. It skittered to the edge of the tower, clattering against the low wall. One hand flew to his coat, gripping the hilt of the dagger tucked there. He held it only a moment before drawing it out, as if the movement had escaped him. The blade gleamed in the moonlight.
And then, in a fit of pure bitterness, he hurled it. The sound of steel hitting stone cracked through the air like a whip. It echoed briefly, and then was swallowed by the dark.
Antonio stood breathing heavily, one hand braced on the low wall of the tower, the other empty. His face was taut, his shoulders tight with fury he was trying not to name. He looked down toward the walkways again, teeth bared just slightly.
Still no one.
The steps came quietly, but not quietly enough to surprise him.
âAntonio?â Matteoâs voice called up softly. âYouâre still here?â
Antonio didnât answer right away. Matteo stepped up onto the final landing, his breath visible in the air now. The young manâs eyes searched the dark.
âYouâre waiting for him?â he asked, though it wasnât really a question. He saw the answer in Antonioâs face.
Antonio turned slowly, face stiff with disbelief. âWaiting,â he echoed, the word thick with venom. âYes. Like a fool.â
Matteo saw the flash of something silver near the far wall. He stepped over and picked it upâthe dagger, its blade scuffed now from the throw. He looked at it as he turned back. âYou dropped this.â
âI threw it,â Antonio snapped, snatching it from Matteoâs hand without thanks. âAnd donât worry. I wasnât planning to use it.â
Matteo hesitated. âAre you certain?â
Antonio gave a bitter, humorless laugh. âIt was a precaution. Symbolic, if anything.â
Matteo didnât quite believe him, but said nothing. His fingers curled briefly at his side, then stilled. He glanced out over the gardens again. âMaybe⊠maybe itâs better he didnât come.â
Antonioâs expression changed sharply, his eyes cutting toward him.
Matteo went on, tentative. âHeâs not like you. You know that. And thisâthis wouldâve only made things worse.â
âDonât tell me what wouldâve made things worse,â Antonio snapped. âHe received the letter. He read it. He had every opportunity to respond like a man.â
Matteo swallowed. âHe did respond. He didnât come.â
âThatâs not a response,â Antonio said. âItâs cowardice wrapped in silence. Itâs weakness pretending to be virtue.â
Matteo said nothing.
Antonio turned from him, back to the low wall. His hands gripped the edge hard enough to whiten his knuckles. For a moment, it looked as if he might stay there the rest of the night, pressed like a statue into the stone.
Then he moved, quick and sharp, heading toward the stairs.
Matteo blinked. âWhere are you going?â
Antonio didnât pause. âBack to my study.â
Matteo followed. âWhy?â
âIâm going to write him another letter,â Antonio said, his tone like iron. âOne that doesnât leave room for interpretation. One he canât pretend not to understand.â
Matteo trailed behind, his steps lighter, more uncertain. âAntonioâŠâ
Antonio stopped halfway down the stairwell and looked back.
âCome along,â he said. âYouâll want to see how this one is worded.â
He didnât wait for agreement. His boots rang against the stone as he descended. Moonlight followed them only so far, then vanished, leaving only shadow and the soft rustle of movement as they disappeared down into the buildingâs deeper hallways.
Antonio pushed open the door to the study without ceremony. Matteo followed, quieter now, as if the tension had settled into his shoulders, anchoring him in caution. Inside, the fire had long since gone cold in the grate. Antonio didnât bother with it. He moved to the desk and pulled the chair back with a sharp scrape of wood.
Then he sat, leaned forward, and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward him.
He dipped the quill with precision, tapping once against the edge of the inkwell to avoid blotting. Matteo remained standing, close enough to watch, not quite near enough to intrude. He watched Antonioâs shoulders rise with a trembling breath, then steady. The tip of the quill touched paper, and the words came in a low voice as he began to write.
âAlessandroâyou didnât come.â
âYou made me wait in the cold, in the dark, like a fool. I am not a fool. You know this. You know what I am, who I am, and still, you chose to insult me.â
âYou think silence protects you, that if you say nothing, do nothing, if you vanish into your shadows and your books, no one can touch youâthat you are owed peace simply because you donât ask for war, but you forget who youâre dealing with. You donât get to ignore me and keep your dignity. You donât get to dismiss me without cost.â
âFrom this moment, youâve forfeited the right to forewarning. I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I gave you a warning. That will not happen again. I would advise you to watch your back. You are not the only one who knows where the library is. I will come for you.â
He lifted the quill, setting it aside with surgical precision. The ink was still glistening. He read the letter through again once in silence, eyes scanning with unflinching intent.
Behind him, Matteo stirred. âYouâre going to send that?â
Antonio didnât look up. âYes.â
âItâs different this time.â
âI intended it to be.â He reached for the wax and seal. âIf heâs too cowardly to come to me, Iâll make it impossible for him to ignore me.â
Matteo hesitated, then stepped forward. âYou really think this will make him change his mind?â
Antonio looked up now, his face unreadable. âIt will make him choose, and if he refuses again, then Iâll stop waiting on his choices.â He folded the page with deliberate care, pressing each crease with the back of his nail. He handed the red-sealed letter to Matteo, who, fingers twitching, tucked it into his inner pocket. âDeliver that, as soon as possible. I will deal with the girl tomorrow. I have grown exhausted with sharing.â
Matteo left the study in silence, the weight of the letter sharp and unnatural against his chest. The corridors were colder now, or maybe it only felt that way under the press of Antonioâs expectations. His boots hit the stone floor with more sound than usual, an argument forming like an angry current of wind inside of him.
He didnât go straight to Alessandro, as he had been instructed. He didnât even make it down the next flight of stairs. Instead, he veered off through the narrow hallway that fed into one of the lesser-used sitting rooms. The hearth there was still faintly warm, an amber glow soft beneath the ashes. No one else was present. No voices. No questions.
He pulled the letter from his pocket. The seal still gleamed in the low light, crimson wax pressed with the sharp imprint of Antonioâs signet. Matteo stared at it for a moment, then he crossed the room to the fireplace, bent low, and shoved the letter deep into the embers.
The flames didnât need encouragement. The parchment caught quickly, curling black at the edges, then folding inward on itself as the red wax melted and hissed. Matteo watched it burn. He didnât move until there was nothing left but warped ash and the faint scent of scorched ink.
He straightened, jaw set, and exhaled slowly through his nose. He was tired of being Antonioâs pawn. He wouldnât be like that; not anymore, And with that, he left the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
Bernardo stood near the hearth in the far chamber, his figure outlined faintly by the wan light of a fire that had nearly spent itself. He held his hands clasped behind his back, one shoulder resting against the cold stone, more for balance than ease. The embers burned low, giving off a dull, red glow that pulsed gently across the floor, bleeding into the mortar lines between the stones. Shadows gathered thick in the corners of the room, drawn inward by the silence, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
The door creaked open and closed again with quiet precision. Alessandro entered without haste, his movements careful, as if unwilling to disturb the air more than necessary. The shadows seemed to carry him inside. The latch settled into place with a soft click that echoed faintly, sealing them in.
âMatteo said you were looking for me,â Alessandro said, his voice low and neutral.
Bernardo didnât stir from his place. He gave a slight nod, his gaze still trained on the hearth. âI was.â
He offered no further explanation, no welcome or feigned warmth. The simplicity of the statement made it heavier, more deliberate. It hung in the space between them like the drawn breath before an arrow is loosed.
There was a pause, taut and expectant.
âYouâve been spending time with her,â Bernardo said, evenly. The words were not barbed, but they lacked any softness. They were offered as fact, as observation, not accusation, but the weight behind them was unmistakable.
Alessandro met the statement without deflection. âYes.â
Again, silence, but it was not the silence of absence. It was filled, watchful.
Bernardo turned his head slightly, his features caught in the glow of the embers. âWhat are you thinking?â he asked. His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. âDo you imagine Antonio wonât find out? Or do you believe he will, and that somehow, it wonât matter?â
Alessandro did not flinch. âI donât answer to Antonio.â
A shadow of a smile, humorless and dry, crossed Bernardoâs face. He glanced away. âYou live under his roof. You carry the same title. Do you really believe that name doesnât bind you?â
Alessandro moved closer to the fire, letting the heat touch his skin. His expression was drawn, not with defensiveness, but with something older, wearier. âIâm not doing anything to harm her.â
Bernardo turned toward him fully now, arms folding across his chest, the line of his jaw tight. âAnd you think thatâs enough? That harm is only whatâs done with intent? You walk beside her. You speak to her. You look at her as though nothing else in the world deserves your attention.â His voice broke slightly before he caught it. âYou know how Antonio sees her. Youâve seen it.â Not directly, but he had. He could almost smell it in the way Antonio talked about her, like ownership.
Alessandro didnât respond at first, but his jaw tightened, and the quiet around them seemed to draw in closer.
âIâm not warning you out of cruelty,â Bernardo said. âIâm telling you because sheâs already being watched. Every step she takes is measured. Every glance, every hesitation. There are eyes on herâeyes that do not blink, even when yours do.â
âSheâs not a fragile object to be handed between us,â Alessandro said, his voice low and steady. âShe has her own mind. Her own reasons.â
âI donât question that,â Bernardo replied. âBut choice means very little when the scale is tipped before she ever puts her foot on it. You know this. Youâve always known this.â
Alessandroâs gaze flickered toward the shadows along the ceiling, tracing the invisible lines between stone and gloom. When he spoke again, his voice had cooled.
âShe isnât afraid. Not of them. Not of you. Not even of him.â
Bernardoâs eyes darkened. âThen sheâs a fool. Or she doesnât understand the cost yet.â
There was a pause, and then: âYouâre not reckless, Alessandro. You never have been. You calculate. You plan. So tell me: what is this?â
For a moment, Alessandro said nothing. His silence deepened rather than deflected, as though the words were forming behind his teeth and had not yet found the strength to emerge. He stared at the place where the fire met the grate, where one ember had fallen and was slowly dimming to grey.
Bernardo watched him carefully. He saw itâthe shift. Not in Alessandroâs face, but in the way his stillness bent inward, the way he stopped holding himself like a man preparing to argue. There was no defense here. Only something unspoken, and heavier for it.
âI know,â Bernardo said softly, not without effort. âI do. More than you think. But if you care about herâif thatâs what this isâyou need to stop. You need to let it rest before sheâs drawn in so deeply she canât climb back out.â
Alessandro turned to look at him fully for the first time, his eyes unreadable but steady.
âYou think Antonio would give her peace?â
âI think he would give her protection,â Bernardo answered. âAnd I think, eventually, she might come to want that. Heâs not a cruel man. Not always. And sheâŠâ He hesitated. âShe believes in the possibility of healing. That things broken can be made whole again.â
âIf she does, then sheâs mistaken,â Alessandro said. Then, after a breath: âYouâre mistaken. You donât know her.â
Bernardo didnât argue. He only said, âSheâs hopeful. That isnât the same thing.â
Silence returned, deeper now. The fire hissed softly as the last of the wood shifted in the grate. They stood, unmoving, in the same distance they had known since they were boys, when their father had sent them into the chapel to stand in silence until their tempers cooled. To learn, as heâd said, what silence could teach.
Bernardo exhaled slowly. âYouâve always been different. You know that? Even when we were young. You'd stay up reading those old volumes long after the candles burned low. You whispered about things no one else dared speak of. Things no one else even saw.â
Alessandro didnât flinch, but there was a shadow in his eyes now. One he didnât bother hiding.
âIâm saying this,â Bernardo continued. âYouâve already given them cause to distrust you. Donât give them more. Donât let her become collateral for your strangeness.â
Alessandro stepped forward, just once. His voice, when it came, was quiet and deliberate.
âSheâs not carrying me. Sheâs walking beside me.â
Bernardoâs expression shifted. He didnât speak. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger, but in careful thought.
âYou donât understand her,â Alessandro added, his tone flat. Not a challenge. A fact.
Bernardoâs reply came after a pause. âNo. But I understand you.â
The words struck deeper than they should have. Bernardo did not raise his voice or move to block the door. He stood as he was, firm, steady.
âYouâre my brother. Iâve seen the way you pick things apart until they make sense to no one else. Youâve always walked through this world as though it were half-familiar, half-foreign. And stillâI have always wanted whatâs best for you.â
Alessandroâs mouth curved, slightly. A twitch more than a smile. âThen perhaps itâs time to want whatâs best for her.â
âI am,â Bernardo said, quietly.
âNo. Youâre choosing whatâs safest. And not even for her. For Antonio. For the family. For the name. For the power tied up in every blessed ring and robe in this house.â Alessandroâs voice did not rise, but each word was precise, honed. âYou think she needs protection. I think she needs freedom.â
Bernardo drew breath, but Alessandro continued before he could speak.
âShe waits for me,â he said, softly. âNot because I asked her to. Not because sheâs afraid. Because she wants to. Do you understand what that means?â
Bernardo looked at him, saying nothing.
âNo one has ever wanted me like that. Not here. Not in this house. Not in the eyes of our father. Not in Antonioâs. Not in the eyes of men who speak of God but listen only to power. She sees me. And she stays.â
Bernardoâs gaze dropped to the fire. One last coal gave way, collapsing into a fine scatter of ash.
âI care for you,â he said after a long moment. âMore than I say.â
âI know,â Alessandro answered. âBut your care is dutiful. It was shaped in the image of this house. Bound by obedience. By silence. You spent years learning to call pain discipline, to call control love. I didnât.â
âThat isnât fair.â
âNo,â Alessandro agreed. âBut itâs still true.â
Bernardoâs mouth opened, some retort on the edge, but Alessandro moved past him, slow and sure.
âMaybe,â he said, pausing at the door, âyou worried over me when we were children. Maybe you let me speak when no one else would, but you never truly listened. You let me talk so Iâd think I mattered.â
He turned, one hand on the doorâs iron latch, the firelight drawing shadows along his jaw.
âLet me matter to her. Just once. Let me have that without interference.â
Bernardo didnât reply. The room was quiet again, the kind of quiet that settles after something fragile has been brokenâgently, but with no hope of repair.
Alessandro opened the door. The hallway beyond was dark, but not unwelcoming to him.
âWhere are you going?â Bernardo asked.
Alessandro glanced back, his voice firm and final.
âI left her waiting,â he said. âI donât intend to leave her for long.â
He stepped through the threshold, his coat brushing the doorframe.
âI donât intend to leave her at all.â
âŠ
The library was dark upon reentry, quiet in a way that felt less like absence and more like intimacy. The candles had burned low, their golden light softened into glittering haze across the stone. Shadows lay thick across the floors, pooling beneath shelves and stretching into corners where the night had begun to press in.
She was there, just as he hoped, curled into the wide windowsill on the far side of the room, half-draped in the folds of her own shawl. Her head rested against the glass, cheek turned slightly into her shoulder, lashes still against her skin. A book had slipped from her lap and now rested gently at her side, as if the library itself had tucked it there to keep quiet company. Alessandro paused, just inside the doorway. He let his gaze settle on her, drinking in the fragile peace of her sleeping form. In sleep, her face had lost none of its strength, only softened.
He crossed the room slowly, quietly, the creak of the floorboards barely audible beneath his steps. When he reached her, he knelt down beside the window seat, folding his coat back from his knees with practiced precision. He reached out and let his fingertips rest lightly on her arm, just above the elbow, then paused.
It didnât feel right. Not like this. Not while she couldnât see him, couldnât choose. So he withdrew, letting his hand fall back to his knee. He leaned in instead, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at her temple.
âLune,â he murmured, voice low and soft, as though trying not to wake the books themselves. âYou should wake up, dove. Itâs late. Youâll ache if you stay like this much longer.â
Still, she didnât stir.
âYouâll blame me for letting you sleep through the bells,â he added, smiling slightly. âAnd Iâll be forced to pretend I didnât watch you the whole time.â
A faint twitch pulled at the corner of her mouth, then her shoulder jerked slightly, like sheâd been tickled in a dream.
He laughed under his breath, a quiet sound that slipped past his teeth before he could stop it.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she blinked once, then again, gaze unfocused. âYouâre⊠here,â she said, her voice small with sleep, threading somewhere between a question and a realization.
He nodded. âI am.â
She stared at him for a moment longer, still trying to pull herself fully into wakefulness. Then her lips curled, not quite a smile, not yet. Something warmer than amusement, quieter than joy.
They didnât speak, as they didnât need to.
After a moment, Alessandro cleared his throat and stood a bit too quickly. âYouâah. You shouldnât sleep on cold stone,â he said, gesturing vaguely toward the seat as if it were to blame. âYour neck will hate you.â
Lune arched a brow but didnât rise just yet. She covered a smile poorly with the back of her hand. âMy neck is resilient.â
âEven resilience has limits.â
âMm. So says a man who limps every time it rains.â
Alessandro extended his arm, clearing his throat again as though trying to disguise the grin that tugged at his mouth. âCome on, before I lose what little gallantry I possess.â
Lune stood at last, brushing her skirt smooth, then slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. Her smile widened as she glanced up at him, but she didnât say anything.
And together, they turned from the window and walked slowly back into the warmth of the shelves, the hush of the library folding gently around them once more, threatening to pull them back in even as they took their nightly leave, footsteps echoing lightly down the corridor, muffled by the worn tapestries that lined the walls. The night air had cooled the stones beneath their feet, and Lune leaned into Alessandro just enough to match his pace.
âI still canât believe you left me long enough to let me sleep like that,â she said, glancing up at him with feigned offense. âItâs almost cruel.â
He looked down at her, one brow raised. âYou think I let you? You fell asleep like a saint in a fresco. I feared waking you might trigger divine punishment.â
âOh, please,â she said, laughing. âYou were probably relieved by the silence.â
âRelieved? I was guarding your dreams, Iâll have you know. Very noble work.â
She gave a dramatic scoff. âYouâre impossible.â
âNo, just underappreciated.â He paused, then added with a smirk, âAnd possibly taken advantage of. Iâm starting to suspect you planned it.â
âI did no such thing!â
âAh. So the shawl and the perfect window seatâpure coincidence?â
âI was cold,â she said with exaggerated dignity. âAnd the cushion was warm.â
âMm-hm.â He gave her a sideways glance. âManipulative.â
âKind.â
âScheming.â
âThoughtful.â
He grinned. âYou see? Exactly what I mean.â
She nudged him gently with her shoulder, nearly stumbling when he didnât budge. âYouâre awful.â
âIâm the picture of generosity.â
âOh, is that what this is?â she said, laughing now. âGenerosity?â
âItâs either that or Iâve been enchanted.â
âOr maybe haunted,â she said lightly, eyes glinting. âI thought that for a moment, when I woke, I thought perhaps it was one of the ghosts in the library coming to drag me away.â
Alessandro turned to her, mock-serious. âThat would explain a lot.â
Lune tilted her head. âWould it?â
He nodded gravely. âYou do talk to yourself, mutter at books, and wander in at strange hours. Sounds like a classic case of possession. Or madness.â
She laughed again, louder this time, the sound echoing gently off the old stone. âYou think Iâm mad?â
âI think youâre a witch,â he said, smiling despite the words. âA mad, conniving witch.â
She laughed harder, clutching his arm. âAnd you are going to be burned at the stake for saying it.â
âHush,â he whispered, chuckling as her voice rang again. âYouâll wake the ghosts.â
She covered her mouth with one hand, stifling a giggle, and he shook his head with a grin as they continued walking, the soft glow of the candles gilding the corridor in flickering gold.
Behind them, the shadows shifted.
Just beyond the reach of the light, where the corridor curved into dark, something paused.
A glimmerânot of candlelight, but of eyes.
Watching.
Waiting.
And then, as their laughter faded into the hallwayâs hush once more, the darkness behind them returned to stillness, as if it had never moved at all.
âŠ
Antonioâs study was a room rarely disturbed. It still bore the scent of varnished oak and undisturbed parchment, the stale breath of a space too carefully preserved. Dust clung to the corners like a held breath, and though the hearth had been lit, the fire seemed hesitant to fill the space with warmth.
Now, it was in disarray. Papers lay crumpled like wounded birds across the desk and floor, several of them stained with ink where Antonioâs hand had faltered or pressed too hard. His best letter paper, imported and watermarked, ruined. The quill scratched across the fresh sheet with frantic energy, the lines slanted and angry, which was nothing like the precise script he was known for. When the ink bled too fast or the words failed to form properly, he cursed low under his breath and swept the page aside, starting again.
Across the room, Matteo stood by the door, uncertain whether he should speak or pretend not to see. His hands were tucked into his sleeves, eyes flickering between the disordered desk and Antonioâs rigid shoulders. The air was thick with dangerous, coiled anger.
Antonio didnât look up when he finally spoke.
âSo,â he said. âThey were together.â
Matteo hesitated. âI only said Bernardo was looking for them. I didnât sayââ
âDo you think Iâm an idiot?â Antonioâs voice cracked through the room, sharp enough to make Matteo flinch. âOf course theyâre together. Why else would he be out looking? Why else would she be missing?â
âShe wasnât missingââ
âShe wasnât where she belonged,â Antonio snapped. His hand flew to another page, striking it with another line of ink, but it broke mid-sentence, the quill splitting slightly. He swore and threw it aside. It struck the wall and fell behind the desk.
For a moment, only the fire spoke.
Antonio rose abruptly, pacing behind the desk, his boots harsh against the rug. His jaw was tight, twitching. There was color in his cheeks nowâred, rising with the heat of his thoughts. He dragged a hand through his hair.
âItâs sick,â he said, quieter now, more to himself than to Matteo. âThe way people speak of them. Whisper their names in the same breath. Itâs obscene.â
Matteo didnât reply. There was an urge to point out that very few people were aware of this situation. This was to do with the tightest group of the Clergy and one girl, but who was he to downplay Antonioâs rage?
Antonio turned on him suddenly. âDo you not see it? Do you not understand what that girl is doing to him?â
âShe hasnâtââ Matteo faltered. âShe doesnât seem to be doing anything.â
âNo,â Antonio agreed, voice thin as a blade. âShe doesnât seem to. Thatâs the trick.â
He turned back toward the desk, breathing hard. Another page was seized. More words, half-formed, sprawled onto it. The ink blotched as his hand paused.
âShe was mine to watch,â he muttered. âMine to protect. Mine to keep from rot. And nowââ He cut himself off with a sound that wasnât quite a word, just a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
From the fireplace, the flames hissed softly. Antonio stood still, pen dangling from his fingers, ink pooling unnoticed on the fine edge of his cuff. Behind him, Matteo shifted uncomfortably.
Antonio didnât turn. He stared down at the page. âCorrection,â he said, his voice suddenly level, eerily calm. âSetting things straight.â Then he picked up the next sheet of fine parchment, dipped another quill, and began again. âI will not allow that⊠that double-bastard son, that filthy knave, that devil-worshipping fool to get his hands on her!â
âWhat are you writing?â Matteo asked, almost too softly to be heard.
Antonio didnât answer at first. He signed the page with a sharp flourish, then folded it slowly, precisely. His seal waited, already heated near the hearth. He pressed it down without ceremony.
Only then did he look up.
âA letter,â he said simply. His voice had returned to its usual quiet precision, but there was something brittle behind it. âTo Alessandro.â
Matteo frowned. âWhat kind of letter?â
Antonio held the sealed page between two fingers, examining it, as though it were a blade he was testing the edge of. âOne that invites him to speak with me. Alone. To⊠address the matter between us.â
The pause that followed was heavy.
âYou mean to fight,â Matteo said, the words barely audible. âDonât you?â
Antonio turned to him fully then, slowly, like the turn of a key in a lock. âI mean,â he said, âto remind my brother who he is. And who he is not.â
Matteoâs face shifted. âAlessandro doesnât enjoy fighting,â he said. From what he heard, it was a passion his elder brother had retired before he was born.
âNo,â Antonio said. âHe doesnât. Not anymore. But heâs made himself into something he was never meant to be. Someone needs to put an end to it.â
He placed the letter on the corner of the desk. Its seal gleamed gold in the low light. âIâve asked him to meet me at the west bell. No witnesses. No noise.â
âYou said you wanted to protect her. Lune,â Matteo said doubtfully.
Antonioâs jaw clenched. âI am.â
âNo,â Matteo said. âYouâre trying to punish her.â
Antonio didnât reply. He only watched the flames, as if he could see something inside them that would justify everything. He couldnât.
âŠ
The library was warm with the low hum of their laughter. Lune leaned lightly against one of the tall shelves, her hand resting over the edge of a folio she had just mock-threatened to throw at Alessandro. He stood a few paces off, arms crossed, the smallest smile tucked into one corner of his mouth. It was a cloudy afternoon; humid, but significantly more pleasant than the torrential rains the swampy land was so accustomed to.
âYouâre lucky I didnât fall asleep on that theology scroll,â she said, her voice half a whisper in deference to the room, though amusement curled at the edges.
