The memory comes unbidden and unrelenting, breaking through the walls Raffaele has put around his heart since Enzo’s death and resurrection. He is no longer tending to the prince’s wounds but standing, waiting, frightened in his bedchamber at the Fortunata Court years ago, looking out at a sea of masked people.
It seemed as if the entire city had turned out for Raffaele’s debut. Noblemen and noblewomen, their robes of Tamouran silks and Kenettran lace, fanned out across the room, their faces all partially hidden behind colorful half masks, their laughter mingling with the sounds of clinking glass and shuffling slippers. Other consorts moved amongst them, silent and graceful, serving drinks and dishes of iced grapes.
Raffaele stood in the center of the room, a demure youth dressed and groomed to the height of perfection, his hair a curtain of dark satin, his gold-and-white robes flowing, black powder lining the rims of his jewel-toned eyes, staring out at a sea of curious bidders. He remembers how his hands trembled, how he’d pressed one against the other to steady them. He had been trained in the types of expressions to allow on his face, a thousand different subtleties of the lips and brows and cheeks and eyes, regardless of whether they reflected his actual emotions. So, in this moment, his expression had been one of serene calm, of shy allure and gentle joy, silent as snow, absent of his fear.
Now and then, the energy seemed to shift in the room. Raffaele turned his head mechanically in its direction, unsure of what he was sensing. He thought at first that perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him—until he realized that the energy focused on a young stranger gliding between the crowds. Raffaele’s eyes followed him, mesmerized by the power that seemed to travel in his wake.
The bidding started high and spiraled higher. It soared until Raffaele could no longer make out the numbers, the sights and sounds around him beginning to blur. Other consorts whispered to one another in the audience. He had never heard such amounts tossed back and forth at an auction before, and the strangeness of it all made his heart pound faster, his hands shake harder. At this rate, he could never live up to the winner’s payment.
And then, as the bidding began to trickle down to a few—a young manservant hidden in the crowd doubled the highest offer.
Raffaele’s calm expression wavered for the first time as murmurs rippled through the room. The madam called again for an offer to top it, but none did. Raffaele stood in the silence, willing himself to remain still as the manservant won the auction.
That evening, Raffaele lit a few candles with unsteady hands and then sat alone on the edge of his bed. The blankets were silken, trimmed with gold thread and lace, and the scent of night lilies lingered in the air. The minutes dragged on. He listened for the sound of footsteps approaching his chambers and repeated to himself lessons that older consorts had given him over the years.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard the sound he had been waiting for in the hall outside. Moments later, there was a soft knock on the door.
It will be all right, Raffaele whispered, unsure of the truth of these words. He got up and raised his voice. “Come in, please.”
A maid pushed the door open. Behind her, a masked young man walked into his chambers with the grace of a seasoned predator. The door closed behind him, right as he reached up to remove the mask from his face.
Raffaele’s eyes widened in surprise. This was the same stranger he’d noticed in the crowd. He realized, embarrassed, that the stranger was quite handsome—dark curls of hair tied back into a low tail, long black lashes framing his eyes, scarlet slashes in his irises. He stood tall, and he did not smile. The energy Raffaele had sensed during the bidding now enveloped the stranger in layers. Fire. Flames. Ambition. Raffaele flushed. He knew he should be inviting the stranger to come closer, to sit on the bed. But, in this moment, he couldn’t think.
The young man stepped forward. When he stopped before Raffaele, he folded his hands behind his back and nodded once. Raffaele felt the energy shift again, beckoning at him, and he couldn’t help but return the stranger’s gaze. Raffaele forced himself to give the young man a smile, one he had been trained to give for years.
The stranger spoke first. “You noticed me in the crowd,” he said. “I saw your eyes following me around the room. Why is that?”
“I suppose I was drawn to you,” Raffaele replied, turning his eyes down and letting the heat rise to his cheeks again. “What is your name, sir?”
“Enzo Valenciano.” The stranger’s voice was soft and deep, silk hiding steel.
Raffaele’s eyes shot back up to him. Enzo Valenciano. Was that not the name of the disgraced prince of Kenettra? Only now, in the dim light of the chamber, did Raffaele realize that the boy’s hair glinted with a hint of deep red, so deep it looked black. A marking.
The former crown prince.
“Your Highness?” Raffaele whispered, so startled that he didn’t think to bow again.
The young man nodded. “And I’m afraid I have no intention of fulfilling your debut night.”
The scene evaporates as a knock sounds on the door. Raffaele and Enzo look over at it in unison and Raffaele lets out a long breath, pushing the memory to the back of his mind as he puts down the bandages. “Yes?” he calls out.
“Raffaele?” a timid voice answers. “It’s me.”
He folds his hands into his sleeves. “Come in.”
The door opens, and Violetta steps hesitantly inside. Her eyes first meet Raffaele’s, then dart to where Enzo sits with his elbows leaning against his knees. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says. “Raffaele, something strange is happening down by the shore. I thought you might want to have a look.”
Raffaele listens with a frown. So, Violetta has sensed something ominous as well. She looks pale tonight, her olive skin ashen, her full lips pulled into a tight line, hair secured behind a Tamouran wrap. She had found the Daggers with her power almost a year ago, all on her own. It’d taken her a week to find the words to tell Raffaele what had happened between her and her sister, then another week still before she begged them through her tears to find a way to help Adelina. Since then, she has stayed at Raffaele’s side, working with him as he tested her alignments and taught her how to concentrate her ability to sense others’ energy. She was a good student. A fantastic student.
She reminds him so much of Adelina. If he let himself, Raffaele could imagine that he was staring at a younger version of the Queen of the Sealands, before she turned her back. Before she was beyond help. The thought always saddened him. It is my fault, what Adelina has become. My fault that it is too late.
Raffaele nods at Violetta. “I’ll come in a moment. Wait for me outside.”
As Violetta retreats to the hallway, he finishes bandaging Enzo’s arms, then rubs his own neck in exhaustion. Too many nights in a row he’s spent like this, weeks that stretched into months, all trying in vain to repair Enzo’s wounds. But every time they began to heal, they would worsen again. “Try to sleep,” Raffaele tells him.
Enzo doesn’t respond. His face is drawn, pale from the pain. He is both here and not.