a glance back at the fireplace, then exits the chamber on silent feet. His robes pull behind him in a sheet of heavy velvet.
The corridors smell stale—centuries of old, damp stone and the ash of ancient torches. Gradually, they lighten until they open up to the summer castle’s gardens. The flowers are dusted with a thin layer of snow that would melt by the time afternoon came. From here, Raffaele can see the castle’s lower grounds and, beyond that, the rocky shores of Beldain. A cool gust numbs his cheeks and whips strands of hair across his face.
His gaze shifts to the main courtyard within the castle’s front gates.
Normally, the space would be quiet at this hour. But today, malfettos fleeing Estenzia litter the grounds, huddled around small fires and under old blankets. Another shipload of malfettos must have just arrived in the night. Raffaele watches the clusters of people move and shift, then turns back inside the castle to head down.
Several malfettos recognize Raffaele as he makes his way out into the main courtyard. Their faces light up. “It’s the Daggers’ leader!” one exclaims.
Other malfettos rush forward, all eager to touch Raffaele’s hands and arms, hoping for a moment of his ability to soothe. It is a daily ritual. Raffaele stands still in the midst of them. So many people, begging for comfort.
His eyes settle on a bald boy quite a bit taller than himself, his hair taken long ago by the fever. Raffaele had seen him waiting yesterday too. He gestures at the boy to step forward. His eyes widen in surprise, and then he rushes to Raffaele’s side.
“Good morning,” he says.
Raffaele looks at him carefully. “Good morning,” he replies.
The boy lowers his voice. He seems nervous now that he has managed to get Raffaele’s attention before anyone else. “Can you come see my sister?” he asks.
“Yes,” Raffaele replies without hesitation.
The bald boy brightens at his answer. Like everyone else, he seems unable to tear his eyes away from Raffaele’s face. He touches the young consort’s arm. “This way,” he says.
Raffaele follows him through the groups of malfettos. A rough, dark mark sprawled all across a forearm. A scarred ear and dark hair peppered with silver. Mismatched eye colors. Raffaele silently memorizes the markings he sees. Whispers erupt wherever he glides past.
They reach his sister. She is huddled in a corner of the courtyard, hiding her face behind a shawl. When she sees Raffaele approach, she makes herself even smaller and lowers her eyes.
The boy leans down to Raffaele as they reach her. “An Inquisitor seized her on the night they broke shop windows in Estenzia,” he murmurs. He bends closer and whispers something in Raffaele’s ear. As Raffaele listens, he studies the girl, noticing a scratch here, a bruise there, black and blue marring the skin of her legs.
When the boy finishes talking, Raffaele nods in understanding. He tucks his robe under his legs and kneels beside her. A wave of her energy washes over him. He winces. Such overwhelming sadness and fear. If Adelina were here, she would use this. He’s very careful not to touch the girl. A few clients had done the same to him in his bedchamber, left him bruised and trembling—the last thing he ever wanted afterward was a hand on his skin.
For a long time, Raffaele sits and says nothing. The girl watches him in silence, transfixed by his face. The tension in her shoulders doesn’t go away. At first, Raffaele senses a wave of resentment and hostility from her at his presence. But he doesn’t look away.
The girl speaks at last. “The Lead Inquisitor is going to enslave us all. That’s what we’ve heard.”
“Yes.”
“They say the Inquisition has set up slave camps around Estenzia.”
“It’s true.”
She seems surprised at his refusal to soften the blow. “They say after they’re done with us, they’re going to kill us all.”
Raffaele is silent. He knows he doesn’t need to say anything in order to give her an answer.
“Are the Daggers going to stop him?”
“The Daggers are going to destroy him,” Raffaele responds. The words sound strange in his gentle voice, like metal slicing through silk. “I will see to it personally.”
The girl’s eyes wander across his face again, taking in his delicate beauty. Raffaele holds a hand out to her and waits patiently. After a while, she extends her own hand. She touches his tentatively, then gasps. Through their contact, Raffaele tugs gently on her heartstrings, sharing in her heartache, soothing and caressing as