âYou did,â Alessandro replied, lifting an eyebrow. âYou just happened to disguise it better this time.â
She tilted her head, feigning offense. âI was meditating. Deeply.â
âSnoring, Iâd say. Modestly.â
Lune scoffed and turned away, just enough to hide her grin, and wandered a few steps along the shelves. Alessandro watched her go, his expression softening. The light from the candles touched her shoulders, gold brushing the edges of her veil and the fine hairs near her temple. He didnât speak, not right away. There was a comfort in the silence that trailed after them, as though they had earned it.
She looked back over her shoulder, teasing. âYou should be grateful. Not everyone is so patient with your shelves full of haunted manuscripts.â
âI didnât ask you to haunt them.â
âWell, something was. Iâm sure I felt a cold hand on my ankle while I was sleeping.â
âThat was the ghost of Saint Encelius. He disapproves of your posture.â
âDo you actually know their names?â she asked him, concealing a laugh.
âOf course I donât.â
She laughed aloud then, and it echoed faintly in the rafters. He stepped closer, lowering his voice as hers carried.
âQuiet, madwoman,â he said, with the same half-smile. âOr youâll rouse the spirits.â
âMadwoman,â she repeated with a breathless laugh, hand to her chest. âNext youâll be calling me a witch. Again.â
âIâve suspected it for some time,â he said. âWitchcraft is the only explanation for your company.â
She turned fully toward him then, both of them still smiling, the distance between them shrinking almost without their noticing. Something unspoken hung in the air, not new, but recognized all the same. Neither of them moved to break it.
Footsteps approached.
Alessandroâs eyes shifted first, narrowing slightly as they followed the soft tread of approaching steps. From between the shelves, Matteo emerged, hesitant but composed, his hand curled around something held at his side. The moment his eyes met Alessandroâs, he paused.
âAfternoon,â Alessandro said quietly, the warmth of his earlier mood not entirely gone.
Matteo gave a small nod. âAfternoon.â
Lune turned, her curiosity gentle. âA friend of yours?â
Alessandro glanced at her, then back at Matteo. âThis is my youngest brother.â
Something flickered across Luneâs faceâsurprise, followed quickly by a small, warm smile. âThen now Iâve met the whole line,â she murmured, folding her hands in front of her. âItâs a pleasure.â
Matteo nodded again, more stiffly this time. âLikewise.â
Alessandro looked at her then, and for a moment, he seemed untroubled. Not empty or hiding, but steady, as though some storm within him had quieted. Lune smiled back, small but sincere. She looked at home beside him, and Matteo felt even more like a child than he already did.
âYou can tell from his baby face,â Alessandro jokes. He was really joking, Matteo noted.
His grip tightened slightly around the paper in his hand.
âThereâs a letter,â he said at last. âFrom Antonio.â
Alessandroâs expression shifted. Not entirely closed, but watchful. âIs that so?â
Matteo stepped forward and held it out. Alessandro took it slowly, turning it over, his jaw tightening.
Lune said nothing, but her gaze lingered on him as he broke the seal.
The silence that followed stretched. Matteo shifted his weight, glancing once at Lune, then down at the floor. The brightness that had filled the room moments before had softened into stillness, like the held breath before something breaks.
Alessandro read the letter through. His expression did not change, though his eyes darkened, sharp and steady. He folded the paper again, slowly, as if to delay the moment that would come after.
He did not look up. Not yet.
Lune leaned in, eyes trailing down toward the folded page in Alessandroâs hand. Before she could see more than a corner of the ink, he folded it smoothly, gently, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat.
âWhat was that?â she asked, her voice low.
âNothing,â Alessandro replied, his tone calm, almost too even. âJust something Antonio likes to do from time to time. Remind me that I exist.â
Her brow knit, and she parted her lips to say more, but then her gaze caught on Matteo still standing there, tense and too quiet. She hesitated, her unspoken question hovering between them.
Alessandro, without a word, slid his hand across the bench beneath the table and laid it over hers. His touch was quiet, cautious. A kind of apology. A kind of reassurance.
Lune glanced down, surprised by the gesture, then looked up at him again. Her hand closed gently around his, fingers pressing into his palm. A promise, returned.
They stayed like that for a breath too long, until Lune gave him a lookâsoft, questioning, but patient. Later, it said.
Matteo caught it all. The touch, the look, the unspoken ease between them. It twisted in his chest.
âI should go,â he said abruptly, already turning away. âI have chores to attend to.â He swept himself from the room as if being dragged by the breeze, disappearing down the hall, away from the concerned gazes of his elder brother and his paramour, and down to the preparation room of the morgue where the eldest, Bernardo, worked.
âŠ
Matteoâs feet pounded the stone corridor, echoing off the walls like the wild rhythm of a hunted thing. He didnât slow at the turnâhis boots scraped against the stone as he caught himself, breath tearing from his chest in ragged bursts. The air grew colder as he descended, the clean hush of the chapel fading into something weightier, older. Down here, even sound felt reluctant to linger. The morgue breathed in silence, but silence no longer, not upon his entry.
The door to the preparation room stood slightly ajar, the light within streaking softly from the small crack. Matteo shoved it open, hard enough that it struck the wall.
Bernardo looked up from the table, sleeves rolled above the elbow, his gloves still on, though the slab before him was empty. The scent of oil and witch hazel still clung to the air. Instruments lay in ordered rows, being cleaned, then returned to their velvet-lined case. His brow furrowed the instant he saw Matteo.
âMatteo?â
The youngest brother stood just inside the threshold, chest heaving, curls damp with sweat, his coat half-unfastened and crooked on his shoulders. His mouth opened but no sound came. His face looked washed out, far too pale for the boy who had sprinted in from the upper levels.
Bernardo didnât hesitate. He came around the table quickly. âWhatâs happened?â he asked, low and urgent. âAre you hurt?â
Matteo shook his head too quickly. âNo. No, Iâm fine. Itâs not that.â He doubled over slightly, one hand pressing to his stomach like he might steady something there. His breath caught again, thick in his throat. âIââ
Bernardoâs hands closed firmly around his shoulders, leather brushing damp wool. âSlow down. Tell me what happened.â
Matteoâs eyes flicked up to him, wide and glassy. He tried again. âI gave him the letter.â Bernardoâs jaw tightened, and his brow raised. âTo Alessandro,â Matteo clarified, his voice brittle. âI didnât know what was in it. Antonio just told me to bring it, and I thoughtâ I thought it was just something about the library, or the church, orâŠâ His voice trailed off, the weight of what he hadnât thought settling visibly across his shoulders.
Bernardo held him steady, thumbs pressed against the trembling curve of his collarbone. âWhat did you see?â
Matteoâs chin trembled. âHe was with her. Lune. They were sitting at one of the tables in the library, talkingâlaughing, even. Like theyâd known each other forever. It didnât feel like the first time.â His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. âAnd then I gave him the letter. He opened it, read it. Didnât say anything. Just folded it, slowly. His face changed, Bernardo. It went quiet. Cold.â
Bernardoâs eyes darkened. âDid Lune see?â
âAt least part of it, yes. She kept looking at him, asking what was wrong, but he wouldnât tell her.â Matteoâs voice cracked. âShe looked afraid. Not of him. Of whatever was in that letter.â
The air in the room had turned still.
âI think Antonio means to fight him,â Matteo whispered, barely audible. âNot just argue. I think he wants to hurt him. Or break him. And Lune too. He thinks sheâs his. Like sheâs a piece on a board.â
Bernardo released a slow breath through his nose, but said nothing.
Matteoâs eyes shimmered, pleading. âI think I helped him. I helped him hurt them both. I didnât mean toâI swear I didnâtâbut I carried it right into their hands. I watched it happen.â
He covered his face with one hand, shuddering. âI didnât know what to do.â
Bernardoâs expression didnât shift much, but something in his eyes softened. He reached up, unfastening one glove and pulling it free with a quick, practiced motion. He set it on the table and brought his bare hand to Matteoâs cheek, grounding him.
âYou came straight here,â he said. âThat matters. You didnât run from it.â
âBut itâs already done,â Matteo whispered. âWhat if something happens to them, and it's all because of me?â
Bernardoâs hand dropped, resting on Matteoâs shoulder again. âThen we deal with whatâs next. We help who we can.â
Matteo nodded, a single jerky motion, though he didnât look convinced. His body trembled faintly under Bernardoâs grip.
Bernardo turned away, already stripping off his other glove. âStay here,â he said. âWait for me. And if Antonio comes, you do not speak to him alone.â
Matteo looked up sharply. âWhere are you going?â
Bernardo opened a cabinet and pulled out a fresh coat. âTo make sure Alessandro knows more than just Antonioâs lies.â He paused, but only for a moment. âHe should know that he has someone on his side.â
He looked back once before he left the room, the lamplight catching in the edge of his jaw. There was no fear in his face, only decision.
Matteo stood alone in the hush of the morgue, the door still half-open behind him, and tried to remember how to breathe.
âŠ
The library had grown dim in the afternoon hush. The sun fought with the overhanging clouds, streaming scatteredly through the arched windows. The silence in the room pulsed faintly, as if holding its breath, still reverberating with the ghost of laughter that had only recently dissolved into stillness.
Alessandro stood at the center table, unmoving, more braced than at rest. One hand lay splayed against the polished wood, fingers curled slightly inward, trying to pin a thought before it unraveled; discussing things in his mind, or with some unseen force. His other hand remained buried in the pocket of his coat, thumb brushing the brittle edge of the letter tucked there: Antonioâs letter, wax seal cracked open like a bone split under pressure. The folded page was light, but it pressed against him with a gravity all its own.
He didnât turn when he heard the soft approach behind him. The footsteps were familiar, the rhythm of them measured, neither hurried nor hesitant. He didnât need to look.
âAfternoon,â Bernardo said, his voice low and even, though beneath it there was a restraint, something held close to the chest.
âSheâs gone,â Alessandro replied. His voice was subdued, wrapped in a quiet reserve. âLeft for her chores just minutes ago.â
âI figured.â Bernardo moved into view, his gaze sweeping across the empty library before settling back on his brother. âJust missed her, then?â
Alessandro gave a small nod. The corner of his mouth lifted for the barest moment. âI suppose so.â
Bernardo folded his hands behind his back, his posture precise, almost ceremonial in its care. âI wasnât exactly looking for her. Just thought she might be here. A feeling.â He paused, eyes still on Alessandro. âYouâre not often alone these days.â
A subtle shift passed through Alessandroâs expression. His eyes narrowed, barely perceptible, but enough to register. He let the observation go unanswered, walking a few paces along the tableâs edge, trailing his fingers along the old wood as though trying to absorb the steadiness of it.
âI heard,â Bernardo said after a moment, the words dropped into the hush with calculated calm, âyou received some mail.â
Alessandro stopped. He didnât look back at first, but the tension in his shoulders changed. Then, over his shoulder, he said, âNews travels fast.â
âI have ears.â Bernardoâs tone was light on the surface, though the weight beneath it betrayed something closer to concern. âAnd Matteo was⊠unsettled.â
Alessandro turned slowly. He reached into his coat and withdrew the folded letter, its creases crisp and deliberate, and held it between two fingers, loose, as though it offended him to grasp it too tightly.
âHe wants to meet,â Alessandro said, his voice stripped of drama, reduced to its purest core. âAt the west bell.â
Bernardoâs brow drew inward. âTo talk?â
A dry smile touched Alessandroâs face, but it didnât reach his eyes. âTo fight.â He wasnât sure which was more dangerous.
The word hovered in the space between them like smoke.
Bernardoâs mouth tightened slightly, jaw shifting as if biting back an immediate reaction. âOf course he does.â
âHe never used the word, not directly.â Alessandro returned the letter slowly to his pocket, refusing to let the gesture betray his thoughts. âBut everything in the letter points to it. A challenge dressed in softer clothing to make it sound noble.â
Bernardo moved closer, leaning against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest. âAnd what are you going to do?â
âNothing,â Alessandro answered without hesitation. âIâm not going.â
Bernardoâs eyes searched his brotherâs face. âYouâre certain?â
âIâm not fifteen anymore,â Alessandro said quietly, his gaze distant. âI donât throw punches over pride. Not when I know how the game is set. He wants me angry. He wants me to respond. Heâs counting on me to draw first.â
âGood,â Bernardo said, though his voice had lowered again, edged with something almost cautious. âDo you remember what I taught you?â
Alessandro tilted his head, a breath of something like irony in his voice. âDonât fight.â
âBecause youâre not like him,â Bernardo said, straightening slightly. âYou never were.â
There was a long pause before Alessandro replied, and when he did, his voice carried something more worn, as if dredged from a quieter, darker place. âI used to be.â
âNot in the ways that count.â Bernardoâs answer came quickly, firmly.
They stood there, two figures drawn from the same house but shaped differently by time and choice, their shadows cast long and narrow in the failing light. The silence between them was no longer merely absence of sound. It was dense with years of understanding and friction, though not unkind.
âHe wants me on his terms,â Alessandro said after a while, more to the room than to his brother. âHe always has. Everythingâs a performance to him, a contest. Iâm done playing his games. I wonât let him drag me back into that, and I wonât do it at Luneâs expense.â
Bernardo looked down at the floor, then nodded slowly, something loosening in his face that had been tense since heâd entered the room. âIâm grateful for that.â
Another silence passed between them, this one longer, threaded with things too complex to articulate cleanly. When Bernardo spoke again, his voice had softened, and it carried the weight of something that had taken effort to phrase just right.
âI came to the library tonight because I needed to know. Not secondhand, not from someone elseâs impressions. I needed to hear it from you.â He stepped back from the table, his stance still composed but less guarded now. âStill⊠be careful. Refusing the fight wonât make him back down. If anything, itâll drive him to look for new ways to provoke you, and you know heâs capable of more subtle things.â
âI know,â Alessandro said. His features were touched with just enough light to soften the tension that had been etched into them for days. Not peace, but something like a truce within himself.
Bernardo watched him for a long moment. âLuneâŠâ he began, then paused. âShe brings something out of you. Something I didnât expect to see again.â
Alessandroâs hand returned to the table, fingers brushing a faint mark on the woodâone that might have been left by her hand earlier, though it was impossible to be sure. His reply came in a voice so low it nearly merged with the silence.
âShe doesnât ask for anything. She just sees me. Thatâs all.â
Bernardo gave a single nod, deep and quiet, and chose not to press further. He stepped back. âIf he makes a move, you come to me,â he said, voice level but weighted.
Alessandro met his gaze directly. âI will.â
Bernardo hesitated at the threshold, long enough for the moment to stretch, then turned and walked out, his boots whispering against the worn stone floor until the sound disappeared entirely into the corridor beyond.
Alessandro remained where he was, alone once more in the sacred hush of the library. He stood for a long time, unmoving, his hand resting on the table. The letter in his pocket felt heavier than before, as though it carried not only Antonioâs challenge, but every history wrapped around it. He did not reach for it. He would not.
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Holds your hand gently and stares up at you with big bug eyes
Why have some of your C.AI bots gone missing ïżŒđ„ș
Sometimes, C.AI will shadowban certain bots bc people have had chats with them that break the website's guidelines, or I was so terrible and decided to use a bad word in the greeting, lol. They might reappear in some time, or I can DM you the links to the ones you want. My apologies đ«¶đ€
I just wanted to say, your writing is some of the most beautifully made I've ever really read. I know that might seem a bit silly to say, but I really do mean it. I've always thought that writing is a beautiful form of art, and your writing just encompasses that completely.
I don't often enjoy reading smut, since it's usually a little too much for me, but the way you write it is quite lovely. I don't really know how to explain it, but I feel as if it's like the difference between NSFW art and art with artist nudity, if you understand what I mean? I feel like that is the best way to describe it.
I've been lurking around on your tumblr for awhile now, and just thought I should finally say something about how wonderful I think you and your writing is. From one Ghost lover to another, these little bits of Ghost stories are chief's kiss, truly. Your C.AI bots are lovely too.
You don't have to answer to this, I just wanted to show my love. Keep up the lovely work. đđđ
This is actually the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me đ Anon, we're getting married ASAP. You are a complete angel.
Writing is absolutely an art form, and you're clearly quite the author yourself. You word things beautifully and the way you speak is incredibly touching. Thank you so much, sweetheart đ«¶đ€
đđđđđ \ Papa V Perpetua x Reader \ cw; SMUT
CW; mild cnc? + ritual + breastfeeding + fempov (genuinely just odd stuff im afraid T-T)
heavily inspired by Umbra and Misillia Amori from skeleta yay!
also available here on ao3!
------
The chancel is dark and damp, the familiar scent of mildew and drying wax thick in the heavy, humid air, almost unbreathable.
But Satanas, wouldn't he breathe arsenic for her?
The room was lit with black candles, their flames flickering faintly, fighting with the moisture in the air just to stay alive. The darker the better; he wanted to see that face, but he didn't want her to see him as he knelt in front of her, cheeks hot red as she initiated him. He was going to be Papa, and that should have given him the highest power of all, but it took a Sister with a special job to get him there.
Never had he seen her face, only her back, but when had he ever felt love directly? His brother's face, he had never seen but in photographs. His parents, placed so far above him, cared not for his joy or comfort. Naivete bred his fondness. He was in love with hrt, the idea that she would be the first and perhaps the only one to do something *for* him and not against him.
He lowered his eyes, not out of humility nor shame, but out of reverence; out of a fear so old it had calcified into devotion. His lips trembled, but the words came easy, as if they'd always been waiting in the back of his throat. "Iâve doubted. Iâve desired. Iâve imagined the robes tearing. Iâve dreamt of being looked at the way you look at the altar." With absolute devotion.
Her silence answered him with that terrible, sacred stillness that turned his yearning into something useful. He dared a glance upward, just for a moment, and saw the hem of her robe shift slightly, as if stirred by breath, or wind, or will. That was enough. It had to be. He would not be granted more.
He pressed his forehead to the cold, stone floor, lips brushing the grit and soot like a kiss. âI am ready,â he whispered, not knowing if it was a lie or a plea. âI am not pure. I am not clean. But I will serve. Let me be hollow, that you may pour yourself into me.â
The room did not echo. Even his voice seemed swallowed by the damp.
He felt, rather than saw, her move. Slow, deliberate. She was always deliberate. A soft scuff of cloth against stone, and then the sound of something metal being set down. The air thickened. He smelled clove and rust and old incense, a mingling of the sacred and the profane that made his mouth water with dread.
A handâgloved, firmâtouched the back of his neck. He shuddered, but did not pull away. Would not dare. Her voice came low and close, softer than he'd ever heard anything. âThen be made ready.â
Something cool traced a line between his shoulder blades. Oil, maybe. Or blood. Or both. He bit down on his own tongue, tasting copper. The candles guttered as the ritual began in earnest.
She whispered words not meant for daylight. Words older than churches, older than saints, and with every syllable, he felt something in himself peel back, a layer at a time, until there was nothing but want. Nothing but waiting.
He was to be Papa. And he would kneel for it. Bleed for it. Burn for it.
But ohâshe would make him worthy.
She stood above him, her face invisible, partially due to her dark cloak, and his head at her feet. "Your soul is not your own," she says, her fingers tracing over his vulnerable neck. "Your body is but a vessel, youth. Your body is mine, and so is your soul, to command."
"There are seven gates, and seven cardinal sins. Tell me, have you completed them all?"
He let out a trembling sigh, breath hot and stuttering against the cold stone. Her touch was like lightning, jolting him to the core and leaving his skin buzzing. "All but the first," he said, the words catching in his throat. He'd practiced them. This should have been easy. He could have said them in his sleep, but all the practice in the world didn't make this moment any less sacred. Or terrifying.
"Pride? Have you never been prideful?" she asked him, her fingers remaining on her neck. They were narrow, smoother than he thought they might have been, but then again, this woman hardly left her station.
"Have you nothing to be proud of, youth?" she asked him again.
"Oh, many things," he said, trying to keep his voice even, although he already felt raw and shaking. He wanted to shiver, and he wanted to squirm, and he wanted to arch, and all because of touch. "Of my own abilities, and talents.â He laughed, a faint, rueful thing. "I'm told I'm quite the singer." He had been told so. Whether he believed it or not, he did not specify.
"But you don't believe that, do you? You doubt yourself," she says, her nails digging into the skin that had never before been touched. "You hear it, but you do not believe it is the truth."
She inhaled, then exhaled, the deep breaths mussing his hair. "Popularity breeds vanity. It shall be completed soon enough, post-ritual," she says. "Who do I have but you to elevate? I see no reason to delay." He was her last resort, but the knowledge that he was her only was enough to soothe the sting. He let out a soft, gasping sob, the sound almost lost in the heavy air. Her grip was tight, firm but not cruel, and oh, if he weren't so afraid right now, he would have melted against her with a pathetic whine.
"When?" he asked. He would not beg. He would not. He would have his dignity. "When?"
"Now," she murmurs. "When else but now? I come out for you, and you have the nerve to think I would change the time?" His whole body shuddered, a shudder that ran through him like an earthquake, and he realized, in a sudden, stomach-dropping wave of awareness, that he had lost his dignity. He had lost many things to them already, and would lose more before this was over.
He was not going to cry.
He drew in a shuddering breath, trying one more, vain attempt at composure.
"I... yes. Now."
The room was still, almost frighteningly so. Then, she descended.
She was on her knees there with him, and yet, retained her elevation. He was down further, on hands and knees, his head level with her stomach. Lust, that evil sin, drew his eyes there, and pride pulled them back.
"I require your blood," she says, "for it is the essence of your life. Only a small amount, but if you try to hurt me, I will drain you pale," she instructs. Her words are cold, almost threatening in nature, and they make his chest ache.
His mind stuttered, the moment so intimate that it was almost obscene. He'd be lying if he said his mind didn't jump to several other ways of giving blood, but that was just hunger and want talking. He would not disgrace the moment with thoughts so base. He nodded, once, slowly, and bit down on his lip. He couldn't decide what was worse: that she was so close, or that she was so far away. He could smell rosemary and incense. It could have been her alone, or a deliberate choice. Either way, he didn't want to be away from it now.
She lunged forward, grabbing his throat with a rough sort of gentleness that made his head spin. She squeezed, her thumb rubbing over his jugular to stimulate the flow of that sweet red wine that flowed within him.
He'd prepared for painâa quick stab with some ritual dagger left over from the founding of the church, perhapsâbut he was certainly not prepared for this. He made a noise, a strangled sound deep in his throat, and he was not sure if it was a gasp of pain or of something far worse. His heart was racing, pounding so hard it felt like it'd break through his chest, and he hoped they were not close enough to hear it. His thoughts came in fragments, broken by his breathless, panting gasps. Gentle. Too gentle. Too sweet. I don't want to be sweet. I want it rough. I want it to hurt.
She brought him closer, her shockingly cool breath stark against his heated skin. The daggers that were her filed-sharp teeth stabbed through his delicate skin, her tongue pressing over the puncture to soothe the sting. She sucked, brought his blood into her mouth, but did not swallow. Her head lifted then, to see his eyes. This was the closest he had gotten to seeing her face: the outline of her pinkish, stained lips.
He cried out, but he was not sure if it was from pain or pleasure, or something in between. She was touching him, feeding on him, her tongue slick and cool and so cruel. How could something so wrong feel so sweet? His mind was a tangled, reeling blur, and he was desperate to find somethingâsome anchor, something safeâto hang onto. He brought his hand up, without thinking, and laid his fingers against her cheek.
She exhaled loudly, and then came closer, as if he had invited her, but he doubted it was anything personal to him. Her lips collided with his own, but she wasn't kissing. Her lips were parted, and she pried at his jaw, forcing it to open. There, she let the sweet fluid of his blood mixed with her saliva drain into his mouth. "Swallow," she mouthed.
He did. Oh, he did.
It tasted of copper and clove, and something sharper, almost acidic. It was bitter and sweet all at once, and he could not keep himself from making a noise, some low sound that almost resembled a moan. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been kissed, and it was as if his nerves had forgotten how to process touchâhe ached for more, and yet, it was almost too much.
She pulled away after that, but remained close, her hand going to her torso as she pulled her cloak slightly aside, baring a singular breast, bringing his head closer with her other hand. "Drink." His head spun, and he was mesmerized; dare he say hypnotized. He couldnât think straight, if even for a moment.
His hand trembled as he reached out, touching her stomach before he leaned forward, resting his cheek against the soft skin there. He could feel her thrumming heartbeat, wild and hungry, pounding against his face. Slowly, his head descended to her nipple, and slowly, he began to drink.
Her milk was almost sickeningly sweet, and she held his hair tightly in her hand as he sipped from her. She had taken life from him, and now he took something similar from her. "Greed," she groaned lowly as he took needless mouthfuls.
She pulled him away eventually, allowing him to gaze at her bare chest for only a moment before she covered herself with her cloak yet again. "Good." He drew in deep, trembling breaths, head spinning with the heady scent of her body. It was a strange feeling, equal parts satisfying and devastating. He wanted to get closer, bury his face against her and breathe her in, and yet, he was terrified of it. He nodded, once, and tried to steady his breath. Good. He'd been good. He'd never been told he was good before.
He wondered how good he'd have to be to get more.
She reached over, dipping her fingers in the ash of the incense burning behind him. Lightly, she touched his forehead, drawing a pentagram with her fingertips.
Then, she pushed him back with the butt of her hand, and stood up. "Swear yourself," she commands him, "to your dark lord, to me. We will guide you, for I am his voice."
He was on his back in the next moment, staring up at the distant ceiling. He felt heavy and weak, as if he might pass out at any moment, and yet, *something* felt... different. Something was *right.*
He blinked, trying to clear the pounding in his head, and then nodded slowly. "I swear," he said. "Myself, my voice, to my dark lord, Satan. I'm yours. Yours alone." Was he speaking to the beauty before him, or the one down below? Wasnât all sin synonymous?
"In life and death," she says, "like yourself and all the Papas who came before you; your brothers, your father, you are mine," she says firmly, looking down at him. "Nema."
The room felt blurry, as if it were trembling, or perhaps it was only him.
"In life and death," he echoed, though the words sounded distant, almost slurred.
He was not sure what was happening. Something was pounding in his ears, and he could feel the cold stone at his back, digging in through his clothes. A shiver ran through him, and he sat up, shaking his head to clear the dizzying, hazy feeling. That word seemed to ring through his head like a chiming bell.
Slowly, her hands dropped to her sides, and she turned her back to him. "Go back to your chambers and rest. The Ritual was successful. Your superiors will inform you of your duties from there."
"You may come to me for guidance," she tells him. "But only at night, for you may not see my face. Do not waste my time." And yet, he didn't want to leave her. He couldn't imagine leaving her; not after what he had surrendered to her, and what he had taken, and she had gifted. No. He wouldnât leave.
His mind was reeling with all that had happened, and yet, some desperate, needy part of him wanted to stay with her. He wanted more, to press himself against her and beg for more touch, more of her praise, her attention⊠He pushed himself to his feet, standing on shaky legs. He still felt dizzy, like he might stumble at any moment, but he somehow managed to keep his voice level. Almost.
"I won't waste your time," he said, his hands trembling. "I swear."
"Then why do you stay?" she asks, and her voice is cold, returning to that same harshness it had kept initially. Perhaps it was worse, but worse he had become, also. He didn't care. "You waste my time."
He needed more than he feared.
He knew that he should listen. He knew that he should leave, go back to the chambers that he had been given, and rest as she had ordered. But he was tired of following orders. He was tired of doing as he was told, always keeping his mouth shut and his head down.
He was greedy, just as she'd said.
He took a single, slow step forward, until he was close enough to reach out and touch her. He didn't. Not yet.
"Please," he said, and he hated himself a little for how desperate it sounded. "Please, let me stay. Just for a few more minutes. Just for the hour." He didn't care if his voice wavered, or if she could hear the pounding of his heart. He was afraid, yes, but the want was stronger. "Please.â He sounded like a pup crying, weeping and whimpering for just the smallest scrap of affection. He was no more a man than she was an angel. Visually, yes, but in soul, only a hollow husk of what met the eye⊠but he was almost certain that her innards matched his interpretation of her: tempting, alluring, rewarding, and angelic⊠to be around, to be inside of.
He heard her swallow. âYou may.â
He was trembling, a mixture of want and fear and relief. Relief that she hadn't said, "no," and that he was allowed to stay.
He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, though. He didn't dare touch her, and yet, every muscle in his body ached to move forward, closer. He'd spent his whole life being denied affection, and it felt like a starving man being invited to a feast.
And so, he feasted.
He dropped to his knees once more, like a beggar in tears, and groped her hips like a man deprived. Her fingers, sharp, almost clawed, dug into soft curls of black velvet. And like a dog, a Hellhound, his jaw fell slack and he mouthed at her sex through thin robes like he might die if he didnât try for her. He didnât wait for her permission, or her encouragement. All that mattered was that he be satisfied, and that hopefully, in the process, he could prove himself not only worthy of the Papalship, but worthy of her. This body that Lucifer himself had entrusted to carry out his will, he wanted for his own. He was a selfish manwhore at her feet, but the moment her leg slipped and her cloak parted, his shame was forgotten as he tasted her for the first time.
He groaned, tongue pressing flat against her sex, almost cradling her cunt against the tender muscle as he supped on her intoxicating flavor. He buried his nose against the soft, dark curls of hair that attempted to preserve some kind of coital modesty. They only egged him on further. She smelled of cloves and rosemary and something else similar and distinctly herbal.
She was stone cold, like a statue carved from the finest, purest of marble, but at her core, she was a woman, and he was a man obsessed. He sucked her clit, the tip of his tongue brushing over it, and she moaned. He had drawn that from her. His ministrations, his work, had built and brought that moan just for his venal ears. His mouth opened wide again, and then would come to a near close as he suckled again, sending waves of pleasure like pure electricity through her delicate clit and up her spine.
âYou taste like honey,â he said, the words messy, wet, and muffled against her cunt. He pulled away after a moment, breathless. His statement had been a lie. Truthfully, heâd never had honey, but he imagined that there was no flavor sweeter than her essence on his tongue.
She was gasping, hands pressed up against the stone lectern-like structure behind her, and soon, so was her back. Her legs trembled. She had granted numerous soft pleasures to his brothers and family before him, he was sure, but when had she ever received any? When was the last time this sweet fruit had been thoroughly enjoyed?
âForgive me, for I have sampled your wine without asking,â he said. The words were poetic, metaphorical, and intended to be charming. âBut I find that you bear the most potent of alcohol, and is the best of wine not meant for sharing?â
The side of her hood was drawn over her face, concealing her identity still. âI forgive you,â she speaks. âIt is a trait your congregation will admire in you; ravenousness, even if directed at the wrong subject.â
âIf this is wrong,â he says, âI would prefer to spend my entire career a failure.â
He stood, perhaps swifter than he had meant to, and when his arms slipped around her waist, he buried his face into her shoulder. The noise that left him was broken⊠something akin toâno, identical to a sob. âSatanas, wonât you let me mean something?â he pleaded. âWonât you let me do right by you?â
He humped her leg, rubbing his hardening cock against the soft, plush flesh of her thigh. The sensitive skin rubbed dryly against the fabric of his trousers, and it made him cry again. âI spent my entire life in the shadow of someone whoâs identical to me,â he grunted. âLet me have the one thing he couldnât, wonât you? Let me have you. He didnât have you, did he? I want you,â he said, his words bridging the gap between plea and demand. âI want you more than the papacy. Iâd give it all up for you right now, ciliegia. Just say the word. Say the word⊠and Iâll fuck you like he never could.â
She exhaled shakily, her hand pressing against his chest, pushing back softly. The action was half-hearted, as if trying to make up for the lack of passion and meaning in her words. âIt is improper,â she insisted. âI am never to be touched, or to be seen. I am supposed to walk among the congregation, unidentifiable, and you stand here and defile the will of your own blood.â
She was shaming him now, was she? It didnât matter if it violated every rule the foundation of the Ministry was set upon. He would give her the world⊠and if she didnât accept the Heaven he was willing to give her, he would give her Hell.
âI donât care,â he hissed through gritted teeth, fumbling with the lacing of his pants. He was kind enough, gentle enough, to pause and remove his long coat, pulling her to him to place it under her and push her right back down, cushioning her as he propped her up on the very lectern that was supposed to be grounding her. âI know you need it. I know you want it. I know youâre not weak, and I know you could push me away if you wanted to. But I am more man than monster, for now, I believe⊠and I will ask you,â he says, gripping her delicate hips with an almost bruising force. He wanted her to speak to him, with no viable escape. âDo you want me?â
Despite her better judgment, and despite her objectively superior intelligence, he felt her hand wrap around his loosened collar. Her voice, so very close to his ear as he buried his nose into her neck, whispered: âYes.â
He didnât require much other encouragement. He pushed down the soft, dark fabric of his underwear. Hers were absent; undoubtedly some kind of authenticity precaution taken by the Ministry, one which he was thankful for in this moment. His heated cock against the cool skin of her belly was a contrast so painfully pleasurable. He rested himself there for a moment, as if measuring up to her. Still, even at the crude action, he didnât look down, didnât remove his face from her throat.
Perhaps he was self-conscious; an aspect visible even under layers of falsified bravery and carnal desire. âYouâre a goddess,â he breathes. âYouâre a goddess, and Iâm going to worship this body just so.â
His cock slid through soft, wet lips, still dripping with her sweet honey and the remnants of his spit. His head pressed heavily against her entrance, and then with the slightest stretch, he slid inside. The rest went easy, fitting like a glove, like a key into lock and hand into hand. It was an intoxicating feelingâone he had prayed for, and yet, one he hadnât expected.Truthfully, he could say that this woman was made for him. Confidently, he knew that his body had been created with the primary purpose of filling her.
He grunted as he bottomed out, and she breathed heavily, body clenching around him in a way that, briefly, could have been her body trying to expel him from her pleasurable warmth. Soon, though, that natural protest became an eager welcome.
He began to move then, slowly at first, savoring the exquisite sensation of her silken walls enveloping him. Each thrust sent ripples of pleasure coursing through his body, and he could feel her responding in kind, her hips lifting to meet his, drawing him deeper still. Their voices, for the most part, remained quiet. His songs were for the audience she would soon grant him, but his whispers, his pleas, his tears, were for her ears only.
His hand slid slowly, tenderly up her stomach, cupping her swollen breast and pressing gently. More of her sweet milk dripped, and he ducked his head down to drink from her once more. His tongue lapping at the creamy liquid as it trickled down the soft curve of her breast. He savored the taste, the warmth of her skin beneath his lips, the feeling of her nipple stiffening against his tongue.
As he suckled gently, he could feel her body beginning to tremble beneath him, her inner walls fluttering and clenching around his shaft. He knew she was close, and could sense the building pressure within her as he continued to thrust slowly, deliberately, his hips rolling against hers in a sensual dance.
"Come for me," he whispered against her breast, his voice a sweet murmur. "Let go, my goddess, my ciliegia. I want to feel you, to watch you, to be a part of your ecstasy." He hummed low, his mouth wet and warm against the soft skin of her breast. âIâll go too, I swear it. Iâll give you my all, just⊠oh, dolcezza mia, give it to me!â he wept.
Her inner walls clamped down around him, rippling and squeezing his shaft in a vice-like grip as her climax exploded through her. Pleasure detonated in every nerve ending, her entire being consumed by the sheer intensity of her release. Scorching heat flooded her core, and her vision flickered as elation unlike anything she had ever experienced before overwhelmed her. He felt her convulsing beneath him, her precious body undulating in time with her peak. Her cries of euphoria and the slick grip of her silken walls drove him to the brink of insanity, his own release approaching at a breathtaking pace. The exquisite sensation of her coming undone around him was his undoing.
With a feral groan, he thrust deep and hard, burying himself to the hilt inside her spasming sheath as his own orgasm claimed him. Scorching ropes of liquid heat erupted from his shaft, painting her insides with his release. Each pulse of his climax sent jolts of rapture ricocheting through his entire being, prolonging their shared climax. Finally, he was hers. He wiped the saliva from his lower lip, his breaths low, hoarse, a sharp contrast from his usual voice. That voice, the one she had recognized, the one that now belonged to her.
He lifted his head, finally, eyes closed. He wanted to lean down. He wanted to kiss her⊠but that wasnât his decision to make, was it? No, not when she was already moving out from underneath him, pulling that forsaken cloak back around her, leaving him there, humiliated and spent, as if he were nothing. The shadows hid her face, but even as her gaze left him, her claim did not.
And like that, he was reduced back to the sobbing, simpering mess he had been just an hour before. He breathed out, lungs trembling beneath fragile ribs. âCome back to me,â he pleaded with her as she left. âCanât you come back?â
Her silence was her only answer; quiet, inconspicuous, secretive. As the heavy oak door fell shut behind her, he dropped his head down on the lectern, damp with their shared essence. He breathed in her remnants, nearly salivating over them, and when he spoke, it was in a low, desperate whisper. âSee me again, il mio unico amore. See me.â
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Alessandroâs footsteps echoed lightly against the stone floor as he moved down the long, narrow hallways of the abbey. The candles had been lit one by one, their soft glow smearing faint light against the cold walls, the waxy towers getting shorter and shorter as he descended. It was the kind of quiet that made every sound, every shift of fabric or breath, feel somehow louder than it should.
He wasnât sure why he was doing this. He hadnât thought it through.
Maybe that was the problem.
He hadn't seen her in days.
No, longer than that. He couldnât even place when he had last seen herâreally seen her. Not since the night she had hugged him, sudden and brief and too much, too fast. It hadnât meant anything, he told himself. It had been gratitude, relief, a slip of emotion she probably regretted the moment it happened.
Still, here he was.
Foolish. He felt foolish. Had he expectedâwhat, exactly? That a small, impulsive act of closeness would make her seek him out again? That it had meant something?
He knew better than that. He had told himself he did.
But he couldnât quite stop himself, either.
He rounded another corner, passing a few nuns clustered in muted conversation. One of them, a young, new nun, with her veil slipping slightly from her hair, looked up as he approached. Her eyes widened, wary.
He stopped a respectful distance away and inclined his head slightly. "Sister," he said. His voice was low, even. "Iâm looking for Sister Lune. Could you tell me where her room is?"
The young woman hesitated, her hand tightening around the rosary at her waist. There was reluctance in her posture, an inward shrinking, but after a moment she nodded, murmuring the directions quickly, almost as if afraid to be overheard.
He thanked her with a slight bow of his head and moved on, feeling the weight of her nervous glance trailing after him. He didn't blame her. His presence in this part of the abbey wasnât usual, and he wondered if she knew him at all. His searching wasn't usual, but still, he walked steadily forward, following the whispered directions, the halls narrowing and cooling around him the closer he came.
He found the door easily enough. It was plain, as were the rest of the doors in the hall of quiet, humble rooms, each identical in its austerity. There was no marker, no decoration, nothing to distinguish it as hers.
For a moment, Alessandro just stood there. His hand hovered halfway to knocking, then lowered again. He felt ridiculous. As if the simple act of knocking could summon something he wasnât ready to face.
He wasn't good at this. He never had been.
Alessandro and conflict were like oil and waterâone always slipping past the other, never quite mixing. He could withstand silence. He could take a punch to the gut. But to confront it directly, to ask for something when he didnât know what answer he wantedâŠ
It set his teeth on edge.
Still, he hadn't come all this way to turn back now.
Alessandro drew in a slow breath, willing the tension out of his shoulders. His knuckles touched the door softly, almost tentative. A second tap followed a little firmer, but still hesitant, as if he was already bracing for the door to stay shut, for her voice to call out a dismissal, for some reminder that he was overstepping.
The hall remained silent.
He waited.
And then, quietly, almost too softly to catch: a shuffle of movement from within.
âAre you decent?â Alessandro called through the door, voice low and careful, as if he feared it might bruise the silence between them.
There was no answer at first, the only response the faint creak of something shifting within, like someone startled into stillness. Then, after a long pause:
ââŠYes.â
He opened the door slowly, as though he might still be told to stop.
Afternoon light spilled in through the narrow window, filtered gold through dust. It wasnât how heâd pictured itânot that he had meant to picture itâbut heâd imagined it quieter, emptier. Instead, it was plainly lived-in. Folded clothes near the basin. A cup left near the bed. Books, perhaps borrowed, stacked with care. The edges of her life, arranged with deliberation.
Lune sat on the edge of the bed, still as a bell just after its strike. Her hands were clenched in the folds of her skirt, but it was the way her shoulders twitched that gave her away. Sheâd flinched, the gesture barely noticeable, but Alessandro had spent too much of his life watching people trying not to be watched.
His brow creased, a silent question passing across his face. He didnât voice it. He only stood there a moment longer, half-in, half-out of the room, something uncertain coiled in his chest.
Luneâs gaze flicked toward him, then away. Her voice was quiet, dulled by something like fatigue. âI thought you were Antonio.â
The name landed in the space between them like a stone dropped into a basin with no splash, only the quiet weight of it sinking.
He blinked. âHas heâŠ?â
He didnât finish. He couldnât. The idea lodged somewhere beneath his ribs.
âNo,â she said, after a moment. âNot recently.â
Not recently. That shouldnât have been reassuring. But she seemed to ease a little in the saying of it, and that, at least, was something.
He exhaled through his nose and crossed the room, his movements careful, almost ceremonial. He pulled the chair out from her desk, its legs scraping gently against the floorboards, and turned it toward her. Then he sat, spine straight but trying to appear at ease, his long fingers threading together in his lap.
It was strange, sitting here. Strange, not being in the library where the rules of their conversation were clearer, where books could be a shield, where their gazes had shelves to rest on. Here, there was only her. And him. And the narrow band of space between.
Lune adjusted her posture slightly, crossing one leg over the other, as if to mirror his ease, but even that felt practiced, uncertain. Then, without thinking, she reached down and tugged at the hem of her habit, drawing it over her ankles with quick, precise fingers. She smoothed the cloth as if trying to erase the gesture.
He watched this, saying nothing, but the silence between them changed shape. He could feel it. She had flinched when he entered. She had covered her ankles, and something about that made him feel suddenly, quietly monstrous.
The silence stretched, soft but insistent. It folded itself around the room like fog around cloister walls, muting everything it touched.
They spoke eventually, in that careful way people do when they donât know how to speak honestly. She asked him, in a voice too light to be casual, if the archives had kept him busy. He replied that they had. He asked her if her tasks had eased, and she nodded without offering detail. It went on like that for some time, with neither lying, not truly, but neither of them saying anything real.
Alessandro found himself watching the way her hands moved when she tucked a stray thread back into her sleeve. The way she sat up a little straighter every time his eyes caught hers. He could feel something thick in the air between them. Not tension, exactly, but something more worn.
Alessandro shifted slightly in the chair, the old wood groaning under his weight. He glanced down at his hands for a moment, as if surprised to find them still resting in his lap. When he looked back at her, Lune had turned her gaze toward the window. Her profile was outlined faintly in the pale gold of the afternoon sun, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.
âI had wondered,â he said at last, carefully, âif I had done something to drive you away.â
Her eyes moved, slow and uncertain, but she didnât meet his. She stared instead at a crack in the far wall.
âNo,â she said. The word came quickly, almost reflexive in its nature. Then slower, steadier: âYou havenât.â
He let the silence hang, waiting.
Lune drew in a breath that barely touched her ribs. âIâve not been myself,â she said. âNot entirely. These past days have been⊠difficult. I find I have little appetite for company. That is all.â
He tilted his head, studying her. âYet you seem frightened of it,â he said quietly.
Her eyes flicked to his, startled. âFrightened?â
âI came to your door and you startled like Iâd come to beat you,â he said, not cruelly, but not gently either. âThatâs not something I think I misread.â
Luneâs lips parted, but for a long moment, no answer came. She looked down, the shadows deepening beneath her lashes. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. It had grown softer, but older somehow. Older than her face, older than her place in this room.
âI thought it might be Antonio,â she said. âHeâs been⊠persistent. Lately.â She paused. âNot at my door, no, but near enough.â
Alessandroâs brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Lune lifted a hand to tuck her hair beneath her veil, though it hadnât fallen.
âI know I ought to be grateful for his interest,â she continued. âThere are many who would envy such a match. And yetâŠâ
She trailed off, eyes lifting again to the corner of the room, as if searching for the end of her thought.
âIâve never liked being told what ought to feel right,â she said. âIt confuses the part of me that knows when something isnât.â
Alessandro leaned back slightly, the chair creaking again, though he hardly noticed. âAnd do you know, now?â
Her gaze met his then. There was no trembling in it, no softness. Only the quiet, solemn certainty of someone who had sat with something long enough to know its shape.
âI think Iâve always known,â she said.
The silence returned between them, but it had shifted. It no longer pressed at the walls or waited to be broken. It simply settled, as if it belonged there, like the late sunlight on the floor or the sound of the bells ringing faintly in the distance.
Alessandro did not speak again for some time. When he did, it was little more than a murmur, spoken half to the air and half to her.
âI had missed your voice in the library.â
There was a pause. The weight of that small confession hung between them, suspended, not heavy, but unmistakable.
Lune shifted, her hands folding together over her knee. âI would never try to hurt you,â she said quietly, her tone neither dramatic nor defensive. It was offered simply, like a truth she needed him to believe.
Alessandro turned his head slightly, letting his eyes drift toward the window so she wouldnât see the way his expression gave him away. That statement, as soft as it was, had landed somewhere deep. Something inside him cinched tighter, as if the threads that held his heart together were being pulled from both ends.
He cleared his throat softly, reaching to tug at the sleeve of his coat, a small, absent motion. âI understand the urge to shut the door,â he said. âTo stay in, let the silence do the speaking for you. Thereâs a kind of comfort in it. But it wonât help you, not in the end.â
Lune nodded, looking down. âI know.â
She paused, her fingers twitching once before settling again. âYou donât usually come to find me. Not here. Not like this.â
There was no accusation in her voice, only observation. Still, something about the way she said it stirred him. It was true. He had kept his distance, until recently. The knowledge that Antonio had crossed that threshold, even just once, pressed sharply at his chest. He didnât know exactly what it meant, but he resented it nonetheless.
He breathed in through his nose. âAntonio isnât a foolespite how dull I must seem by comparison.â
That earned a laugh from her. It was quiet but real, unguarded, her hand rising to her mouth too late to catch it. He looked at her again, and for a moment, the heaviness between them eased. He let himself smile faintly.
âHeâll notice what youâre doing soon enough,â he continued. âThen youâll have no peace at all.â
Lune tilted her head slightly. There was something in her eyes nowânot challenge, not quite. It was something gentler. Expectant.
âWhat is it Iâm doing, exactly?â she asked.
Alessandro looked at her, really looked, and then dropped his gaze for a breath. When he lifted it again, he met her eyes without flinching.
âYouâre hiding,â he said. âFrom everything. But especially from me.â
The silence that followed did not hurt. It settled over them like a soft cloth, quiet and necessary. Lune didnât look away this time. Her mouth turned, just barely, into a smile.
âAnd you want me to stop,â she said.
âI want you in the library,â he replied. His voice was quieter now. âWith me.â
Luneâs smile grew, not wide but warm, and her expression changedâless weary, more certain.
âIâll see you tonight,â she said.
He watched her for a moment longer, the lines of her face softened by the afternoon light, her eyes calm now in a way that unsettled him more than any sorrow. A quiet thought passed through himâbrief, uninvited, but potent. The way she said it made it sound like a promise. And for the first time in days, Alessandro felt like something might be beginning again.
âŠ
The corridor outside the library stretched in dusky silence, the stone underfoot still holding the heat of the day. The air had begun to shift, though, thinned and cooled by the coming evening. The cool seaside air moved softly through the high windows, stirring the edges of old banners and catching in the folds of Bernardoâs robe. He stood half-obscured beside one of the columns, hands resting behind his back, posture patient, still. Not idle. Never idle. He had chosen this place deliberatelyânear the hallway that led to the library, but far enough removed to appear incidental, as though he might have simply wandered here by chance. There was a skill in that kind of waiting which Bernardo had perfected over the years.
He had been told she would come. Not by Antonio directlyâhis brother had merely spoken in passing to Matteo, dropping Luneâs name like a coin on the floor, not caring if it was picked up. And of course, Matteo had spoken. He always did. Bernardo hadnât even needed to ask directly. Matteo had offered the information with that eagerness particular to young men desperate to matter, the kind of boys who mistake being listened to for being important. Bernardo had once been like that. Too eager to please, too loose with what should have been kept. There was something sad and sharp in the memory. He did not pity Matteo for it, but he understood him.
He heard her footsteps echoing through the corridor before he saw her. She wasnât trying to be quiet, but she wasnât walking as someone who wanted to be noticed, either. Her figure appeared slowly in the distance, limned in the grey-blue light of the hour before vespers. She had her head bowed, not in sorrow, but in thought. She was heading toward the library like a pilgrim approaching a shrine.
âLune,â he said, gently, just loud enough to reach her.
She stopped mid-step, her body tensing before she turned. Her face showed no alarm, but it took her half a breath to summon the expression she needed. She dipped her head in the shape of a greeting, measured and practiced.
âCardinale Bernardo,â she said. Her voice was calm but distant. âGood evening.â
He stepped forward slightly, out of the shadows, wearing a smile carefully curated to seem effortless. âOut for a walk?â
She hesitated, then replied, âTo the library.â
He nodded, as though this surprised him only a little. âAh. That makes sense. I thought Iâd been seeing you less, but perhaps Iâve just been looking in the wrong places.â Heâd seen her, yes, but never quite spoken to her. Heâd never had the need to until just now.
She didnât answer, though he watched the way her hands folded themselves more tightly beneath her sleeves. Her composure was neat, as ever, but it was the neatness of something pressed and folded too many times. A gesture of control rather than peace.
âIâd heard as much, to be honest,â he said, as though continuing a thought. âAntonio mentioned something to Matteo about it. I suppose curiosity got the better of me.â
If her body stiffened at Antonioâs name, she masked it well. But Bernardo saw the stillness that followed it, the breath she didnât quite take.
âMatteo speaks freely,â he went on, softer now. âIt isnât difficult, getting words out of him. He wants so badly to be liked. To be useful.â A pause. âI remember what that feels like.â He was sharing with her, and she seemed confused by it.
He looked past her then, to a point on the far wall, his expression unreadable. It was something quieter than confession or regret, as if he were simply a man recalling his own shape through the behavior of another.
âI used to talk too much,â he said. âTrying to please. Trying to prove I deserved to be listened to.â
She said nothing, though her eyes remained on him. Bernardo was not like his brothers, but then again, it seemed like none of them were meeting expectations these days. His voice was gentler than Antonioâs, his movements less striking than Alessandroâs, but he was no less careful. He wielded quiet like other men wielded power.
âI was glad to hear it, though,â he said at last, returning his gaze to her. âThat you were going again. I think the library suits you.â
Something flickered across her expression then in some sort of grateful suspicion, but some of the tension unwound from her arms, and her hands settled more loosely at her sides.
âThank you,â she said, her voice low but sincere.
âAnd Alessandro?â Bernardo asked, the name offered as lightly as a passing thought. âHe doesnât mind the company?â
It was a small question that could be brushed aside, but the weight of it was carefully calibrated, like a hand laid gently over the pulse.
Lune's eyes didnât shift, but there was a stillness in her now that hadnât been there a moment before. She didnât bristle, didnât step away, but something behind her gaze drew inward, as though she were retreating a single step inward rather than out. The question itself was harmless on the surface. Casual, even, but it had reached into a space where she had not expected to be touched.
âHeâs never minded,â she said after a pause. Her voice was steady, but the edge of quiet deliberation in it suggested she was measuring each word. âNot when itâs quiet. Not when thereâs work to be done.â
Bernardo nodded slowly, as if that answer satisfied something in him, though it was hard to tell what. He had always possessed the kind of demeanor that made people feel he knew more than he let on, because often, he did. Still, he let the subject rest there, not pressing further. He seemed content to let silence rise again between them, letting her wonder if she had said too much or exactly enough.
âItâs good,â he said after a moment, softly, âto have a place to retreat to. Even if itâs just for a little while.â His words hung in the air a moment longer, gentler than Antonioâs would have been, less loaded than Alessandroâs, but not without weight. Bernardo never said anything by accident, but this was perhaps the closest to normal, aimless conversation she had been to in some time.
Bernardo gave the faintest smile, that quiet, unreadable kind that never quite reached the corners of his mouth but softened his features just enough. Lune hesitated under the stillness that followed, not because she feared his reaction but because something about him made her feel like she was being watched from beneath calm water.
Still, something eased in her posture. The silence between them wasnât hostile. Just⊠unfamiliar.
âWhat are you doing here?â she asked, then blinked, her brow drawing in. âI didnât mean that how it soundedâonly that I havenât seen you around this part of the abbey much before.â
Her voice, uncertain at first, steadied as she spoke. She was curious, genuinely. Bernardo had always been an elusive presence, someone more often spoken of than spoken to. Of all three brothers she had been acquainted with, he was the one who gave her the least reason to be wary, and the least reason to feel like she understood him.
Bernardo didnât appear offended. If anything, her question seemed to amuse him, though his expression remained mild.
âI suppose youâre right,â he said. âI donât come here often.â
He looked past her briefly, down the hall sheâd come from, then back again. âBut Iâve found it⊠instructive lately. How people move. Where they go. What patterns form when they think no one is watching.â
Lune frowned slightly, not sure if that answer was meant to be philosophical or pointed. But there was no edge in his voice, only that quiet steadiness, as if he were remarking on weather or dust.
âAnd now youâre watching me?â she asked, a little lighter this time, not quite teasing, but not defensive either.
Bernardoâs gaze didnât shift. âI wouldnât say watching,â he said slowly. âJust noticing. Iâve always thought people deserved to be noticed. Especially when they begin changing their steps.â
There was a long pause between them, though it didnât settle uncomfortably. Lune looked down briefly, then back up at him.
âI didnât mean to change them,â she said. âIâve just⊠been tired.â
âI believe you,â he said, and to her surprise, she did believe that he meant it. âI only wondered. But I wonât keep you.â
She nodded, unsure why she suddenly felt so tired again, as if a weight she hadnât realized she was carrying had just shifted. Still, something about the exchange had settled her. Bernardo was easier to speak to than sheâd thoughtâquieter, less invasive.
Bernardo did not leave right away.
His gaze lingered, though not in the way Antonioâs might haveâa pressing weight, all expectation and assertion. No, Bernardoâs presence was lighter, more careful, but no less intentional.
âAnd Alessandro?â he asked, the words folded gently into the quiet between them. âYou seem⊠at ease with him.â
Lune turned her head slightly, not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to register the shift. Her hands folded together at her waist, her fingers curling around each other, a habit born of reflex more than discomfort. Still, she hesitated.
âWe know each other,â she said. âFrom the library.â
A beat passed. She heard her own voice, how distant it sounded, how neatly she had tucked the truth inside it. Bernardo did not interrupt.
âIâve never had reason to fear him,â she added. âIf thatâs what youâre asking.â
âI wasnât,â he said. âNot quite.â
The air between them shifted again, less curious now, more attentive. Bernardo had a way of peeling back the edges of conversation without making it feel like an intrusion. It was something about his patience, the way he left silence open for a fuller answer.
Luneâs brow furrowed faintly, and she drew a slow breath.
âHeâs kind to me,â she said, at last. âIn ways that donât ask for anything.â
That admission felt dangerous once spoken, as if it had named something she wasnât yet ready to see clearly. She glanced down the hall, toward the library, as if the thought of him might summon him there.
Bernardoâs expression didnât shift. His voice remained quiet, level.
âThatâs rare,â he said. âEspecially here.â
Lune nodded, but didnât respond. Her eyes stayed on the floor for a moment longer, then lifted again, searching his face.
âWhy are you asking me this?â she said, more cautious now. âI mean no disrespect, but surely you know him better than I do.â
âIâve never seen you with him before,â he replied, without accusation. âItâs different when things are spoken aloud. Different when others begin to notice.â
She stiffened at that, barely, and he saw it. But she held his gaze.
âThereâs nothing to notice,â she said carefully.
Bernardo offered a faint smile, polite and unbothered.
âIf you say so.â
He stepped back then, not far, just enough to make room for her to move past. But his eyes didnât leave her.
âIâll see you around, Lune.â
She gave him a nod, quiet, unreadable, then turned toward the library, her pace steady, her thoughts anything but.
Bernardo watched her go, her figure retreating into the dim stretch of corridor, the sound of her steps growing softer until the heavy door of the library opened and closed behind her. He stood there a moment longer, as if weighing something invisible in his hands. Then he turned. His pace was unhurried, every movement still smooth, composed, even idle, but as soon as the hallway bent and she was no longer in sight, something shifted in him.
His shoulders, once loose with practiced ease, drew tighter, the line of his jaw set. His gaze was now fixed ahead, sharp and searching. There was no one to perform for now, no need for gentleness. The quiet, distant worry he had kept folded neatly behind his eyes began to surface, thin and cold.
He walked faster. Not quickly enough to seem unnatural, but enough to betray that whatever calm he had shown her had been just that, and beneath it, something urgent stirred. Against his better judgement, he turned back, pressing himself against the not-yet-closed door, and peeked inside.
âŠ
The library was hushed as always, steeped in the solemn stillness that clung to its high arches and stone walls like a second air. The scent of parchment and resin lingered thickly, a comforting balm that softened the edges of the day as it faded into the night. Lune stepped across the threshold and paused, letting the hush settle over her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim, amber glow cast by the sconces along the walls, their flames flickering faintly behind the glass. Shadows stretched gently across the hardwood, long and reverent.
She let her gaze drift over the rows of tall shelves, each one solemn and still, guardians of centuries-old texts whose cracked leather bindings she knew as well as the lines of her own hands. She had passed countless hours in this place, yet tonight, something about it felt alteredâless like a room, more like a memory slowly stirring awake.
And then she saw him.
Alessandro stood near the far end of the room, his back angled toward her, the dark folds of his coat falling still. His head was slightly bowed as he examined the row before him, one hand resting lightly against the wood as though steadying a thought. He had not noticed her. Or perhaps he had, and chose not to show it. Lune couldnât tell. That peculiar weight sheâd been carrying all afternoonâthe one stirred up by Bernardoâs voice and the things left unsaid between themâloosened slightly. It was not gone, but it was quieter now. She moved forward, slowly, careful not to let her steps echo too loudly.
Alessandroâs eyes lifted the moment she drew near. Whatever flicker of surprise passed through them was quickly subdued by something steadier. Almost warm. Familiar.
âEvening,â he said, his voice low but clear, as though speaking through the quiet rather than over it.
âEvening,â she answered. It felt strange to say it aloud, to address him like that after so many daysâweeks, perhapsâof near silence. Not just silence of words, but of presence, of attention. And yet the syllables fell easily from her tongue.
Without needing to speak again, they began to walk. She matched his pace as if they had done so a hundred times, which, in truth, they nearly had. They made no plan, named no purpose. There were no bindings to repair tonight, no paper to press flat, no threads to knot with resin-stained fingertips. For once, their hands were clean and idle. They wandered the rows with unhurried steps, their breath mingling with the musty scent of vellum and oil-soaked wood. Every so often, one of them would pause to read a title aloud, or recall some half-forgotten note scribbled in the margins of a book long tucked away.
At first, it was stilted. Luneâs remarks came a touch too slowly, as though summoned from far off. Alessandroâs replies felt measured, preciseâas if each word were being weighed before it left his mouth. They spoke the way one might test a frozen pond in early winter, uncertain of the iceâs strength. But the words came. And after a time, they no longer felt like something they had to coax.
âIâm fairly certain this one is cursed,â Lune said, pausing before a narrow shelf and tapping the spine of a worn theological tract whose binding had once split open in her lap with a groan loud enough to startle the honorary sacristan.
Alessandro looked over with a faint smile. âItâs not cursed,â he said, brushing a hand along the shelf beside it. âIt simply resents being disturbed.â
âSame thing, really.â
He glanced at her sidelong, the curve of his mouth deepening. âYouâve always had such a charitable view of church scholarship.â
âSays the man who nearly set fire to a scroll and then acted as though nothing had happened.â
He gave a soft snort, turning his eyes back to the shelves. âI didnât act. I simply... declined to panic.â
She laughed then, and the sound slipped out more freely than she expected, bright and clear in the dim library air. Almost too loud. She pressed her fingers to her mouth, as though she might gather it back, but her eyes were bright with amusement.
Alessandro didnât laugh, not exactly, but his smile lingered longer now. Softer. More certain. âItâs good,â he said after a moment, âto have you here.â
She didnât answer right away. Her gaze drifted along the shelves again, following the worn gilding on the spines, some of it half-flaked away by years of handling and heat. She saw familiar titles, familiar wear, and yet something in the room felt freshly drawnâas if the space between them had been cleaned, not erased but cleared of dust.
âI think I missed it,â she said at last.
He looked at her. âWhatâme, or the books?â
âIâm still deciding,â she replied, her voice light but not evasive. After a moment, more quietly, she added, âBut I missed this.â
He nodded once, not in agreement but in acknowledgment, as if to say he had missed it too, though he would not speak it aloud.
And so they walked again, slower now. The silence that fell between them was not the strained hush of things left unspoken, but something fuller. It was the kind of quiet that fills a church after prayer, or a chamber after music has endedâsoft, echoing, inhabited. The library, long accustomed to the weight of their presence, seemed to breathe more easily for it, as if it had been holding its own breath and could now, at last, let it go.
They wandered like that for a time, circling old shelves that knew their shadows well, the amber lamplight catching in the uneven glass of cabinet doors and glinting off the soft wear of book spines. Their words were quiet, but they came more easily now. Banter bloomed in the softened space between them, small and unhurried.
âYou were always drawn to the dullest ones,â she said, nudging a volume of ecclesiastical law with the back of her knuckle.
Alessandro tilted his head. âNot dull. Foundational.â
Lune gave him a look. âFoundational is a very dignified word for unreadable.â
He reached above her to pull a slim book from a higher shelf and handed it to her. âThen here. Something less virtuous.â
She took it and turned it in her hands, raising a brow as she read the title. A Treatise on Gramarye. âThis is worse.â
âI said less virtuous, not less tedious.â
They both smiled, and the quiet that followed was touched with something lighter, something that hummed beneath the surface. They moved on. The air had lost some of its caution, like the closing of a long-watched door. There were still silences, but they no longer pressed so hard. They breathed inside them.
Then, as they turned the corner between two rows, something shifted. Alessandro slowed. He glanced at her, not directly, but from the corner of his eye, as though gauging her posture before shaping the words.
âYou saw Lucia,â he said. A thought spoken aloud, carried gently into the space between them.
Luneâs steps faltered, only briefly. She looked ahead to the far end of the aisle, where the shelves deepened into shadow. Her fingers brushed the edge of a binding as she passed. âYes,â she said, and left it there at first, the single word not clipped, but careful.
Alessandro didnât press. He waited, silent but present beside her. It was the kind of silence that invited rather than demanded. She felt it all the way down to the bones of her fingers.
âIt wasâŠâ she began, then stopped, adjusting the weight of the book in her arms as though it might help settle the thoughts rising too quickly. âIt was strange.â
âIt was strange,â Lune said again, quieter this time, like she was testing the shape of the word. She didnât look at Alessandro. Her gaze was fixed ahead, down the long row of shelves where the sconce light faded into soft dark. The diary weighed on her more than the book she held, though it wasnât in her hands, but tucked away somewhere safe. Tucked out of sight, but not out of reach.
She stopped at the end of the aisle and turned slightly toward him, her voice no louder than the rustle of her robes. âI didnât expect to recognize it when she handed it to me. I thought maybe she wouldâve destroyed it, or kept it as leverageâfor what, I donât know. But she gave it back.â
Alessandro said nothing. He leaned lightly against the shelf across from her, arms crossed, not defensive, but watchful. She felt the weight of his silence more than his gaze.
âShe marked some of the pages,â Lune added. âBut I donât suppose she found much interest in them. Perhaps she wanted me to.â
He looked at her then, his brow faintly drawn, as if to say he wasnât surprised.
Lune offered a slight, tired smile. She turned the book in her hands again, slow, rhythmic. âShe wanted me to know sheâd been there. That sheâd seen things Iâd never meant anyone to see. And maybe she wanted me to feel... grateful. That she gave it back.â
âAnd do you?â Alessandro asked quietly.
Lune hesitated. âI donât know. Part of me thinks I should. The other partââ her voice thinned for a moment, âThe other part is still reading through those pages wondering how much of it isnât mine anymore.â
Alessandroâs expression shifted, just faintly. There was something restrained behind his eyes, like the thought of anyone else holding that diaryâeven Luciaâscraped against something inside him. But he didnât speak on it.
âIâll be careful now,â Lune went on, her fingers curling lightly along the spine of the book she carried. âNot to write too quickly. Not to linger too long in anything that might give me away.â
His eyes narrowed slightly. âGive you away to who?â
âTo myself,â she said. âMostly.â
He didnât smile, but his posture eased, like something in her honesty had touched a place of understanding in him.
Then he noticed that small, involuntary tremble in her hand again. It was so subtle that another might have missed it. Her thumb pressing harder against the binding. The slight sway in her stance, as if holding herself too upright for too long had begun to wear.
He reached toward her with an unspoken offer. His fingers found her wrist, gently closing around itânot to still her, but to remind her she wasnât alone.
Lune glanced up. Her eyes met his, and something in them waveredânot weakness, but weariness, held with dignity. She didnât pull away.
Slowly, Alessandroâs hand shifted. His fingers brushed against hers, tentative, before settling between them. She let him. Let their hands fit together without ceremony, without explanation.
For a while, neither of them moved. The books around them stood like quiet witnesses, their worn spines and faded lettering untouched by the small gravity forming between two people who had spent so long circling the edge of understanding.
âYouâre not alone in this,â he said, after a long pause. His voice was low, the kind of low meant only for her. âNot anymore.â
She nodded once, her grip tightening just slightly, and for a moment, Lune allowed herself to believe it.
They stood like that in the hush, their hands loosely joined, neither pulling away. Around them, the shadows grew longer, softened by the low amber light, the scent of warmed vellum and dust thick in the air. Time shifted oddly in the quiet, stretching, curling in on itself. Perhaps it was only seconds, or perhaps it had been longer. The moment held, suspended in that fragile stillness between breath and decision.
Alessandro's eyes lingered on hers, searching not for answers, but for something quieter, more essential. And Lune, without meaning to, stepped the smallest measure closer. Her fingers had relaxed in his, the shape of their hands no longer uncertain. Something flickered between them, not quite spoken, but it was there, forming like a tide pulling inward.
She tilted her head, just enough. He shifted his weight. The space between themâalready narrowâdrew tighter, and neither moved to fill it completely, not yet, but the air had changed. Something unspoken leaned forward, reached out, hungry and almost sure.
And thenâ
âAlessandro!â
The sound cracked through the hush like a pebble dropped in still water.
Both turned. Matteo stood in the threshold at the edge of the aisle, flushed from the cold or perhaps from the way his voice had echoed louder than intended.
âSorry,â he said quickly, glancing between them, already aware he had interrupted something not meant to be broken. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkward and too young for the gravity in the air. âBernardo sent me. He wants to see you.â
Alessandroâs expression shifted in an instant, composure gathering over whatever had nearly broken the surface. His hand slipped from Luneâs, not roughly, but with a restraint that felt like regret. He nodded once toward Matteo, his jaw tightening just slightly.
âIâll come,â he said.
Matteo gave a quick, uncertain nod and turned, disappearing as quickly as he had come.
Alessandro didnât look at Lune right away. When he did, the warmth was still there, but it had drawn inward, quiet again.
âWait here?â he asked.
She hesitated, then gave a small nod. Her hand felt cold without his, but she let it fall to her side.
He turned and walked after his brother, the hem of his coat sweeping softly across the stone. Lune watched until he disappeared between the shelves, the silence gathering behind him once more like breath held too long.
The door creaked open with the hush of old wood, just wide enough for a figure to slip through. The air inside was thick, disturbed only by the slow exhale of a room settling back into stillness. Alessandro moved like dusk: quiet, unhurried, and already part of the room before it registered him there.
He didnât light a lamp.
Fading light from the hallway cast a dull amber blade across the stone floor, reaching over a rug far too fine for abbey living. The furniture was arranged with geometric precision: a polished desk that caught the dying light, a wingback chair angled toward the hearth, a book left just off-center as if to feign spontaneity. The walls bore little decoration; only a few oil portraits and the ghostly outlines of things once hung and since removed. It felt curated, not inhabited.
He moved to the far corner.
The air smelled sharp and expensiveâcologne layered upon cologne, failing to mask the undertone of old wine and wax-drenched candles. Everything had been placed, not lived in. Nothing lingered long enough to feel real.
Alessandro stood and said nothing. He didnât pace. He didnât fidget. He simply watched the door.
Time passed in unmeasured incrementsâlong enough for the silence to grow dense, for the seams in the wood paneling to sharpen beneath the eye, for the sounds of the abbey beyond to fade into nothing. Stillness pressed in like fog.
And then, a shift.
A rhythm of polished, pointed shoes on stoneâdistant, deliberate. Each step drew nearer until they paused just outside the door. The handle turned. Antonio stepped inside, half-shouldered in shadow, unconcerned, unknowing. He exhaled softly, began unfastening his glovesâthe leather sliding off with a muted hiss. He didnât look around. He didnât need to. This was his space, after all, and he belonged in it.
The gloves landed on the desk with a soft slap. The belt followed. He moved with the languid ease of someone retreating from the weight of his own performance. Shoes off. Cufflinks removed. Collars tugged. He shrugged the overshirt from his shoulders, careless now, and tossed it toward the far corner.
But it didnât land.
There was no rustle of fabric, no soft fall against the rug.
Antonioâs body froze mid-motion, spine half-curved. He blinkedâonce, twiceâsomething unfamiliar tightening at the base of his throat.
He turned.
Only then did he see the figure in the corner. It was silent, still. Alessandro, half-shadow, half-statue, held the garment in one hand as though it had interrupted him. Not aggressive. Not cruel. Just⊠there. Present.
Antonioâs chest felt constricted.
A sour heat rose in his gut, and the world tilted slightly, like a wrong note struck on a well-tuned instrument, a discordant and disorienting feeling. His fingers curled slowly inward. His breath caught. And for the first time in years, Antonio flinched.
Alessandro tilted his head like a hound catching the scent of something long familiar and long detested. The gesture was deliberate, almost curious, yet beneath his stillness there was a quiet threat in the slow turn of his chin, in the force of his gaze. Not a question. Not even a statement. A warning, perhaps. Or a dare.
Then, with a flick of his fingers, he let the shirt fall.
It crumpled to the floor without a sound. A small, final gesture that might have gone unnoticed anywhere else, but here, in the tension of this room, it struck like a bell. The motion wasnât violent. It wasnât theatrical. It was measured and dispassionate, as though the fabric had been sullied by touch alone.
Antonio stared as it landed, watching the sleeve fold in on itself like something dead. His throat twitched. He straightened with a poise that belonged more in courtrooms than bedrooms. His eyes flicked between the shirt, the door, and the shadowed corner Alessandro had claimed like a long-delayed judgment.
He tried to breathe with dignity. Tried not to let it show.
ââŠAlessandro,â he said, his voice thin and even. There was no softness to it, no intimacy, not even the illusion of brotherhood. It was the greeting of a man unsure of his rank, whose crown felt a shade too heavy in the wrong room.
Still, he offered the name like a lifeline. As if saying it first might restore order. As if it could cast Alessandro back into the lesser shadow where he was expected to remain. Acknowledging him not for who he was, but for what he was supposed to be.
But Alessandro didnât answer.
In the silence between them, something sour curled up Antonioâs ribs and settled tight beneath his sternum like rot.
Alessandro let the quiet stretch. His gaze narrowed, and the corners of his mouth twitched in a humorless flick of a smile. It wasnât kindness. It wasnât mockery. It was colder, drier, like a blade being shown but not drawn. A gesture that said: I know what you are.
âNice room,â he murmured at last, voice low and slivered at the edge. His eyes roamed briefly over the furnishings, the chair by the hearth, the untouched glass of water on the mantle. He hadnât been in this room in some time, and he allowed himself to look. âSmells like entitlement.â
Antonio didnât laugh.
He stood still for a moment, then wet his lips. âWhat do you want?â
The question dropped without force. There was uncertainty in it, a faint fray in the thread of his composure. He shifted his weight just enough to settle back on his heels. A subtle illusion of calm, though something primal beneath his skin whispered caution.
Alessandro didnât answer right away. He tilted his head thoughtfully in the other direction now, appraising,
His boots moved softly over the floor, muffled by the woven runner as he closed the distance by a pace or two. Just enough.
âYouâve been somewhere you shouldnât be,â he said. His voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was undeniable. Not quite an accusation, but close. The edges gleamed with something sharper.
Antonio blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. His brow furrowed. His gaze flicked past Alessandroâs shoulder for a moment in an unconscious glance, as if hoping someone else might appear to clarify this encounter.
âI donâtâŠâ he began, then stopped. He tried again, steadier but no less uncertain. âI donât know what youâre talking about.â
But his voice cracked at the end.
Alessandroâs gaze flicked downward and caught it like a scent.
He stepped forward again, slow and patient, like a hunter waiting to see if the animal would bolt.
Antonioâs hands twitched. His thumb brushed nervously along the seam of his trousers. He swallowed, the gesture loud in the stillness.
He was used to being feared. Used to giving orders, not answering for them. But here, with the door shut and shadows crawling long across the floor, his usual mask failed him.
There was something in Alessandroâs stillness that made the walls feel closer⊠something in his careful pacing that thickened the air. A truth began to press at the back of Antonioâs mind, unformed, prowling, and just out of reach. It would not be reasoned with. It would not be charmed away.
No, his brother had never fallen for charm. Perhaps he had found it sickening from the start.
Still, Antonio would not abandon his sharpest weapon. Not now.
He circled slowly to the side, hands clasped loosely behind his back, jaw tight with calculation.
âIâm still not sure what this is,â he said, keeping his tone casual. If tension remained, he wore it well. âDid something happen? Or are you just in one of your⊠moods?â
Alessandro didnât move.
His hands stayed loose at his sides, but his sharp eyes steadily followed Antonioâs every inch, like a bow drawn taut.
Antonio kept circling, slow and deliberate. âBecause if someoneâs upset about something, wellâŠâ He shrugged, tone slipping toward mockery. âThat doesnât really concern us, does it?â
An offer of alliance. An us where there had never been one.
Alessandro didnât take the bait, but his mouth twitched: the first sign that the cool surface was bending beneath something deeper.
He let the silence stretch a beat longer.
Then:
âMy⊠friend,â he said, swallowing once, âis missing something. Sheâs awfully worried about it.â
Antonio halted.
This time, he didnât flinch, but his posture shifted just barely. A subtle tightening through the shoulders. A slow blink, like recalibrating.
âAnd what business is that of yours?â he asked finally, voice lowered and cautious, though his tone aimed for dismissiveness. âOr mine? People lose things all the time, brother. Itâs part of life.â
The words were out before heâd weighed them. They echoed through the room, and something flickered in Alessandro. Not a roar, but a shift in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks.
His expression barely changed.
But he moved.
One long, quick step forward. His hand shot up, gripping the front of Antonioâs shirt, fingers twisting in the fine fabric at the collarbone.
Antonio stumbled half a step back, spine tapping the edge of the desk. His hands rose, palms outward. He didnât speak.
Not yet.
His mouth was open, but his eyes were wide and glassy, like that of a child caught in the act.
Alessandro didnât strike. Didnât raise his voice.
He leaned in, grip tightening just enough to crumple the illusion of composure.
âYou donât get to pretend you donât know what Iâm talking about,â he murmured, low and taut. âNot when youâve gone crawling through places you donât belong.â
Antonioâs breath came shallow, and for one flicker of a secondâjust oneâthere was fear in his eyes, but it soon passed.
He smiled slow and thin, like a blade drawn from silk.
âOh,â he whispered. âItâs her.â
The word hung like poison.
Alessandroâs eyes narrowed. For half a heartbeat, heat surged behind them, but he smothered it.
His grip loosened. His hand fell back to his side, as if he hadnât just cornered the golden boy of the household, but the room did not cool.
Antonio exhaled, brushing the wrinkles from his shirt with exaggerated care. He straightened, suppressing the grin that threatened.
Antonio took another measured step backward, his hands raised slightly, palms half-turned, the gesture caught somewhere between appeasement and mockery. Like a courtier before a duel, smile flickering, eyes fixed on the man who just might draw steel first.
âCareful,â he murmured, voice low, nearly amused. âYouâre acting like Iâve done something awful. You would think she wasnât used to having me in her bedroom⊠makes me wonder what she told you, dear.â
He stopped just beside the armchair by the hearth, fingers brushing against the back of it as though casually anchoring himself to the room. But he was retreating. No matter how slow the pace or languid the posture, he was giving ground, and he knew it.
His chin tipped upward with a mock gallantry, a twisted courtesy woven into the narrowing of his eyes.
âSo,â he said, âwhy are you so⊠invested, brother? Since when does a misplaced diary merit a personal crusade?â
Alessandro didnât answer right away. His hands were still loose at his sides, but his shoulders looked heavier than they had moments ago, tense and pulled back, as if holding too much weight. His mouth set into a line so straight it could have cut glass.
He tilted his head the barest degree. His voice, when it came, was flat and stripped of pretense.
âI donât like seeing anyoneâs hands where they donât belong,â he said. âEspecially in a womanâs private things. Itâs cheap. Cowardly. And cruel.â But they both knew that although Alessandro had some kind of strength in his character, he had never been the type to go about in ominous silence with drawn fists for the sake of defending some niche moral pillar of his.
Antonioâs brows lifted at that. Not dramatically, just enough to mark the performance.
âVery noble,â he said, voice mild and honeyed, though the undertone was vinegar. âGallant, even. Youâd think she was some helpless maiden, trembling in need of rescue. Or perhapsâŠâ He let the word hang there, curling faintly. âSomething more.â
He watched for a flicker in Alessandroâs expression, some proof of fire beneath the ice. But there was nothing.
Alessandro simply stood there, quiet and motionless, as though carved from some ancient stone that had long since grown tired.
Antonio clicked his tongue softly and gave a small, almost sympathetic shake of his head.
âAnyway,â he said with a mild shrug, âI didnât take it.â
That earned him a silence sharper than words.
He sighed, a little theatrically. He stepped around the chair and leaned his weight against the mantel, posture calculated to seem effortless.
âIt was her,â he said, going silent afterwards as if the name itself required no clarification. After a pause: âLucia.â
A moment passed. He glanced toward Alessandro now, as though offering him some small, poisoned gift. âShe came in this morning while I was gone. I didnât think anything of it. I left the ring, but I assume she took the rest.â
He paused, watching.
âI didnât ask.â
Alessandro didnât speak. But something shifted in his jaw, a single muscle ticking like the edge of a clock counting down. His expression didnât change, yet the quiet around him did, hardening like frost on a pane of glass.
Antonio leaned slightly forward, as though confiding something.
âShe didnât say what she was looking for, of course. She never does. But when she left, she looked pleased with herself.â
A smile tugged faintly at the edge of his mouth. âYou can imagine how rare that is.â
He tilted his head, faux-innocent.
âStill think Iâm the one you ought to be threatening?â He asked. âYou ought to go speak to mother dearest.â
âŠ
The corridor seemed to recoil as Alessandro stormed through it, his boots hammering against the old stone like war drums. Shadows flinched away from him. Candle flames hissed in their sconces as he passed, guttering in his wake. The quiet reverence of the abbeyâs halls was shattered, and there was no grace remaining in his movement, no apology in the way his shoulder caught the edge of a hanging tapestry and tore it sideways.
When he reached the library, he didnât pause.
The door slammed open with a sharp, echoing crack that startled the dust from the upper rafters. The air inside, normally settled and cool, rippled as if the storm had followed him in. Somewhere high above, the stir of displaced air whooshed, like whispers pulled suddenly from the corners. The scent of ink and glue grew sharper, tinged with something metallic, something old. The soul of the place, if it was still there, had gone still, listening. Or recoiling.
Lune looked up so fast her chair rocked beneath her. She had been seated in the far alcove, the late afternoon light carving soft gold against her pale sleeves. A book lay open before her, unread. Her hands trembled faintly where they rested on the tableâs edge, fingers white at the knuckles. She was still dressed in the plain tones of her station, but there was nothing calm in her presence now. There was only the brittle tension of someone waiting for a verdict.
Relief flickered through her eyes when she saw him. Not complete, not safeâjust a flicker. A single breath that didnât catch.
âWhere did you go?â she asked, voice taut but careful. âYou didnât sayââ
He strode past the first row of shelves without slowing. His coat caught on the corner of a chair, and he shook it off like a nettle. âAntonioâs rooms,â he said curtly. His voice was flat, the kind that carved instead of answered. âCharming as ever.â
Lune pushed to her feet. âYou didnât have toââ
âDidnât I?â he cut in. His eyes found her then, glinting and weary, but too sharp to be tired. âYou sent me after something. You looked at me like it mattered. Like it wasnât a game.â
Her mouth parted in protest, but he kept speaking.
He dragged his hands back through his hair. It stuck up wildly, untamed. âI cornered him like some houndâand for what? For a diary. That might not have even been taken.â
She flinched, but didnât retreat. âI didnât know what else to do. Youâyou saidââ
âI said Iâd help.â He stopped, chest heaving once, but his voice dropped lower. âNot chase phantoms.â
âWell, I figured that was typical for you!â
Silence, then. It pressed close. Outside, the bells tolled softly for the hour, distant and unfelt.
Finally, Luneâs eyes searched his face. âYou think I did this to waste your time?â
âI think,â Alessandro said, stepping closer, âthat I have no idea what game weâre playing anymore. You give me puzzles with no solutions. You vanish behind apologies and silence. And you looked me in the eye this morning like it meant something.â
âIt did,â she whispered.
He stopped.
The storm paused.
And for one breathless second, they just looked at each other: two figures thrown together in the quiet rot of a place that had forgotten how to be sacred.
Lune blinked. Her lashes lowered, not in guilt but in something heavier. Something that threatened to fold her in on herself. She didnât look away, but her voice came quiet, barely above the hush of the room settling. âI didnât do that. I didnât send you after him to mock you.â
A silence stretched between them, long and taut.
Alessandroâs gaze didnât soften. His arms were stiff at his sides, hands curled into half-fists as if the tension had nowhere else to go. He was breathing harder now, not like someone enraged, but someone bracing against a blow that had already landed.
Lune watched him closely. Her sadness deepened as she studied him, not because of what heâd said, but because of what he hadnât yet. She could see it crackling just beneath his skin, somewhere between hurt and shame.
And then he said it.
âDo you find it amusing?â he asked, voice low and raw, his eyes flashing with a bitterness she hadnât seen before. âMaking me run around like some kind of⊠some kind of cuckold?â
The word dropped like iron in a baptismal font. Out of place, unholy, irretrievable.
Lune gasped. Her eyes flew wide, mouth parted in shock, but no sound followed: only the echo of the accusation, still ringing through the room. She took a step back, breath stuttering in her throat. She was offended, angry⊠did he truly, really think of her in such a way?
He thoughtâGod, he thoughtâ
âYou believe Iâm with him?â she asked, her voice barely formed. âWith Antonio?â
He didnât answer.
And that said everything.
The pain on her face was not just surprise, but a kind of betrayal. A devastation she hadnât known to prepare for. Her spine stayed straight, but her hands trembled. One clutched at her skirt, and the other remained over her chest, as if shielding herself from something.
Alessandro turned his head slightly, as if he couldnât quite bear the full weight of her expression, but the damage was already done.
âI went to him,â he said, quieter now, but still sharp, like a blade dulled at the edges but still capable of cutting. âI stormed into his room like a fool. Demanded answers, accused him of things I wasnât even certain of. And heâŠâ A bitter laugh scraped from his throat. âHe didnât even need to lie. He just stood there and watched me come apart. Like he knew. Like it was all some private joke between the two of you.â
Luneâs brows drew together. âIt isnât. Alessandro, there is nothing between us. There never was.â
His eyes flicked back to hers. âYouâre sure of that?â
It was a challenge. A test. And it cut her far deeper than it had any right to.
She straightened, not out of anger, but clarity.
âYes,â she said. Her voice did not waver this time. âI would sooner walk into the sea.â
For a moment, there was nothing but their breathing. Hers was quick and shallow. His came slower now, as if the rage had spent itself in the admission, leaving only the bruised ache behind.
âI thoughtââ he started, but stopped himself, shaking his head.
âYou thought what?â she whispered, stepping closer. âThat I asked you to help me because I wanted to humiliate you?â
His silence was his answer, and it broke something in her.
The tension bled from her shoulders in a way which was not indicative of forgiveness, nor understanding, but weariness. She had thought the danger was behind them, waiting in quiet corners and empty corridors, but the real wound was here, festering between them in the space where trust should have lived.
When she spoke again, her voice was not soft, but quieter.
âI asked you because I thought you were the only person here who wouldnât lie to me. Who wouldnât make me feel like a child for wanting to understand whatâs being done to me.â Her hands dropped to her sides. âI never expected you to protect me. I just hoped you wouldnât⊠make me feel small.â
Alessandro looked stricken. Not shattered, but stripped, like someone waking from a nightmare and realizing the monster had been inside his own ribcage all along. God, he felt like a monster. He felt like an idiot.
âI never meant to,â he said. âNot you.â But he didnât move. Didnât reach for her. Didnât apologize.
Still, the question burned at the back of Alessandroâs throat, ash on his tongue.
He could feel the shape of it before he spoke, less a curiosity and more a compulsion. The need to scrape at the edges of something he hadnât wanted to name. Not until now.
âWhat is he to you?â he asked, finally. Not cold, not accusing. Just⊠tired.
Luneâs mouth pulled into a tight line, and for a moment she looked away, her gaze catching on the dim shelf beside them as if it might offer an escape. But it didnât. There was no rescue in this place. Only confession, if she chose it.
Her voice, when it came, was soft. âHeâs⊠he upsets me.â
Alessandroâs brow furrowed. âSo youâre using me as a remedy for him?â
The words came sharper than intended. He regretted them instantly, but they were already out, brittle and ugly in the air between them.
âNo,â she said quickly, and with more heat than before. âI never wanted to be around him in the first place!â
She looked at him like he shouldâve known. Like he did know, but had chosen not to believe it. As if she were reminding him of something older than memory; some truth sheâd been living in alone while the rest of them wandered blind.
Alessandro stared at her, his jaw locked in an expression of tangled anger and confusion. Lune, meanwhile, stood rigid in the golden hush of the window light, her hands curled into the fabric of her sleeves. She wasnât wilting. She wasnât pleading. She looked like a storm herself, wrapped in a too-fragile body, barely holding in what had wanted to be said for weeks.
Something hovered in the air between them, unfinished, and it gnawed at him.
âSay what youâre thinking,â Alessandro demanded.
But even as he said it, he remembered she wasnât someone he could command. Not here. Not anymore. And it was hypocritical, wasnât it? To try and demand honesty from someone he'd cornered only moments before with doubt and venom. He had been no sanctuary for her today. And yet, he wanted to be.
She didnât flinch.
He hesitated, gentled his voice. â...Please.â
Lune was quiet for a moment longer. And then, with a breath that trembled just once, she spoke.
âHe harasses me.â
The words were plain. No dramatics. No emphasis. As if she'd already gone over them a hundred times alone in her mind.
âIâve never acted⊠never invited him. Not once. Not ever. He doesnât need a reason, Alessandro. He just decides Iâm his for the day, or for the hour, and thenâŠâ Her voice caught. Not on tears, but on restraint. âAnd then I disappear, I become nothing, and he watches me like heâs waiting for me to ask him for more, but I donât want it!â
Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, not quite meeting his.
âIâve tried to stay away. Iâve tried being invisible, but it doesnât matter. He finds ways to remind me. To make sure I know Iâm not safe when heâs near.â
She wasnât crying. She wasnât even shaking. But he could see it beneath the steady cadence of her words, beneath the control, she was afraid. Sheâd lived with it so long that it had folded itself into her posture, her tone, the way she measured her breathing.
Alessandro felt the heat rise in him like a tide. Fury, guilt, and disbelief, all tangled in a knot too thick to pull apart.
But then he saw the fear still glimmering in her expression. Not of him, not directly, but of what might happen if she said more. Of what might happen now that the truth was out and couldnât be buried again.
And the anger⊠drained.
It didnât vanish, but it cooled, tempered by something deeper. A quiet, protective ache.
He stepped back, just slightly, giving her space. He didnât speak right away. Just stood there, hands loose, shoulders tense, watching her as though she might vanish the second he turned his head.
âYou shouldâve told me,â he said, voice low.
She looked at him then, fully, and her eyes were tired. Not with him, but with the weight of surviving.
âI didnât think anyone would listen.â
And Alessandro knew then that he hadnât been listening. Not the way she needed. Not until it was nearly too late.
His voice, when it came again, was different. Quieter. Warmer.
âIâm listening now.â
Eventually, they sat with Alessandro in the chair nearest the window, Lune across from him, the thick old wood of the table stretched between them like a makeshift truce. Neither spoke for a while.
The trembling afternoon had begun to bleed into a calmer evening. The light slanted lower across the shelves, turning the spines gold and dimming the corners where dust reigned. The library had returned to its hush, though neither of them trusted it now. The silence felt wary. Listening.
Alessandro watched her hands. How still they were now. How her fingers rested over each other, white-knuckled still, but no longer trembling. His voice, when it came, was gentle, a notch above a whisper.
âHas he⊠has Antonio ever tried to follow you?â
Lune shook her head. âNo.â
âThreatened you?â
âNot with words. At least, not explicitly enough to matter.â
His brow furrowed. âTouched you?â
âNo.â A pause. âNot in the way you mean.â
He breathed in slowly through his nose, grounding himself. âWhy havenât you told someone else?â
âI did,â she said quietly. âJust once. Nothing happened.â
He didnât know what to say to that. There was a hollow sort of shame to hearing it, like being handed a legacy you never asked for and knowing it came from family.
He started to ask another question. Perhaps about how long it had been going on, or why she hadnât run, but the words were still forming when something stopped him.
She stood.
Moved.
Crossed the space between them with that strange, sudden certainty some griefs carry when they can no longer stay caged.
And then, Lune hugged him.
Not with ceremony. Not with trembling gratitude. Just⊠wrapped her arms around his waist, tucked herself lightly against his chest, and let her forehead rest near the curve of his collar. Her touch was warm and brief and utterly still, like a heartbeat laid against stone.
Alessandro didnât move at first. Then slowly, tentatively, his hand came to rest between her shoulder blades. No pressure. Just presence. Something unspoken passed between them, softer than an apology.
When she pulled back, her cheeks were faintly pink, but she didnât shrink from him. She didnât apologize, not as the color faded quickly once again.
Instead, she lowered her gaze and asked carefully, âDo you⊠know anything about the diary?â
The question sat between them like a lit candle. She looked at him cautiously, as if expecting a flame.
Alessandro hesitated. He could feel the weight of it returning: the chase, the accusations, the humiliation still pulsing like a bruise beneath his skin. But he didnât want to go back to that. Not with her.
He exhaled, voice dry. âAntonio said⊠he thinks Lucia took it. This morning. While he and⊠her, I presume, were in your room.â
Lune went still. Her brows drew together slightly, not in disbelief, but in thought. A breath passed through her lips, thin and strained.
âShe would do that,â she said finally, almost to herself.
Alessandro leaned back. His gaze searched hers. âMaybe itâs best if you leave it alone. If you press too hard, youâll only give them more reason toââ
She looked at him then, sharply, and he stopped.
He could see it in her eyes: what she wasnât saying. What she refused to say. The same expression she wore earlier, when she couldnât quite name the weight pressing on her chest.
She wasnât going to stop. He could see it as clear as day.
ââŠI could go after it,â he offered, though there was reluctance in his tone. âIt might be easier, coming from me.â
Lune frowned. âSending you to do my work hasnât been good for either of us.â
There it wasâthat edge again. A flick of the blade. Not cruel, necessarily, just true.
He almost bristled. Almost. But then his own words echoed back in his headââDo you find it amusing?ââand he saw himself again, saw how easily heâd turned her search for help into an accusation, how small sheâd looked standing in the eye of the storm he created.
So instead of defending himself, he sighed. âI wonât stop you,â he said. It wasnât permission, nor indulgence. It was a quiet surrender. A trust.
She nodded, as if that was all sheâd needed to hear.
And then, unexpectedly, she stepped forward again, not with the intent to hug this time, but to reach down and gently squeeze his hand. Just once. Briefly.
It startled him.
She didnât say anything else. Justâ
âGoodnight.â
And then she turned, and walked toward the door, her footsteps quiet again, steady.
He sat there long after sheâd gone, his hand still tingling where hers had touched it, wondering how something so simple could make him feel like the entire world had shifted beneath his feet.
âŠ
The evening light had turned violet by the time Lune reached the quietest wing of the abbey. Here, the stone walls were thicker, the halls narrower, built to shelter contemplation rather than conversation. It was always colder in this part of the building, and always a little dimmer, no matter the season.
She moved quietly, but with purpose, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her breathing had steadied, but her thoughts were running knots around themselves, pulling tight and tighter. The hem of her skirts whispered against the hardwood as she turned the final corner.
Luciaâs room was near the end of the hall, tucked away. Not in the north corridor, where rooms were granted to figures of real prominence, such as abbots, stewards, or visiting clergy, but here, in this plain stretch. Lune had always found that strange. The Mother Superior had never had an office, either. No door bearing her title. No place to receive guests formally. Just a larger but modest bedroom with a low, dark lintel and a door that barely shut without a firm hand.
She stood before it now, lifted her knuckles, and knocked twice softly. There was a pause, then, the muted reply: âCome in.â
Lune opened the door slowly, stepping into the scent of cool linen and pressed lavender. The room inside was neat, but lived-in, containing an aging desk beneath the window, a crucifix above the bed, and books in gentle disarray beside a half-burnt candle. A shawl lay folded over the end of the double bed. The walls, like Luciaâs expressions, were adorned by some gilding, but were otherwise bare of sentiment.
The Mother Superior sat at a small chair by the desk, bathed in the last of the sunâs light. She was not writing. Not praying. Just sitting, hands folded in her lap, back straight.
Lune bowed her head. âMother Superior.â
Luciaâs eyes lifted, slow and sharp. âLune,â she said. Her voice was clipped, precise. âItâs late.â
âI know,â Lune replied. âForgive the intrusion.â
There was no gesture inviting her to speak. No easing of posture. Lucia merely watched her, silent, as though measuring the weight of her presence in the room.
Lune clasped her hands. âSomething was taken from my belongings,â she said carefully. âA personal item. A book.â
Lucia blinked once. âTaken?â
âI canât be sure by whom,â Lune continued. âBut I thoughtâI hopedâit might have been turned in. Or⊠mentioned.â
The silence that followed was heavier than the words.
Lucia didnât move. Didnât ask for clarification. Her expression remained still.
After a pause that stretched too long to be comfortable, she said, âYouâre referring to the little leather volume.â It wasnât a question.
Lune felt her breath catch, but she made herself stay composed. âYes,â she said softly.
Lucia leaned back in her chair, the motion measured. She crossed one leg over the other with a quiet creak of old wood beneath her. âI took it,â she said.
The words fell like a stone into the center of the room.
Lune stood motionless, her spine straight but cold beginning to needle up her arms.
Lucia tilted her head just slightly, studying her with an expression like one might use on an unruly novice. âI was concerned by what I read,â she said. âYour tone. Your curiosity. The subjects you chose to dwell on.â
âYou read it,â Lune echoed, a note of breath in her voice.
âDonât be dramatic.â Luciaâs fingers tapped once against the edge of the desk. âIf you didnât want it read, you would not have written it down. Youâre not a child, Lune. Diaries are not sacred objects. They are confessions without priests.â
Luneâs hands tightened around themselves. âI wasnât confessing,â she said quietly.
âNo?â Luciaâs brows lifted. âThen what were you doing? Writing poetry about silence and doorways and dreams? Scribbling little nothings about voices behind the walls? Such things donât spring from a disciplined mind. They unravel it. You are here to serve, not to indulge your wandering fancies.â What exactly she was supposed to be serving remained unsaid.
Lune's jaw tensed, but she kept her tone calm. âWhy did you want it?â she asked. âThereâs nothing of interest in it. Nothing that doesnât already happen within these walls.â She swallowed the heat behind her teeth. âNothing you donât already know.â
Lucia said nothing for a moment. Her face remained inscrutable as she stepped away from the chair and moved toward the dresser, her steps deliberate. Her hand reached to the top drawer, and she pulled it open. The scent of lavender grew stronger. From beneath neatly folded garments and a stiff-bound prayer book, Lucia withdrew the little brown diary, worn now at the corners.
Luneâs heart beat faster. Not because it was there, but because it was there. In a drawer. In use. Not discarded. Not glanced at once and tossed aside.
Lucia returned to the chair but did not sit. She rested one hand on its back, the diary in her other. âYou say there is nothing in here I donât know.â Her thumb flipped to a page marked by a deep purple ribbon: one of her own. Lune glimpsed othersâtwo, three moreâtucked into the pages like knives. âYou are mistaken.â
She opened the diary.
Lune stood frozen, every inch of her skin prickling as Lucia cleared her throat softly and read:
âThere is a strange kind of silence in him. Not the stillness of the chapel before dawn, but something else. Like walking into a sealed room and knowing someone has just left it. I tell myself I look because he unsettles me. But it isnât that. It isnât that at all.â
Lucia didnât read it mockingly, nor warmly. Her voice was cool, level, and even.
Lune flushed deep in the cheeks, her hands trembling faintly at her sides. Still, she kept her voice level. âThat⊠isnât forbidden. That kind of feeling. Weâre not banned from relationships, from affections.â She hesitated, then added, more pointedly, âYou know that better than anyone.â
Luciaâs eyes flicked up from the page. The air sharpened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. And then Lucia closed the diary with a soft thud.
âNo,â she said, ârelationships are not banned. But infidelity,â she continued, gaze now heavy and clear, âis one of the greatest sins of all.â
Luneâs face froze, but her breath stuttered. She hadnât said it outright, but Lucia had heard the implication clearly and answered it with the precision of a blade.
Still holding the diary, Lucia stepped closer, her eyes never leaving Luneâs face. âAffection is not sin, child. But the harboring of desire where vows have been made⊠the entertainment of love that cannot be sanctifiedâŠâ She placed the book carefully on the desk. âThat is not affection. That is temptation, dressed in softer clothing.â
Lune stared at the diary, sick with humiliation, fury, and something she didnât have a name for. But she said nothing. She couldnât, for fear of her safety, and it drove her absolutely mad.
Luneâs hands curled into fists at her sides. Her voice came sharper than she meant it to, but it didnât matter anymore. âI havenât committed any infidelity,â she snapped. âI couldnât. Iâm not promised to anyone.â
Luciaâs gaze didnât soften. If anything, it sharpened further, like a cold, east wind.
âArenât you?â she asked quietly.
The words struck with more precision than volume. Luneâs heart jolted in her chest. She took half a step back, lips parted in confusion. âIâno. I donât know what youâre talking about.â
Lucia exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. Shelooked at her the way one might regard someone very young and very slow. âDonât be foolish.â
She stepped around the chair now, almost lazily, as if circling the conversation like a cat circles a stunned bird.
âAntonio is interested in you,â she said. âThatâs no secret. He makes little effort to hide it, and I canât imagine, in all of your endearing dullness, that youâve been blind to it.â
Luneâs mouth went dry. Her jaw stiffened, but she said nothing.
Lucia smiledâthin, joyless. âOf course, I hate to spoil the surprise, but something tells me youâre already aware. He plans to propose. Itâs only a matter of timing.â
Luneâs breath caught. Whether from dread or disbelief, she wasnât sure. Her eyes locked on the diary on the desk, but it looked suddenly like a weapon, or a cell key she hadnât been allowed to use.
âHeâs a good man,â Lucia went on, and now there was something almost indulgent in her tone, something condescendingly kind. âWith a promising future. Heâs positioned well within the abbey. Connected. Clever. He knows how to survive. And heâs chosen you.â She drew closer again, not unkindly, but with that same pitiless composure. âDo you understand what that means?â
Lune said nothing. Her silence was its own kind of answer.
Lucia leaned in, quiet now, intimate. âIt means your place here could be secure. Your future comfortable. Your safetyâŠâ she smiled slightly, âguaranteed.â
There it was again. That quiet implication. A truth spoken as if it were inevitable.
Luneâs stomach turned. Her mind rushed, searching for some protest that didnât sound like defiance or fear. But all she could think was that this tidy little plan had been set in motion without her consent, without her voice. And now, Lucia was handing it to her like a gift wrapped in iron. All Lune could feel was the weight.
Lune opened her mouth.
The words were there just behind her teeth, beneath her breath. They were sharp. They tasted like resistance. But before she could give them shapeâ
âThis is whatâs best for you,â Lucia said, gently enough that it chilled the room more than if sheâd raised her voice.
Lune faltered. Her eyes dropped to the floor, the diary, her own hands. Anywhere but Luciaâs face. She didnât nod, but she didnât speak either.
Lucia repeated it, softer this time, but with steel behind each syllable. âThis is whatâs best for you.â
Lune didnât trust her voice, so she stayed silent. Her throat felt tight, full of things she didnât dare say aloud.
Then Lucia turned. She moved back to the desk with the measured grace of someone who had already won and didnât need to gloat. She picked up the diaryâLuneâs diary, the one sheâd violatedâand held it for a moment longer than necessary. And then, wordlessly, she extended it toward Lune.
On top of it sat a small brass lock and a thin, curved key, looped with a crimson thread.
Lune blinked. She took it with hesitant fingers, half-expecting some final comment, some cryptic farewell or cutting remark. But none came.
Lucia simply turned back to her chair and sat, as though she had never stood at all.
Dismissed without being dismissed, Lune stepped back slowly, cradling the diary against her chest. Her fingers tightened around the smooth spine, her gaze flicking once more toward the lock.
That small, quiet offering, left there as an afterthought, unsettled her more than the rest of the conversation. It was a kindness. A gesture of concern. Protection, even. But why? That evil question took residence on her tongue yet again.
Lune stepped out of the room into the narrowing violet-black light of the hallway, diary in hand, lock and key pressing faintly into her palm. Though her feet carried her forward, her thoughts stayed spinning behind her, still caught in the feeling of being both watched⊠and kept.
The candle burned low, its melted wax pooling at the base of the brass holder. The flame flickered, stretching shadows across the aged wooden desk, illuminating the careful movements of Luneâs hand as she wrote. The ink trailed smoothly beneath her fingers, letters curling in deliberate, practiced strokes.
The act of writing had always been a quiet comfort; an anchor in the restless tide of her thoughts. Here, in the hush of her small quarters, with only the distant echo of footsteps in the halls and the occasional rustling of parchment, she felt the kind of stillness that often eluded her elsewhere. The diary lay open before her, its pages filled with the slow unraveling of the things she could not bring herself to say aloud.
The room around her was modest, its furnishings simple but well-kept. A narrow bed was pressed against the far wall, its thick woolen blanket folded neatly at the foot, untouched since morning. A small window, set deep into the stone wall, allowed the cool night air to slip in through the imperfect seal of the wooden frame. The moonlight stretched across the uneven floorboards, pale and cold, cutting through the warm glow of the candle. The scent of parchment and faint traces of lavender clung to the air, a lingering comfort from the sachet she kept tucked beneath her pillow.
Lune dipped the quill into the inkwell, tapping the excess liquid against the rim before pressing the tip to the paper.
I did not expect him to notice. Not thatânot the absence of something so small, so insignificant. And yet he did. He always does.
Her brow furrowed slightly, and she exhaled, watching as the ink bled into the fibers of the page before continuing.
Perhaps I have been careless. Or perhaps he simply listens too well. I wonder if he realizes how rare that isâŠhow unsettling it can be to be seen so clearly, even in the spaces between words.
A soft gust of wind slipped through the cracked windowpane, sending a faint ripple through the candleâs flame. The light wavered, casting shifting patterns along the walls, turning the simple wooden furniture into elongated shapes of shadow and flickering gold. The quiet was thick here, a gentle weight pressing against her senses, wrapping around her like a cloak.
I thought I had hidden it wellâthe way I hesitate before saying his name. I hadnât even realized I was hesitating until he named it for me. And yet, he didnât want to hear it. Not from me.
Her quill lingered at the end of the sentence, the ink forming the faintest blot where she had paused. She flexed her fingers slightly, feeling the stiffness in them from holding the pen for so long.
Why did that sting?
She inhaled slowly, letting the question settle in the quiet before shaking her head and pressing forward.
It doesnât matter. He has drawn his line, and I will not cross it.
The candle burned lower, its wax creeping closer to the holder. Outside, the wind carried the distant toll of the evening bell, signaling the slow descent of the night. The air had cooled further, settling into the stone walls, seeping into the floor beneath her bare feet.
With measured patience, she finished the last stroke of her entry and carefully set the quill aside. The ink shimmered faintly in the candlelight, fresh and unburdened by second thoughts.
Lune leaned back slightly, closing her eyes for a brief moment before reaching for the blotting paper. She pressed it gently over the writing, absorbing the excess ink, before folding the diary shut with quiet finality. The weight of it in her hands felt familiar, grounding. A tether to herself, to her thoughts, to the parts of her that no one else would see.
She traced the edge of the worn leather cover with the tip of her finger, then exhaled softly. Carefully, she reached for the small wooden box on the desk, lifting the lid just enough to slip the diary inside. It nestled against the other pages she had filled over time, hidden away from curious eyes, untouched by the world beyond this quiet space.
The candle flickered one final time before she reached out and extinguished it between her fingers. In the darkness, she sat for a moment longer, listening to the sound of her own breath, steady and quiet, before rising from the desk and stepping toward the waiting stillness of sleep. As usual, she had an early morning.
âŠ
The chancel was quiet in the way that only early morning could bring. A stillness had settled over the polished wood and cool stone, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric as someone shifted in their seat. Sunlight filtered in through the high, narrow windows, casting long beams across the marble floor, illuminating the dust that lingered in the air. The scent of wax and faint incense clung to the space, remnants of prayers and candlelight from the night before.
Bernardo sat with his hands loosely clasped, elbows resting on his knees, only half-listening to the conversation drifting around him. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the subtle but noticeable change in Alessandroâs demeanor. It was difficult to put into words. Alessandro had always been reserved, always deliberate in what he chose to share, but now, something was different. A kind of withdrawal that went beyond his usual solitude. He had looked distracted the night before, his expression hard to read, his answers clipped and distant. Even during supper, when he typically offered at least a few words of acknowledgment, he had been unusually quiet, barely touching his food before excusing himself altogether.
âI donât know why he insists on skulking around like a stray,â Antonio said, rolling his shoulders back as if shaking off a burden. âPeople talk, and Iâm the one left dealing with their questions. They ask why he doesnât speak, why he acts like heâs too good to look people in the eye. I donât have an answer for them.â
Matteo, seated beside him, nodded hesitantly. âHe⊠he does make things difficult.â His words lacked conviction, but it was clear he felt the need to agree. âEven when heâs in the same room, heâsââ he faltered, searching for the right word, ââsomewhere else.â
Lucia scoffed, smoothing the fabric of her gown over her knees with sharp, deliberate movements. âItâs shameful,â she said, her voice cool, unyielding. âHe was given every opportunity, every advantage, and still he walks around like a ghost, like something that doesnât belong. If he wants to be treated like family, he should act like it.â
Giuseppe sat with his arms resting on the back of the pew, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the topic but not enough to stop it. âHeâs always been a disappointment,â he said flatly. âItâs his own fault people look at him the way they do. I donât know what goes through his head, nor do I care. Itâs too late to change him now.â
Bernardoâs jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He had long since learned that his fatherâs disapproval was permanent, a fixed thing, as unyielding as stone.
Antonio huffed, shaking his head. âIt would be easier if he at least pretended to care. Instead, he does whatever he wants, makes us all look foolish, and expects to be left alone.â
Matteo fidgeted. âMaybe he just doesnât know how toââ
Luciaâs sharp look cut him off. âDoesnât know how to? Ridiculous. He knows. He just chooses not to. He could stand beside you, Antonio, help you manage things, make himself useful. Instead, he lingers in dark corners, playing at being tragic and mysterious, as if that will earn him sympathy.â
Bernardo inhaled through his nose, staring down at his hands. Alessandro was not fond of socializing, even with him, but he knew that if there was anything that the younger man did not want, it was sympathy. He had heard variations of this conversation for years, each time more callous, more indifferent to the fact that they were discussing their own family. Yet, as he listened now, there was something heavier about it, something that settled uneasily in his chest.
Because the truth that none of them would ever admit was that Alessandro had tried, once. When they were younger, before the distance had solidified, he had reached for them in quiet ways. Small efforts, small gestures, small attempts to be part of something that had never been his to claim. And each time, he had been met with this same indifference, this same cold dismissal, as they all had been. Bernardo himself had reacted by trying harder, and although it had been fruitless, it had earned him some sort of peace. Alessandro had resorted to silence.
No wonder he no longer bothered.
âHe doesnât make us look foolish,â Bernardo said at last, his voice measured but firm. âIf anything, the way we talk about him does.â
A brief, brittle silence followed.
Lucia turned to him first, her eyes narrowing. âOh? And what would you have us do, then? Praise him for sulking in the shadows? Applaud him for acting like a stranger in his own home?â
âThat isnât what I said,â Bernardo replied, barely suppressing his frustration.
Antonio scoffed. âThen what are you saying? That we should just accept it? Let him do as he pleases while the rest of us have to answer for it?â
Bernardo glanced at Matteo, who remained quiet, gaze lowered. Typical. If Antonio led, Matteo would follow. It had always been that way. His eyes flicked back to Giuseppe, who had been silent thus far, watching the exchange with something between amusement and mild disapproval.
Giuseppe huffed, red in the face from the simple effort it took for him to speak. âYouâve always been soft on him, Bernardo,â he said, his tone carrying the weight of a reprimand. âIt doesnât do him any favors.â
Bernardo bit back the bitter retort that rose to his tongue. Soft on him? That was laughable. Alessandro had never been given the chance to be anything but alone, and simply choosing not to sharpen his words into knives did not make Bernardo guilty of favoritism.
Giuseppe, apparently satisfied with his own hypocrisy, leaned back again. âYou would do well to remember that we are family, and we must hold each other accountable. We donât have the luxury of coddling someone who refuses to act accordingly.â
Bernardoâs jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He had long since learned that arguing with their father was as fruitless as speaking to the wind. He had made up his mind about Alessandro long ago, and nothing Bernardo said would change it.
Antonio, seeming pleased with the outcome, exhaled sharply through his nose and leaned back, crossing his arms. âThen thatâs settled.â
Beside him, Matteo nodded along, though Bernardo doubted he even knew what he was agreeing to.
Lucia smoothed her skirts once more and shook her head. âItâs shameful,â she repeated, voice laced with finality. Bernardo merely looked down at his hands again, silent.
Some time has now passed since those words and the present. Antonio leaned forward, his elbow resting against the polished wood of the pew, fingers tapping absently against his arm. The conversation had lulled, but he had yet to say what he had clearly come here to say.
Bernardo watched him closely, noting the way his brotherâs usual confidence wavered beneath something hesitant, something uncharacteristically uncertain. Antonio scarcely doubted himself, which made his avoidance all the more obvious.
Lucia noticed too. âOut with it,â she said, impatient. âYou didnât bring us here just to prattle on about Alessandro.â
Antonio exhaled sharply, his fingers halting their restless movement. âI need something,â he admitted, then paused, his eyes flicking briefly to their father.
Giuseppe lifted a wrinkled hand, gesturing for him to continue. âGo on.â
Antonio hesitated for only a moment longer before straightening his shoulders, regaining some of his usual composure despite his uncomfortably twisted expression. âYour ring,â he said at last, turning to Lucia. âI want your ring.â
A silence fell over them.
Luciaâs expression hardened instantly, her posture going rigid as she slowly clasped her hands together in her lap. âYou must be joking.â
Antonio shook his head. âI want to give it to her.â
Lucia did not need to ask who. The answer was plain enough in his tone, in the way he spoke with an urgency that was rare even for him.
âA proposal?â Matteo said, blinking, as if just realizing where this was going. His expression then fell flat once more. âAgain?â
Antonio gave him a look as if offended, and then nodded. âYes.â
Lucia scoffed, tilting her chin up as she regarded him with something close to disdain. âAnd you thought to ask for my ring?â
âItâs a family piece,â Antonio argued. âWhat better way to show my intentions?â
Luciaâs fingers curled slightly, just enough for Bernardo to notice the way she pressed her nails against her palm. She was stalling, but not because she needed time to think. She already knew her answer.
âNo,â she said, and the word was as firm as stone.
Antonioâs expression flickered with irritation. âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs mine.â
That was the simplest answer, though there was far more beneath the surface. Bernardo saw it. Matteo saw it. Even Antonio must have recognized that her refusal was not just about possession, but about something deeper: something she would never say aloud.
The ring was a symbol. Not of love, not of devotion, but of power. A power she had clung to as the years had worn on, as Giuseppeâs attention strayed further and further from her, as Antonio grew older and took more of the authority she once wielded as a mother. She could feel it slipping even now, in the way they all sat here, in the way Giuseppe listened to Antonioâs requests with more weight than he had ever given her grievances.
Giuseppe sighed, rubbing his temple. âLuciaââ
âNo,â she said again, sharper this time. âHe can use something else. Why must it be mine?â
âBecause I want it to be yours,â Antonio countered. âIt would mean more.â
âMore to whom?â she snapped. âTo her?â
Antonioâs jaw tightened.
Lucia huffed, shaking her head. âThis girlâthis mystery girl you refuse to even nameâwhat has she done to make you so eager to part with something that is not yours to give?â
Antonioâs silence spoke volumes.
Lucia narrowed her eyes, satisfaction gleaming there. âYou donât even know, do you? Youâre infatuated with her, and yet you bring nothing of substance.â
Antonioâs nostrils flared, but before he could bite back, Giuseppe raised a hand, silencing them both.
âGive it to him.â
Luciaâs head snapped toward her husband, disbelief flashing across her face. âYou cannot be serious.â
âHe wants it,â Giuseppe said simply, as if that was all that mattered.
Bernardoâs stomach twisted. The favoritism was blatant, but it had always been. Antonio did not even need to argue; he had their fatherâs unwavering support in all things.
Lucia inhaled slowly, controlling her expression with an effort that did not go unnoticed. Then, she exhaled, her lips pressing into a thin line. âFine.â
Antonio smirked, but Lucia held up a hand of her own before he could claim victory.
âOn one condition.â
Antonioâs brows furrowed. âWhat condition?â
âI will meet her.â
That gave him pause.
Lucia tilted her head. âYou ask for my ring, but I am not so easily parted from what is mine. If she is to wear it, I will judge for myself whether she is worthy of it.â
Antonio hesitated, but in the end, he nodded. âFine.â
Lucia studied him for a long moment before finally looking away.
Bernardo exhaled through his nose. This was far from over.
âWe can arrange a dinner,â Antonio suggested, somewhat strangely, as he was unaccustomed to unnecessary grandeur. âIt doesnât have to be anything abnormal. We could invite her to one of ours.â For once, he seemed to be avoiding a fuss. âPerhaps sometime this week, or the next? Sunday evening seems appropriateââ
âNo,â Lucia responded sternly. âI will meet her now.â She was exhausted with his stalling. It had gone on two months, and two months too long.
It was hardly past morning, Bernardo thought, and surely, she would still be busy, or at least leisuring outside of the Abbey. Surely, the Mother Superior would recognize that, he thought, but it had become more apparent over the years that her tasks with the other nuns were limited to jeering cruelly and barking harsh orders at random.
âAntonio,â she addressed suddenly. âDo you know where this girlâs room is?â
He huffed, and as if suddenly remembering that his admiree was, in fact, a person, he named her. âItâs Lune, Mother,â he hissed. âAnd yes. Of course I do.â
Luciaâs lips curled in distaste at his tone, but she let it slide for now. âThen lead the way.â
Antonio hesitated for half a second, glancing at his father, but Giuseppe merely gave him a nod, a silent command to comply. With a frustrated exhale, Antonio stood.
Bernardo followed suit, watching his brother closely. There was something stiff in the way Antonio moved, something reluctant beneath his usual confidence. He had been eager to bring up the engagement, eager to stake his claim, but now, as Lucia pressed forward, he seemed less certain.
Matteo stood as well, though his movements were slower, more hesitant. He rarely had much to add in these conversations, and now was no exception. He glanced between their parents, then to Bernardo, as if silently asking if they truly intended to do this now.
Lucia, however, was already making her way toward the corridor, not bothering to wait for them. The morning light filtered through the tall windows, casting its opalescent, fractured beams across the stone floor, but she moved with the sort of purpose that paid no mind to beauty.
Antonio finally started after her, his steps brisk, determined. âShe wonât be expecting this,â he muttered under his breath.
Luciaâs expression remained impassive. âGood.â
Bernardoâs jaw tightened as they descended the hall, past archways and candlelit alcoves that had yet to be snuffed from the night prior. The Abbey always felt unnervingly still in the mornings. It was silent, yet not quite peaceful. And now, with the tension simmering beneath each step, it felt even more suffocating.
Antonioâs agitation was palpable, but he said nothing as they made their way toward the quarters where the nuns resided. For all his posturing, for all his grandiosity, it seemed he had not anticipated this would happen so soon. Lucia, however, had tired of waiting. and when Lucia was tired of something, she simply removed the obstacle in her path.
 Antonio lingered for only a moment before stepping forward, pressing his thumbnail into the flimsy lock. The lock on the door was weak, easily turned by sticking oneâs thumbnail into the lock and twisting it. With a small twist, the mechanism clicked, and the door creaked open. A rush of still air greeted them, carrying the faintest scent of something vaguely herbal; lavender, or perhaps chamomile. It was an unassuming room, sparse yet neatly kept, the kind of space that belonged to someone who valued quiet over extravagance.
Lucia stepped in first, her gaze sweeping across the modest furnishings. A narrow bed against the wall, its blanket smoothed with meticulous care. A small wooden desk, stacked with carefully arranged books and loose sheets of parchment. A basin of water in the corner, undisturbed. No sign of life beyond the lingering evidence of routine.
âShe isnât here,â Matteo pointed out, his voice quiet but clear.
Bernardo crossed his arms, leaning against the doorframe. âAnd she wonât be, not until evening.â His words were measured, not quite a challenge, but an invitation to leave.
Lucia ignored both of them. She stepped further inside, gliding her fingers along the deskâs surface as though expecting to find something out of place. âA nun should have no reason to keep us waiting,â she muttered. âAnd yet, she does.â Bernardo would have liked to mention that Lucia would have been upset to find a nun in her room in the late morning, but he neglected to do so.
Antonio, perhaps emboldened by her actions, strode inside as well, his previous hesitation melting into something more assertive. He moved toward the bookshelf, scanning its contents with the vague disinterest of someone searching for a hidden flaw rather than appreciating what was before him. âSheâs always writing,â he remarked, idly thumbing through the edges of a parchment stack, the majority of the pages marked up at least halfway. âI suppose I shouldnât be surprised that her room looks like a scribeâs quarters.â
Bernardo exhaled slowly. âShe wonât appear out of the furniture, Antonio.â
Antonio shot him a look, but before he could respond, Lucia reached for a small wooden box atop the desk. Unlike the other items in the room, this one was clearly not part of the abbeyâs furnishings. It was old, the wood wearing along the edges, the hinges dulled with age.
âA jewelry box,â Lucia observed, her tone edged with disdain.
Bernardo straightened slightly, his expression shifting to something more alert.
âA nun should not have enough jewelry to require a jewelry box.â Luciaâs fingers found the latch, and with a sharp click, she opened it.
But instead of rings or trinkets, inside lay something far more telling: a small, well-worn leather diary. It was no remarkable thing, with the fabric worn as if obtained secondhand, the first few pages torn out, indicated by the small gap at the front of the spine. Anyone keeping any terribly secret information might have put a lock through the small, hole-punched leather straps that dangled from the twin covers, but nuns did not keep locks, as they were not supposed to be doing anything that required secrecy, so a small piece of twine was slipped through instead, tied in a somewhat intricate knot that was weakened in its hastened creation.
Her face scrunched up in something akin to disgust, and she slipped the pointed nail of her fifth finger into the center of the knot, pulling it undone and flipping it open, wrinkled hands running along the grainy pages.
Her aged but no less keen eyes traced along the neat pen strokes. She wrote in an easily legible blend of stylized cursive and print, something common within the Ministry, as language classes, although described as elective, were prioritized over anything else. Those who were illiterate were mocked, seen as lesser. Visitors, if Basinshore ever received them, would have thought the church much wealthier than it was due to the sheer level of education.
Lucia turned the pages idly at first, her fingers dragging lightly over the parchment, feeling the indentations of ink pressed deep from a deliberate hand. The diary was filled with long, flowing passages of thoughts, observations, and small recollections, each penned with a careful, practiced elegance. It was the writing of someone who took solace in her own words, someone who found comfort in the act of preserving her thoughts.
How terribly sentimental.
Luciaâs lips curled as she scanned a passage recounting some mundane detail about the Abbeyâthe changing of the seasons, the way the bells chimed in the evening, the scent of rain against stone. She flicked past it. Another passage, this one an anecdote about a lesson she had given to the younger nuns, complete with little reflections on their progress. It was almost endearingly foolish.
She prattled on like a lovesick poet, Lucia thought, her eyes flicking over another passage where Lune described the texture of parchment as if it were something sacred.
On the other side of the room, Antonio rummaged carelessly, his movements impatient and thoughtless. He opened drawers only to shut them a moment later, lifted books without flipping through their pages, prodded at fabric as if expecting something of interest to leap out at him. He was not searching so much as he was asserting his presence, as though Lune herself might materialize from the very walls if he were thorough enough.
Lucia, meanwhile, remained seated at the small writing desk, the diary resting lightly in her lap. She barely acknowledged Antonioâs fruitless search, her attention fixed instead on the inked words before her.
It was all drivel, really. Useless musings on the minutiae of daily life, filled with exaggerated sentiment and self-indulgent reflection. And yet, she read on, her fingers pressing against the paper as if she might wring something more substantial from it.
Then, the tone shifted.
Luciaâs lip curled.
âI do not know what to make of him.â
She turned the page, her fingers moving more briskly now.
âHe is odd, in a way. There is something in the way he looks at me. Not unkind, not cold, but as if he sees something I do not. As if he understands something I have yet to put into words. It unsettles me. It fascinates me. He is accustomed to looking at things not meant to be seenââ
Lucia inhaled sharply through her nose. Disgust prickled at her skin, but she read on, drawn by the sheer absurdity of it.
âWhen he speaks, I listen. When he moves, I notice. I tell myself it is nothing. I tell myself I imagine it. What does he see in me, I wonder?â
Who was it that occupied the girlâs thoughts? What was this nonsense that she wasted her time on? Who had claimed her thoughts so completely that she felt compelled to spill such ridiculous musings onto the page? It was a pitiful indulgence; a waste of ink and paper.
âDid you find anything?â Antonioâs voice cut through the quiet.
Lucia barely flicked her gaze up to him. He had finally grown bored of his searching and was now approaching, eyes catching the diary in her lap. His curiosity sharpened as he drew near. Her grip on the diary tightened as she tilted it away from him, her nails pressing faint crescents into the worn leather. Her expression was carefully schooled into disinterest. Antonio had abandoned his rummaging, drawn instead by whatever had captured her attention so thoroughly. His sharp eyes locked onto the diary in her lap, curiosity flickering in their depths.
âWhatâs that?â He stepped closer, his interest deepening as he took note of how firmly she held it.
Lucia exhaled slowly through her nose, as if the question itself was beneath answering. âNothing of importance.â
Antonio was not so easily deterred. âThen you wonât mind if I have a look.â
He reached for it, but before his fingers could so much as brush the cover, Lucia snapped the book shut with a decisive thud and pulled it away.
âNo.â
Antonioâs brows rose. âNo?â He let out a breathy chuckle, tilting his head as if she had just said something amusingly absurd. âSheâs a nun in my church, Mother.â
Luciaâs lips curled. âAnd yet, she remains under my guidance,â she countered, voice laced with quiet authority. âYou tend to their faith, Antonio. I tend to everything else.â
A flicker of irritation crossed Antonioâs face, but Lucia did not waver.
âIf itâs nothing of importance,â he pressed, âthen what harm is there in letting me read it?â
Lucia met his gaze coolly. âBecause, my son, it is my right to know what these women under my charge concern themselves with. Not yours.â
Antonioâs expression darkened, suspicion lacing his features, but before he could argue further, Lucia rose to her feet with deliberate poise. The diary remained clutched in her hand, held close, as if it were something fragile.
âI will handle this,â she said simply, her tone leaving no room for debate.
And with that, she turned on her heel and strode toward the door, leaving Antonio to stare after her, unsatisfied.
Antonio's lips parted slightly, as if forming a protest, but for once, he found himself without words. Offended, certainly. Suspicious, undoubtedly. Yet Lucia afforded him not a single glance as she moved past him, the diary still in her firm grasp.
She had no interest in his wounded pride.
As she stepped into the hallway, the echo of her heels against the stone floor a steady, deliberate rhythm, she flicked the book open again with one practiced motion. Her sharp eyes flitted over the flowing script, past the meandering thoughts and foolishly poetic descriptions, hunting for the name she knew must be there.
And then she saw it.
Alessandro.
Written with particular care, as if the very act of forming the letters required reverence. As if the name itself was something to be held gently, something delicate.
Luciaâs lips pressed into a thin line. With a sharp snap, she closed the book once more, her grip tightening. This would not do. No, not at all. No, she would do something about this, and her actions would not be kind.
Sometime later that evening, Lucia sat at her writing desk, the diary resting beneath her fingertips. The room was silent, save for the measured turn of each page. Her gaze, steady and unhurried, traced the lines of ink with the same detached scrutiny she might give to an old ledger. She was searching for something more than the girlâs meandering reflections, more than the sentimentality and girlish poetry that cluttered so many of these pages.
And thenâ
I should not have spoken. I should not have provoked him. But when he reached for me, when heâ
Her hand stilled.
Her eyes moved quickly now, absorbing each word with careful precision. The details were unmistakable: Antonioâs quiet temper, his insistence, the way he had cornered the girl, reaching for what he believed was already his.
Lucia exhaled slowly, pressing the diary shut between her palms.
For a moment, she sat motionless, her expression unreadable.
The feeling was distant, buried beneath years of discipline, but not so distant that she did not recognize it. A door closing. A voice that did not ask, but demanded. A hand on her wrist, too firm to be mistaken for tenderness.
She pushed the thought aside. It was irrelevant.
What mattered was the risk and implications that lay before her. If this ever left these pages, if it was spoken aloud, Antonioâs chances of securing his proposal would be jeopardized. And by extension, so would her own standing.
Giuseppe would not blame Antonio. That much was certain. He never did.
Lucia adjusted her grip on the diary, her hold firm but composed. This situation required no emotion: only action.
The girl had left her no choice. A written tarnishment of her favored son, praise written in favor of her mute fool of a boyâŠ
She stood, tucking the book beneath her arm. There was still time to set things right, and she would. It would benefit Lucia to see this engagement secured. The girl would come to understand that soon enough that it was better to be chosen than to be hunted. Her son was not a gentle man; not when he wanted something.
Antonio, like his father, could be difficult when denied. He had never needed to learn patience, never needed to ask twice. Lucia had ensured that, for the most part, and yet, there was evidence of his frustration. His temper turned against what he already considered his own: the woman he had claimed so boldly to treasure.
She tapped her fingers against the worn leather of the diary, considering.
Lune was foolish, but she was not blind. If she had any sense at all, she would accept Antonioâs affections before his admiration soured into something far less pleasant. She would say yes when he asked this time, and in doing so, she would secure her own place, which Lucia had spent years fighting to maintain.
A life under Antonioâs favor was better than the alternative.
Luciaâs grip tightened on the book.
Yes. She would support this engagement. She would ensure it happened. For Antonio, and for herself.
And although she would never admit it aloud, for the girl as well.
âŠ
That evening, Lune was making herself busy in her room. It was messier than she remembered having left it that morning; she had never been a fitful sleeper, and the physical unrest of her morning bed was usually limited to the slight wrinkling of the sheets and the slightly raised outdention in the center of her bed cover. Now, they had been straightened, the outside-top folded over some two inches in a way she normally would not have done. The drawers of her tall nightstand were pulled forward less than an inch, as if the wall had stepped forward and pushed them somehow. The uniforms within her closet were parted onto either side, retaining the same pattern of organization that she had standardized in her room, but now somewhat disarranged.
She had rushed this morning to get both her tasks and some extras done; a gesture she had insisted to her acquaintances was one of kindness, but was instead an avoidant tactic in hopes to busy herself enough to keep away from the library. The place she had found herself in night after night had suddenly become unfamiliar, the sight of the heavy wooden door as she passed by it now the emotional equivalent to an insect crawling up her back.
Slipping two fingers into the ankle of her polished shoe, she considered whether or not he might have remained in the library after she left. He left at the same time that she had on that first night, but she doubted he would enforce any kind of severe interruption upon his usual schedule for the sake of whatever girlish emotion he had inflicted upon her.
She slid her shoes just beneath her bed and climbed onto it, lying down and stretching her legs, her hands placed lightly over her stomach as she closed her eyes. Her back was throbbing from the extra work, but she had evaded any kind of verbal altercation, and that knowledge comforted her, at least temporarily.
Lying there, she could feel the thin sheen of sweat that had developed on her forehead and over her upper lip and chin. Despite the cold seaside weather that seemed near permanent in the winter months, Basinshore remained stuffy, the burning fireplaces and wet air contributed by the evening seabreeze resulted in mostly hot, thick-aired hallways and even more suffocating bedchambers.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to will the tension out of her limbs. Her eyes remained shut as she let the stiffness in her spine dissolve into the soft give of the mattress. The air clung heavily to her skin, like the remnants of a fever that hadnât quite broken.
She turned her head slightly, eyes still closed, and reached toward the nightstand for the white cloth she always kept folded there. A simple thing; worn soft with use, kept for the purpose of wiping away the heat that so often clung to her skin after a long day. Her fingers brushed the surface of the wood, and then stilled.
The cloth was there, but not as she had left it.
It had been folded into a perfect square. Not the way she did it, hurried and practical, but neatly, like a handkerchief meant to be displayed rather than used. And sitting squarely in its center, stark and gleaming against the pale fabric, was a ring.
Not hers.
She sat up quickly, the mattress creaking beneath her, breath catching in her throat as her eyes locked onto it. Silver. Thick-banded. Smooth, but aged, and dented ever so slightly at the edges, with a familiar darkness to its polish. She knew this ring. Sheâd seen it before, more than once, slipping over long fingers that gestured too easily, too possessively, when they spoke.
Antonio.
Her throat tightened. She hadnât been mistaken. He had been here.
She stood too fast, her legs unsteady beneath her. The ring remained on the cloth, glinting under the faint glow of her candle. She didnât touch it.
Moving quickly, barefoot and breathless, she crossed the room to her desk. The surface looked undisturbed. Papers still sat in a neat stack, the ink bottle remained closed, her pen aligned where she had left it. But there was something just slightly off. The alignment of her stationery was a fraction skewed, the corner of the blotting paper no longer perfectly parallel to the deskâs edge. Her quill was angled just a hair differently than before.
She knelt to the drawer beneath. Inside, the wooden box where she kept her diary still sat in its place. She reached for it, fingers cold against the polished lid, and lifted it.
Empty.
Her heart dropped.
She reached in again, as if a second look might change what she already knew. But noânothing. The space was hollow, a silent confirmation of something stolen. Something read.
Not just takenâseen.
The walls of her room, so familiar and so contained, suddenly felt narrower. The warmth that had been so stifling before now felt suffocating in a different way. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heart to slow, her thoughts to quiet. But they wouldnât.
He had been here.
He had walked into her room, folded her cloth, left behind a ring like a signature scrawled across a page, and he had taken her words with him.
In the next moments, Lune didnât remember leaving her room. She remembered only the corridors of the abbey surged around her like a tide of stone. Cold walls blurred past in a smear of torchlight and shadow, her steps more stagger than sprint, driven by terror rather than speed. Her breath tore through her chest in raw, scraping gasps, like fabric dragged over skin left flayed. Somewhere, distantly, a bell chimed for the late meal, but it sounded like it belonged to another peaceful, orderly world she had been ejected from.
She slammed into the library door, shoulder-first, the force rebounding it off the stone wall with a thunderous crack. His name was already rising in her throat, already primed to burst, but she didnât have to call. Alessandro was there, steadily, unmoved despite the unsettling of the other presences in the room.
He stood near the far table, book in hand, haloed by the amber spill of candlelight. His usual perch, still and solemn. He looked up at the sound of the door, and for the first time, the stillness in his eyes seemed to fracture.
âLune?â
He barely breathed the word before she crossed the room in a staggering blur. Her legs faltered beneath her, her chest rising and falling in frantic heaves. Her mouth opened, but her voice came in fragments: cracked, panicked, unraveling.
âIâheâhe was in my roomâhe took itâI donâtâI donât know what to doââ
Alessandro reached her in two strides. His hands hovered in the space between them, unsure whether to touch her. Her arms flailed upward, fingers grasping at nothing, as if she were drowning in air.
âLune. Stop.â His voice was low, firm, and steady in a way it never had to be before. Heavy with something rare. Something cold. Worry.
But she couldnât stop. Her words spilled from her, jagged and incoherently, like water through a burst dam.
âAntonioâhe left his ringâhe touched my thingsâhe took itââ
At last, his hands found her shoulders. The contact was gentle, but bracing, like a wall against the flood.
âWhat did he take?â he asked, voice sharpened by something coiled and waiting.
She was barely breathing now, trembling beneath his touch. Her hands pushed against his chest, weak and directionless, more plea than resistance.
He caught her elbows, guiding them down, pinning them softly to her sides. He did not aim to injure or offend, only exerting enough force to still her; to bring her back. She didnât fall still, not really, but the thrashing of her limbs slowed, replaced by jagged breaths and eyes wide with a terror she couldnât contain.
Her voice cracked as it broke free.
âMy diary.â
A blink. Just one. His face didnât change but something behind it stilled, and then twisted, as if befuddled.
âA⊠diary.â
He said it as if testing the word. Confusion lingered in his voice, as if the statement had somehow been underwhelming.
âItâs not just a diary,â she snapped. The heat in her voice was desperation, not anger. âItâs everything I think about! My thoughts. My fears. Him. I wrote about him.â
Silence thickened between them. A silence full of unsaid things.
And then, quieter, like the name had been hiding all along, waiting to be let out:
âAntonio.â
Alessandro didnât speak for a moment after that. He didnât need to.
The stillness in him changed. He looked at her then, truly looked, and in that moment, whatever disbelief he might have carried burned away.
He released her arms with care, sliding one hand to the curve of her back. A guiding touch. He led her to their usual table, his steps steady even as hers faltered. Her knees nearly gave as she sat, her coat too thin to muffle the trembling in her bones. She folded into the chair like someone folding in on pain, as though reducing her shape might shrink the agony.
He stood over her for a moment, watching. She looked like something about to break, like a glass lingering precariously on the edge of a shelf.
Her hands gripped each other in her lap, white-knuckled, as if she could hold herself together with force alone. Her shoulders twitched with silent sobsâthe kind that never touched the throat, only the lungs, only the ribs, leaving a bruising feeling in her throat but remaining soundless.
Alessandro exhaled, a sound more bitter than breath. With a quiet motion, he shrugged the coat from his shoulders and stepped behind her. The heavy wool fell over her like armor.
He tucked it around her with the same precision he used for his books. Thoughtful. Careful. Not gentle, exactly, but protective. And then, his hand brushed over the back of her head. It made her still.
âIâll be back,â he said. His voice was soft, but it struck like a vow. She didnât ask where he was going, for he hadnât offered it.
He turned and left, the long line of his back taut with purpose, his footsteps carving clean through the silence of the library.
And Lune, swaddled in the weight of his coat and the pounding in her head, bowed her head and wept into the sleeves. In her fit, she had been robbed of her greatest strength: her wits, and now, she felt helpless.
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The jewelerâs shop was stifling. Not in temperatureâno, the air was crisp with the scent of polished glass and velvet-lined cases, touched with the faintest trace of silver dust. But to Antonio, it may as well have been suffocating.
He stood in the center of the showroom, surrounded by gleaming displays of gold and gemstones, and none of themânoneâwere right.
His fingers, adorned with rings of his own, drummed impatiently against his forearm as he crossed his arms, eyes sweeping over the selection before him. The light refracted in every direction, bouncing off faceted diamonds and sapphires, reflecting the narrowed edge of his gaze. He had been here too long. He had seen too much. And yet, nothing he looked atâno ring, no delicate band, no shimmering stoneâfelt like it belonged on the womanâs hand.
Which was, frankly, maddening.
Antonio was not a man who second-guessed himself. He prided himself on decisive action, on certainty, on knowing what he wanted and taking it before anyone else had the chance to realize they wanted it too. And yet, here he was, surrounded by opulence, feeling as though each carefully crafted piece of jewelry was sneering at him in silent mockery.
His patience, already thin, was beginning to fray.
âYouâve looked at that one already,â Matteo muttered beside him, arms loosely folded in poor imitation. His younger brotherâblessed with less vanity, less extravagance, and certainly less interest in the fineries in lifeâhad grown weary an hour ago. Now, he stood with the heavy-lidded expression of someone contemplating throwing himself into the nearest river. âTwice, actually.â
Antonio flicked him a glance. âAnd?â
âAnd you keep putting it back,â Matteo sighed, rubbing at his temple. âIf it isnât right, it isnât right. Pick another or letâs leave before you make me hate jewelry for the rest of my life.â
Antonio ignored him. He reached for another ringâa slender band, set with a modest diamond, elegant in its simplicity.
Too plain.
He set it down with more force than necessary.
The jeweler, an elderly man with the posture of someone long accustomed to indulging difficult customers, merely watched him with a serene expression. âPerhaps, Signore, you might describe exactly what youâre looking for?â
Antonio let out a sharp breath. âSomething that fits her.â
The jewelerâs tone was skeptical.. âHer finger or her personality?â
Antonio shot him a withering look. âBoth.â
The jeweler hummed, reaching beneath the counter to retrieve another tray. âA difficult task indeed.â
Antonio barely glanced at the new selection before shaking his head. No. None of these would work. None of them would be enough, because no matter how rare the cut, how delicate the setting, how brilliant the stone, it would still be just that. A ring. A piece of metal and gem that she could remove, could leave behind, could slip off her finger the moment she decided she wanted to be free of it.
The realization settled in his chest, an unwelcome weight. He needed something more: something she couldnât refuse. Something she couldnât give back.
And then, like a key turning into a lock, the answer slid neatly into place.
His motherâs ring.
The thought struck him with a force of inevitability, as if it had been waiting all along for him to catch up. Slowly, he straightened.
Matteo, perceptive despite his boredom, frowned. âWhat?â
Antonioâs lips parted, but he did not immediately answer. Instead, he let the idea take root, let it settle into his mind with absolute certainty. She was practical. She was bound by duty, by obligation, by the weight of what was expected of her. If he proposed with the ring that carried his familyâs legacy, she would have no choice but to accept it. It would no longer be just an engagement ring. It would be an inheritance. A tie to something greater than either of them.
And Lune, for all her stubbornness, would never discard something that didnât belong solely to her. A slow smile curled at the edges of his lips.
âYouâve thought of something, havenât you?â
Antonio turned to him, a glint of satisfaction in his gaze. âYes.â
Matteoâs expression soured. âI donât like that look.â
Antonio ignored him, already turning toward the exit. âWeâre leaving.â
The jeweler, startled, blinked. âYouâre not making a purchase, Signore?â
Antonio cast a final disinterested glance at the glittering array before him.
âNo,â he said, breezing past Matteo, who sighed before shuffling along after him. âIâve found something better.â
âŠ
It wasnât often that Bernardo came wandering down the east wing of the Ministry.
The corridor outside the library was quiet, save for the muted whisper of Bernardoâs footsteps against the stone floor. It was late enough that the sconces lining the hall burned low, casting long, flickering shadows along the walls, but not so late that the sun had completely sunken below the faded-green field surrounding the Ministry. He had no business lingering here. He preferred his own private collection of books over the libraryâwas partial to the silence that came with his own modest lodging.
And yet, as he passed the arched doorway leading into the libraryâs depths, something made him pause. A shift in the air, perhaps, or the distant, rhythmic rustle of turning pages. He glanced inside, his gaze sweeping across the dimly lit shelves in search of the late-evening inhabitant, the rows of worn wooden tables, the lone oil lamp burning low at the far end of the room.
Alessandro.
His younger brother sat hunched over a book, the glow of the lamp illuminating the sharp, tired angles of his face. His fingers moved with practiced precision, carefully smoothing the spine of an aging volume, brushing away layers of dirt as if each page contained something fragileâsomething worth preserving. Not for the first time, Bernardo wondered how Alessandro could spend so many hours here, buried beneath parchment and neglect, as if the weight of forgotten words meant more to him than the world outside this room.
He almost walked on. Almost ignored the scene before him, as he had countless times before.
But then he saw her.
She stood across from Alessandro, half-hidden in the dim light, hands folded neatly in front of her with shadows cast across pointed features. A quiet observer, watching with an expression Bernardo couldnât quite place. She was familiar to himâat least, not in any way that mattered. A face he might have passed in the halls of the church, perhaps, or seen in the periphery of a sermon. But that wasnât what made him pause. It wasnât her presence, specifically, that caught his attention. It was the fact that Alessandro had company at all.
He had never known Alessandro to tolerate distractions. The younger man existed in quiet solitude, slipping through the world with deft hands and a sharp tongue, making himself unapproachable without ever needing to try. And yet, here he was, seated at his usual table, the oil lamp throwing fractured light across his featuresâand a woman stood before him.
A woman.
Bernardoâs frown deepened.
It was unusual enough to see Alessandro with another person at all, let alone a woman. Women were permitted in the library, but only begrudgingly so. It was not a place where intersex familiarity was encouraged, and certainly not at this hour. And yet, she remained. More startling still, Alessandro was letting her. A quiet breath left Bernardoâs nose, sharp and measured, as he remained by the doorway, gaze fixed on the dim-lit tableau before him. The scene was⊠odd. Off-kilter in a way he couldnât quite define, like a book whose pages had been bound out of order. Alessandro was many thingsâdifficult, reclusive, burdened with an intellect that often turned cuttingâbut he was not the sort to entertain company. And certainly not the kind draped in the robes of the church, her presence at odds with the dust-heavy and disobedient silence Alessandro so carefully cultivated.
Bernardoâs fingers curled against his palm. He should move on. This was not his concern. And yetâ
A voice, smooth and familiar, interrupted his thoughts. "Youâre lurking, brother."
Bernardo tensed, just slightly. He did not turn immediately, instead letting the weight of Antonioâs presence settle behind him like the inevitable pull of a tide. Antonio stepped closer, the rich scent of his cologneâspiced citrus, leather, something darker beneathâclinging to the air between them. He was never subtle, Antonio. Never quiet. Even now, in the hush of the corridor, his presence was a sharp contrast to the dim austerity of the library.
Bernardo finally turned his head, just enough to meet his younger brotherâs gaze. Antonioâs expression was one of casual amusement, though there was something else too. Shrewd in nature, hidden beneath the glint of the candlelight that reflected off of his rings.
âIâm not lurking,â Bernardo murmured.
Antonio arched his brow. "No? Because from where Iâm standing, it looks an awful lot like youâre spying."
Bernardo exhaled slowly, leveling him with a cool stare. "I was passing by."
Antonio hummed, unconvinced. He shifted, peering past Bernardoâs shoulder toward the figures in the library. A spark of interest flickered across his face, something almost delighted.
"Well, well," he mused, lips curling at the edges. "Thatâs certainly not what I expected to find."
Bernardo frowned. "What are you talking about?"
Antonioâs gaze flicked back to him, dark eyes alight with something keen and knowing. He did not answer immediately, instead clasping his hands together as if savoring the moment. Then, with an exhale that was just a shade too pleased, he murmured, "Alessandro and a nun. Now, that is interesting."
Bernardoâs jaw tightened. "Itâs nothing."
Antonio tilted his head. âIs it?â
His tone was too amused, too self-satisfied. Bernardo knew that look, knew that Antonio was already turning the implications over in his mind like a coin between his fingers.
"Whatever it is, it isnât our business," Bernardo said firmly.
Antonioâs smile remained in place, but it no longer reached his eyes. The flickering light of the sconces cast shifting shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his cheekbones, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes.
"Not our business," he echoed softly, almost as if tasting the words.
His fingers curled at his sides, the metal of his rings pressing into his skin. Bernardo had always been so good at thatâstanding at a careful distance, keeping his hands clean, pretending disinterest in things that deserved scrutiny. Antonio, however, was not so detached. He never had been. He did not let things lie when they twisted at the edges of his mind, when they left a bitter taste on his tongue.
He turned back to the library, gaze lingering just a moment too long on the woman standing across from Alessandro.
Little Lune. Of course.
His lip curled faintly, barely perceptible in the dim light. It was absurd, wasnât it? Laughable, really. His brother, solemn and bookish, surrounded by dust older than either of them, barely a man at all in the ways that matteredâand yet, here he was, drawing the attention of someone who should not have even looked his way.
Antonio exhaled through his nose, the sound low and sharp.
What a joke.
And yetâŠ
He tilted his head, his fingers tapping absently against the back of his wrist. No, not quite a joke. Not yet. There was something there: a thread worth pulling. Antonio did not believe in coincidences. He believed in control, in power, in knowing the right moment to close his fingers around an opportunity and squeeze. He smiled again, but this time there was no amusement in it. Only something colder.
"Well," he murmured at last, stepping back from the doorway, "I suppose weâll see."
Bernardoâs frown deepened. "See what?"
Antonio glanced at him, and for just a moment, there was something unreadable in his gaze.
"Weâll see that youâre right," he said smoothly. "That itâs nothing."
And with that, he turned on his heel, his steps measured, unhurried, disappearing into the corridorâs waiting dark.
âŠ
The door creaked.
Luneâs gaze flicked toward the sound, her posture shifting instinctively, though she remained otherwise still. The library was silent save for the faint crackle of the oil lamp beside Alessandro, its light stretching long shadows across the stone floor. She narrowed her eyes at the arched doorway, but the corridor beyond was empty.
Empty, but not quite undisturbed.
A breath of something unseen prickled at the back of her neck, a lingering presence, like the echo of footsteps already gone. She parted her lips to speak, then hesitated.
Alessandro, however, did not so much as glance up. His fingers, ink-stained and sure, turned another page with deliberate ease.
âNothing,â he murmured before she could voice her thoughts. His voice was quiet, but not softâcalm in a way that felt practiced. His even tone comforted her, and she lowered herself into the seat next to him.
The library stretched out in quiet solemnity around them, the scent of aged parchment and lamp oil thick in the still air. The tall, arched windows along the far wall had darkened with the fading light of evening, their heavy drapes drawn back just enough to let in the last slivers of dusk. Shadows pooled in the corners between towering bookshelves, their edges softened by the flickering glow of the solitary lamp resting at Alessandroâs side. It burned low, casting its golden light over the worn wooden table, across scattered pages and leather-bound tomes that carried the weight of centuries. The world outside had faded into hush and distance, leaving only this place, enclosed in the quiet hum of ink and thought.
Alessandro turned a page with absent precision, his fingers stained with the remnants of the dayâs work, smudges of ink trailing along the creases of his knuckles. He was aware of her company, but too accustomed to solitude, too used to the weight of silence pressed around him like an old, familiar cloak to acknowledge it. The presence of another should have unsettled that quiet, should have made itself known, but Lune had a way of keeping herself small, of tucking herself into the periphery, careful and unobtrusive.
And yet, as the moments passed, his attention driftedânot from the words on the page, but toward her. Unconsciously, his gaze flickered to her more often than he realized, drawn by some quiet instinct, some pull just beyond the edge of his understanding. It had happened before, in fleeting glances and half-noticed gestures, but now, in the stillness of the library, he saw it clearly. She did not sit like someone at ease.
Her back was straight, but not in the way of someone comfortably upright; it was the posture of someone braced, someone balanced at the edge of something uncertain. Her hands were folded in her lap, fingers twined too neatly, too tightly, as if keeping them still was an act of control rather than rest. The glow of the lamp played along the sharp lines of her face, illuminating the quiet tension that lingered at the corners of her mouth, the way her gaze flickeredânot toward the books before her, nor toward him, but somewhere just beyond, never quite settling, never quite claiming space.
She looked like someone waiting for a verdict.
Alessandro turned another page, slower this time, the parchment whispering beneath his touch. He studied her from the corner of his eye, let the moment stretch between them before finally breaking it with quiet certainty.
"You sit like someone waiting to be dismissed."
Luneâs head turned at his words, her gaze snapping to his with something like startled recognitionânot at his voice, but at the fact that he had noticed at all.
"Do I?"
His own attention did not waver, though he did not lift his head fully from his book. "Yes."
For a beat, she did not respond. Then, as if searching for something to anchor herself, her gaze dropped to the open pages before him, skimming over the words without truly reading them.
"Perhaps I am merely being polite," she murmured, the words light, but not without weight.
Alessandro exhaled, a sound too soft to be a sigh but carrying the same measured patience. "Polite." He repeated the word slowly, turning it over in his mouth as if testing its meaning. "That would imply you feel like a guest here."
A shiftâsmall, but noticeable. The faintest tightening of her fingers in her lap, a slight press of her shoulders.
"Is that wrong?" she asked at last.
This time, he did lift his gaze fully, meeting her eyes with quiet intensity. The oil lamp between them flickered, its flame guttering for the briefest moment before steadying again, sending shadows stretching and retreating across the woodgrain of the table. In that dim, golden light, he saw itâthe flicker of something withheld, something restrained, lingering just beneath the surface.
"You spend more time in these halls than most," he said, his voice even, measured. She spent more time here with him than anyone, but that thought was kept silent. "And yet you act as though you are waiting for someone to tell you to leave."
A breathâsoft, shallow. A hesitation so slight it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But he was watching now. He saw it. She pressed her narrow back a little harder against the cool-toned wood. âI do feel comfortable here,â she attempts to remedy the imagined offense. âI feel much more comfortable here than in any other place.â
The thought made him smile. âHere with the ghosts?â
She nodded.
âThey do make better company,â he concurred. âSuitable, for you and for I.â
She reached over, nudging the inkpot closer to him as he reached for itâquiet helpfulness. âI thought they were only for you. Theyâre your company, arenât they?â
âYou can have more than one companion,â Alessandro responded, his lip twitching unconsciously. âUnlike most things here, there is no rule dictating that.â And yet, heâd found himself becoming partial to just the singular. Selfishly, and despite his preference, he hadnât asked many questions about her. âDo you have your own⊠clique?â He asked. The word was spoken with a twinge of unsubtle distaste.
âI wouldnât call it that,â she responded. His eyes flitted briefly to her face before settling back on his book. That one glance was enough to pull a truth, or at least free the very corners. âNo, I donât believe itâs that at all.â
âYou have friends, then?â
She didnât want him to think her needy. âAcquaintances,â she corrected respectfully. âI prefer it that way.â
âRight,â he said, and a vague tone of skepticism which he would not elaborate on slipped into his voice. âYou donât belong anywhere.â Alessandro did not mean for his words to sound like an accusation, but they hovered in the air between them like one regardless. He had meant to state an observation, nothing moreâto give voice to the quiet dissonance he saw in her, the contradiction of someone who lingered yet seemed ready to flee. But now that it had been spoken aloud, the weight of it settled, and he found himself unwilling to let it go unanswered.
His fingers, still idly resting on the open pages of his book, curled slightly, pressing against the parchment as he considered her. She had not immediately responded, and that in itself was an answer of sorts. A silence that did not feel empty, but fullâfilled with something unspoken, something uncertain.
Her breath hitchedâjust barely, but he caught it.
Her lips parted, but no words came at first, as if the statement had caught her off guard in a way she hadnât expected. She shifted, her posture still too careful, still too composed, but there was something unsteady about it now, like the faintest waver in a taut string. "I..." she started, then hesitated, her gaze flickering away, as though the answer might be found in the dim glow of the oil lamp, in the shadowed corners of the library.
At last, the words cameâsoft, nearly swallowed by the hush of the room, but there.
"I donât."
A confession, however small.
The admission settled between them, quieter than the turning of a page, yet heavier than any book lining the shelves. Alessandro did not look away from her, and for a moment, she held his gaze. There was no defiance in it, no challengeâonly the barest sliver of honesty, as if she had given away more than she intended to and was now waiting to see what he would do with it.
For a moment, Alessandro said nothing. He only regarded her in the dim glow of the oil lamp, his gaze steady, unreadable. Lune felt it in the space between themâthe weight of his attention, sharp yet strangely unintrusive, as though he was peeling back layers without ever needing to ask.
Then, he moved. Not abruptly, not with any great urgency, but with quiet purpose. He shut the book before him, the whisper of parchment against parchment barely breaking the silence, and reached for the oil lamp with one hand. The flame wavered as he lifted it, casting shifting shadows along his features, catching against the sharp line of his jaw and severe nose.
Lune watched as he stood, her pulse quickening, though she could not quite say why. He had not spoken, had not given any command or expectation. And yet, something in the way he looked at herâas if measuring something, weighing some unseen decisionâmade her fingers tense in her lap.
âCome,â he said at last.
A single word. Not forceful, not urgent, but certain.
She hesitated, glancing toward the doorway as if to reassure herself that no one else lurked in the corridor beyond. There was nothingâonly the vast, unbroken hush of the library, the towering shelves filled with books that had long since forgotten the voices that had written them.
Still, she hesitated.
Alessandro took a few steps away from the table before pausing, glancing back at her. The low light softened the cool severity of his expression, but his eyes remained sharp, keenly observant.
"If you donât wish to follow, then donât," he said simply. "I wonât ask twice."
Something about that statement, about the quiet certainty with which he said it, made her decision for her. Before she could overthink it, she stood, her chair scraping softly against the floor as she pushed it back.
She followed.
Alessandro did not wait for her to catch up, but he did not outpace her either. His steps were deliberate, unhurried, the light of the oil lamp shifting as he wove through the shelves. The deeper they went, the further the glow of the sconces faded, replaced by the encroaching weight of shadow. The air grew heavier with the scent of dust and parchment, the hush pressing in around them, swallowing even the sound of their footsteps.
Lune did not ask where they were going. She only watched the way Alessandro carried himselfâsteady, assured, as if he had walked this path countless times before. And perhaps he had.
At last, he turned into a narrow alcove, tucked between two towering bookshelves. It was a space so small that without a guiding light, one might have walked past it a hundred times without noticing. There was a dip there in the wall, a small wooden window seat that had been built with care but worn with age. A few books were left abandoned as though someone had meant to return to them but never had.
Alessandro set the lamp down upon the table, its glow pooling over the pages, over the rough wood, over the quiet, waiting space between them.
Lune remained near the entrance, uncertain. âWhy here?â she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Alessandro leaned against the edge of the table, arms crossing loosely over his chest. His gaze was unreadable in the shifting light. âItâs quiet,â he said.
âIt was quiet out there.â
âNot quiet enough.â
Lune swallowed, glancing toward the bookshelves as though expecting some unseen observer to step forward from the dark. There was no one. Only the smell of ink and paper, the steady glow of the lamp, and the presence of the man before her.
âI keep things here,â he tells her suddenly, the words spoken quicker than they might normally have been in a more casual setting. Their meetings, which had increased first to weekly and then quickly to multiple times a week after that very first, had not been entirely formal, but there had always been a boundary; one not quite breached, but he stood on that line, a guiding path, teetering on its blurred edges. âWellâtheyâre not mine, per say. They belong to my family.â
As he approached the edge of the left shelf closest to the window, she noticed rectangular figures that were much taller and much narrower than the books nearby. They were frames, she realized as he carefully removed one from the very back. Portraits. Family portraits, and painted by various artists, she noticed, as the styles varied from year to year.
She steps closer, extending a tentative hand, as if asking permission. He allows her, placing one of the framed portraits in her hand. They were of reasonably large size, measuring crudely from her chin to her hip, and were much lighter than she had expected. Then again, she wasnât experienced in handling canvases or in the creation of their contents.
He was silent for some time, and she took it as a sign to examine them closer, bringing the canvas closer to her face as if she were looking for some miniscule detail. Finding none, she glanced up at him, only for him to nod down at it again, suggesting she give it another try. Sighing inaudibly, she brushes her fingers over the textured paint, and then looks at the one he had propped up on the shelf next to her.
There was a gap, she noticed. Not in the paintings, but in time, as the one she held pictured his mother and father holding his older brother, while the second pictured his parents and older brother again, but this time with both him and his first younger brother. With their age difference, apparent in their appearance despite their familial introversion, there should have been one between the two that featured only Alessandro and Bernardo. Yet, seemingly without reason, there wasnât.
She looks up at him now, pressing her fingers lightly against that space just beside a much younger image of Bernardo. âWhere are you?â
For a moment, Alessandro said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the painting she held, but Lune sensed that he was not truly looking at itâat least, not in the way she was. She watched the way his fingers rested against the edge of the propped-up canvas, not gripping, not holding, merely touching, as if feeling the frameâs presence rather than interacting with it. The silence stretched long enough that she almost considered withdrawing the question. But then, without looking at her, he answered.
âI wasnât there.â His voice was quieter now, more measured, as though he were selecting his words carefully, as though he had already considered them many times before. âNot yet.â
Luneâs brow furrowed slightly. Her fingers, still resting lightly against the canvas, twitched as if debating whether to move away. âWhat do you mean?â
Alessandro exhaled, a slow, steady breath through his nose. Then, at last, he turned his head to meet her gaze. âI wasnât born into this family,â he said simply. âI was adopted.â
Lune blinked. For all the things she might have expected, that had not been one of them. Not because it was impossibleâno, in fact, now that it had been spoken aloud, it made sense in ways she hadnât consideredâbut because of the way he had always carried himself, always poised, always so deeply entrenched in his familyâs affairs, his place in them never once called into question. And yet, in this moment, standing beside him in the dim glow of the oil lamp, she could see itâthe faint trace of distance that had always been there, something imperceptible to most but now undeniably present.
She looked back down at the portrait, tracing the space where a younger Alessandro should have been. âBut you were here,â she murmured, more to herself than to him. âYou were already part of this family before Antonio was born.â
He nodded once, a small, measured movement. âYes.â
She looked up at him again, searching his face for somethingâan emotion, a reactionâbut he was unreadable. Not in the way he sometimes was, when he purposefully concealed his thoughts, but in the way of someone who had long since grown accustomed to keeping certain truths unspoken.
âIt isnât something thatâs discussed,â he continued after a pause. âNot because itâs a secret, but because there has never been a need. I was taken in, given a name, a place, an education. I was meant to belong.â A beat. Then, a faint curve of his lipsâsomething wry, something bitter, something too quiet to be called a smile. âThat should have been enough.â
Should have. The words hung between them like dust unsettled by a passing hand.
Lune did not speak immediately. Instead, she looked back at the painting, at the faces carefully rendered in oil and pigment, at the missing space that had never been filled. She had thought, in some small way, that Alessandro was different from herâthat for all his solitude, all his sharp edges, he still had something solid beneath his feet. A place to return to. A certainty of belonging that she had never quite possessed.
He inhales suddenly, the noise breaking her train of thought and pulling her eyes, and more importantly, her ears, back to him.
âYou called him Antonio,â he says, a statement. âYou know him well, then?â
Lune hesitated. Not because she did not have an answer, because she most certainly did, but because she was uncertain how to shape it. He, despite their lack of a blood tie, was Alessandroâs brother.
âI wouldnât say that,â she admitted at last. âWeâve spoken.â
Alessandro studied her for a moment, unreadable. The flame of the oil lamp flickered in the quiet space between them, casting long shadows across the spines of forgotten books, stretching across the floor like something reaching.
âThat is not the same,â he remarked, tilting his head slightly, as though weighing her words with an unseen scale. âSpeaking to someone and knowing them.â
She looked away, back to the painting, though it no longer held the same pull it had moments ago. âPerhaps not.â
Alessandro exhaled softly. It was not quite a sigh, more a measured release of breath. âAntonio is⊠charismatic,â he said, though the word felt chosen with care, as if avoiding others that might be less kind. âPeople gravitate toward him.â
Lune glanced at him. âAnd they donât toward you?â That was a redundancy on her part. He was alone when she found him, and alone now, except for her and the cryptically mentioned âghostsâ that he seemed to speak of so often.
Something flickered in his expressionâbrief, like a candle guttering before steadying again. âNo.â
She considered that; considered the way he carried himself, the way he spoke only when necessary, the way he lingered in the spaces between conversation rather than in the center of it. The way his bitter expression seemed to scare more people off than it encouraged.
And yet.
âI canât imagine why,â she murmured, and though she meant it neither as jest nor flattery, something about the way Alessandro looked at her made it clear that he was measuring the weight of her words.
He did not respond immediately. Instead, he turned his attention back to the portrait, fingers tapping once, absentmindedly, against the wooden frame.
âHe is good at belonging,â he said after a pause. âAt making people feel as though they belong with him.â
Lune frowned slightly. âAnd you?
The question lingered, hanging in the space between them like a breath not yet exhaled.
Alessandroâs lips pressed together, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. âI have never quite mastered that skill.â
Luneâs fingers twitched slightly at her sides. âIt isnât always a skill,â she said. âSome people justââ She hesitated, searching for the right word. âFit.â
Lune felt the weight of the question, not because it demanded an answer, but because they both already knew it.
She shook her head once, just enough for him to see.
Alessandro was silent for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sort of finality, he turned back to the shelf, carefully sliding the portrait back into place, filling the space it had occupied as though it had never been moved.
âYou called him Antonio,â he said again, though softer this time. âBut you do not call me Alessandro.â
Lune blinked, caught off guard. âIââ She hesitated, suddenly aware of it, the unspoken habit she had not thought to question.
He was right. She had never once spoken his name.
She paused, her eyes straining slightly in the fading candlelight as they trained briefly on his face. âI can call you that if you would like me to,â she said, her eyes falling again.
âDonât bother.â The statement, meant to be polite, was short and terse in nature. The moment they had shared was suddenly broken with only a few words, and dissolved quicker than sugar in warm water. Lips downturned, he turned away, a signal for them both to go. âItâs past time you leave, Sister.â
Her hands are unpleasantly dry, fingers brushing over the ashen spines of the books aged older than the senior-most members of the clergy. She is uncomfortable, but she tolerates it. Women, while not explicitly barred from Basinshoreâs library, did not have their presence encouraged. Any complaints, whether they were of the condition of the library or the unspoken bias, were promptly dismissed.
She liked to read. Most people in Basinshore did. There was little else to do to pass the time between celebrationsâoutdoor activities were only pleasant in the summer and spring seasons, and mixed-gender events remained a taboo within the Church.
The scent of old parchment and dust hung heavy in the air, settling into the folds of her dress as she turned down another dimly lit aisle. The library was eerily silent, save for the occasional creak of wooden shelves expanding in the evening chill.
She ran her fingertips over a gilded title, barely visible through decades of neglect, when a soundânot quite a cough, not quite a sighâmade her still.
She froze, fingers hovering over the bookâs brittle spine. The soundâtoo deliberate to be the library settling, too human to be ignoredâunraveled the delicate solitude she had woven around herself. Slowly, she turned her head.
At the far end of the aisle, barely visible in the dim light, a figure sat hunched over an aged wooden table. A small oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the surface, illuminating a spread of tools and a stack of weary books in various states of disrepair. He hadnât spoken, hadnât moved beyond the subtle shift that had given him away.
For a moment, she considered retreating. Then, his fingers, ink-stained and precise, turned a fragile page, and his voiceâlow, edged with something dry and unreadableâbroke the silence.
"If youâre planning to run, Iâd do it now. Most people do."
She stiffened, caught somewhere between curiosity and unease. He didnât look up, but the corner of his mouth quirked, as if he already knew she was still standing there.
She didnât move.
The quiet weight of his voice lingered between them, daring her to retreat, to vanish like the others surely had before her. But Lune had never been one to frighten easilyânot when faced with the biting scrutiny of the clergy, nor the whispered warnings that women had no place loitering in the depths of the library.
Instead, she straightened her spine, hands carefully folding in front of her as she took a tentative step closer. âI wasnât planning to run,â she said, keeping her voice measured. âShould I?â
A pause. Then, Alessandro let out a quiet breathânot quite a chuckle, not quite a sigh. âDepends,â he murmured, dipping a brush into a small ceramic dish of paste. âHow do you feel about ghosts?â
Lune blinked, startled by the question. âGhosts?â
His fingers, steady and deft, smoothed the paste along the spine of a frail, half-unbound volume. âThey like it here,â he said, eyes still fixed on his work. âOr maybe they just never figured out how to leave.â
She studied him in the flickering lamplightâthe sharp, austere angles of his face, the ink smudged along the ridge of his thumb. He didnât look like a man who entertained superstitions. But there was something in the way he said itâdetached, almost absentminded, as if he wasnât trying to scare her but simply stating a fact.
âIf I were to believe in ghosts,â she said carefully, âI imagine theyâd have worse things to haunt than a library.â
That earned her a glance. Just a brief flicker of dark eyes beneath the fall of untamed hair. A faint, wry curve ghosted across his lips before he returned to his work. âYouâd think that,â he said. âBut people leave their worst secrets in books. If somethingâs bound to linger, itâs here.â
Lune swallowed, an uneasy prickle settling at the nape of her neck. She wasnât sure if it was his words or his presenceâso still, so unapologetically at ease in this dim, forgotten corner of the world.
She should leave. She should take the nearest book and go. Instead, she took another step forward. âWhat are you doing?â she asked.
Alessandro exhaled, a slow, deliberate sound. âKeeping things from falling apart.â He turned another page, careful as a man handling something far more delicate than mere parchment. âFor now, at least.â
Lune hesitated. She had seen the state of the libraryâthe way time had gnawed at its edges, how the clergy seemed indifferent to the slow decay. She knew there were workers, members of the clergy, entrusted with the delicate texts, but this was her first time seeing one at work.
âAnd you do this alone?â
âWouldnât be much of a ghost story if I had company.â
She huffed, startled by the dry humor laced in his tone. He wasnât quite smiling, but there was something in his expression that suggested he was pleased to have caught her off guard.
For the first time since stepping into the aisle, Lune felt the tension in her shoulders ease. âI imagine ghosts donât make for very good conversation,â she said.
Alessandro flicked an invisible speck of dust from the corner of a page. âNeither do most people.âÂ
Lune tilted her head slightly, studying him. âThen I suppose I should be flattered youâre entertaining this conversation at all.â
Alessandro let out a quiet breathânot quite a laugh, but something close. âFlattered isnât the word Iâd use.â He reached for a thin metal tool, carefully pressing it along the seam of the bookâs spine, his touch almost reverent. âBut if it keeps you from hovering like an ill-omen, Iâll allow it.â
She arched her brow. âI thought you liked ghosts.â
âI tolerate them,â he corrected. âI donât encourage them.â
Something in the way he said it made her wonder if he was speaking of more than just ghosts.
Lune hesitated, then let her curiosity take hold. She stepped closer, peering at the tools spread across the tableâfine brushes, a bone folder, a pot of glue thickened with age. The book beneath his hands was old, its cover peeling, its pages clinging to each other like leaves left too long in the damp.
She glanced at him. âYouâre repairing it?â
Alessandro nodded, his ink-stained fingers gliding along the fragile paper. âTrying to,â he said. âItâs older than anyone in this town, and not particularly cooperative.â
Luneâs lips quirked. âMuch like its caretaker?â
He paused, fingers stilling for just a fraction of a second before he huffed softly through his nose. âClever,â he murmured. âIâll have to watch out for you.â
It wasnât a threat, nor was it a warning. Just an observation, dry and vaguely amused.
She allowed herself a small, triumphant smile before nodding toward the book. âWhatâs so important about that one?â
Alessandro tapped a finger against the brittle spine. âItâs a record of the townâs oldest laws. Some of them still stand. Others⊠not so much.â His tone was even, but there was something in itâa trace of something unreadable beneath the surface. âI like to know what came before.â
Lune studied him, her own curiosity sparking. âAnd do you prefer the past to the present?â
For the first time, he looked at her fully, his dark gaze settling on her with quiet weight. âThe past already happened,â he said, voice low. âIt doesnât ask for anything.â
Lune wasnât sure why that answer unsettled her.
The library creaked around them, the wooden beams shifting with the nightâs cold. She glanced at the towering shelves, at the books resting in the shadowsâforgotten, waiting, lingering.
âYou donât seem like someone who likes being disturbed,â she said finally.
Alessandro exhaled, turning back to his work. âI donât.â
âAnd yet you havenât sent me away.â
His lips quirked, just barely. âNot yet.â
Lune considered that, then pulled out the empty chair across from him and sat down.
If he was surprised, he didnât show it. But the corner of his mouth twitched just slightly, as if conceding a silent challenge. The oil lamp flickered between them, casting long shadows along the table.
Alessandro turned another page, careful and unhurried. âYouâre either very brave,â he murmured, âor very foolish.â
Lune folded her hands in her lap. âA nun canât be foolish.â
His eyes flickered with something sharp, something knowing. âA nun,â he said, âshouldnât be here at all.â
And yet, neither of them moved.
The silence between them stretched, filled only by the quiet scrape of Alessandroâs tool along the bookâs brittle spine. The library, vast and hollow, seemed to shrink in around them, folding them into the dim glow of the oil lamp.
Lune held his gaze, unflinching. âI like books,â she said simply.
Alessandroâs fingers paused for a fraction of a second before continuing their careful work. âPlenty of books upstairs,â he murmured. âOnes that donât smell like decay and regret.â
Luneâs lips twitched. âAnd yet, you spend your time here.â
That earned her a glanceâbrief but assessing. âSomeone has to keep them from crumbling to dust.â He smoothed the paste along the frayed edges of the spine, his touch almost reverent. âOr did you think knowledge preserves itself?â
Lune considered that. âSome would say there are things better left forgotten.â
Alessandro hummed, a low, unimpressed sound. âThatâs what people say when theyâre afraid of remembering.â
She shifted slightly in her seat, unsure why his words unsettled her. Perhaps because they were spoken with such quiet certainty, as if he had seen the truth of them play out time and time again.
âYou sound like someone who doesnât forget easily,â she observed.
He didnât answer immediately. Instead, he carefully turned a fragile page, his ink-stained fingers pressing it flat with an almost excessive gentleness.
Then, finallyââForgetting is convenient. Iâve never cared much for convenience.â
Lune studied him, this man who sat cloaked in shadow and ink, who seemed more a part of the library than any book lining its shelves. He did not speak like the clergy, nor did he carry himself like the scholars who occasionally wandered through. He was something elseâsomething quiet and knowing, something worn at the edges but still standing.
âI think,â she said slowly, âyou are not at all what I expected to find down here.â
Alessandro huffed softly. âLikewise.â
Silence again. But this time, it felt less like an end and more like something waiting to be unraveled.
At last, he set his brush aside and leaned back slightly, as if considering her for the first time. âSince youâre determined to linger, you might as well make yourself useful.â
Lune arched her brow. âIs that an invitation?â
He smirkedâa small, fleeting thing, but it was there. âItâs a test.â
She tilted her head. âAnd if I fail?â
Alessandro gestured vaguely to the shelves around them. âThen the ghosts will have another lost soul to keep them company.â
Lune exhaled, shaking her head as she reached for the book he slid toward her.
He was being humorous, she knew, and she wasnât sure if it was foolishness or something else entirely, but she did not mind the thought of staying.
. . .
She should not have stayed as long as she did. The thought followed her as she made her way toward the exit, the vast silence of the library pressing at her back like a held breath. Alessandro had not tried to stop her. He had merely watched as she pushed back the chair, gathered herself, and slipped away without another word. No farewell, no acknowledgmentâjust the flicker of oil-light over his face as he returned to his work. Lune exhaled as she stepped beyond the heavy doors and into the night. The cold was sharp against her skin, chasing away the musty warmth of the library. She pulled her habit tighter around her shoulders, her breath curling in the air before her. Unease stirred in her chest, twining with something quieter, something she did not have a name for. It was not fearâno, fear would have sent her running the moment she heard Alessandroâs voice. It was something else. A feeling like standing at the edge of something vast and unknowable, staring down into it, unsure whether she wished to step forward or turn away entirely.
A strange sort of satisfaction settled beneath her ribs. He had not dismissed her like the others. He had not treated her like she did not belong. If anything, Alessandro had looked at her and seen her as something worth testing. Something intelligent. The thought unsettled her as much as it pleased her.
She walked quickly, the hush of the library still clinging to her, even as the distant chime of the monastery bells reminded her of the world waiting beyond the books and the ghosts and the ink-stained hands. Tomorrow, she told herselfâtomorrow, she would not return.
And yet, even as she disappeared into the night, she knew it for the lie that it was.