Page 91 of Fiorenzo

The impresario bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself—Nascimbene, at your service. I am impresario of the Teatro Novissimo. Our host informs me you wish to acquaint your companion with like-minded society. If it would not intrude on your designs, then perhaps…” He turned to Fiore, just visible over Enzo’s shoulder. A smile one might mistake for sincere admiration spread across his lips. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Enzo opened his mouth to inform Nascimbene—politely, but nonetheless firmly—that they were just about to withdraw from the ball and couldn’t possibly accommodate his desires.

Fiore got there first. He mirrored Nascimbene’s smile.

And to Enzo’s horror, replied, “Of course.”

~

Fiore’s heart throbbed in his throat.

Bad enough to have the visage that haunted his nightmares smiling at him. It didn’t help that he could feel Enzo staring down at him in utter confusion.

Fiore willed Enzo to understand. Bad enough if they should run out of the party after merely brushing past the impresario. Far worse if they vanished into the night immediately after he introduced himself. The connexion between Fiore and the impresario could not go unnoticed then. If, however, he indulged Nascimbene in a single dance—gave him a taste of what he wanted without leaving him wanting more—then perhaps they might escape without drawing undue attention.

He feared his resolve would break if he met Enzo’s gaze for too long. So with a smile he perched on his toes and whispered directly into Enzo’s ear.

“I’ll be fine,” Fiore said, working double to sound as unconcerned as he needed Enzo to feel. “Go find Carlotta. The dance will be done by the time you return.”

It was hard to gauge the effect of his words when he withdrew. The bauta mask covered all. But it couldn’t disguise the hesitant gesture before Enzo relented with a bow and swept off.

Leaving Fiore alone with his worst nightmare.

Nascimbene smiled and proffered his arm.

Fiore didn’t know whether to feel grateful Enzo had listened or disappointed he hadn’t put his heel down and dragged him away from all this. He pasted on his prettiest smile regardless and twined his arm into Nascimbene’s snare. From the warmth and refuge of Enzo’s company into the icy terror of the impresario’s embrace—and he had only himself to blame.

“Shall I lead?” Nascimbene enquired when they reached the dance floor.

Fiore hadn’t expected him to bother asking. Still, he knew the correct answer. “As you like.”

Nascimbene’s hands arranged themselves on Fiore’s shoulder and waist.

Fiore thrust his brain forward to an hour when Enzo could carve the lingering sensation of the impresario’s touch from his flesh.

The dance began.

On a purely technical level, Nascimbene was a very good dancer. Fiore supposed he ought to have expected as much given the man’s profession and the arrangements he’d made to educate Fiore and the other sacrificial bellwethers in that particular art. He wondered if the impresario could recognize him through his dance form. If he did, he gave no sign of it in his face or manner.

They danced in silence for more than half the song, until—

“Are you enjoying the ball?” Nascimbene asked.

“Yes, Maestr—” Fiore cut himself off. Years of referring to Nascimbene as such had overwhelmed his better sense and forced his tongue into rote recitation of the man’s title. Over the thunderous peal of his pulse in his ears, he told himself no one would notice the slip. Nascimbene was still a maestro, after all; just over the entire opera now rather than merely the flock of boys training toward their own demise.

Nascimbene smiled. “Please, call me Lotario. And what might I call you?”

Fiore felt an urge to bite out the man’s tongue. Nascimbene offering up his own name meant nothing. He’d done it only to demand the same from Fiore, without snatching it from him outright, because reciprocity forced Fiore to give him his own in turn. Or, Fiore thought desperately, give him something else. Not his own name, necessarily. Just enough to keep the conversation flowing. A lie would suffice. If only he could think. The first name which came to mind—Enzo—wouldn’t do for obvious reasons. There remained but one other name near enough to his heart for him to recall whilst his mind ran blank.

“Elio,” said Fiore.

The resulting silence couldn’t have lasted more than a fraction of a single heartbeat. It seemed to stretch on into eternity. Nascimbene blinked. For a moment, Fiore thought he might recognize the name. Recognize the reminder of his own sins. Recognize the name of the boy he may as well have murdered with his own bare hands.

But then Nascimbene smiled again. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Elio. You’ve probably heard so a hundred times over. But forgive me—there is something familiar in your face. Have we met before?”

Fiore’s heart froze. He couldn’t prevent himself from blurting, in a voice no one could mistake for coy flirtation, “No.”

Nascimbene raised his brows. “Then it must be just that your face matches what my heart has long desired.” He smiled on as he added, “Perhaps I’ve seen it in my dreams.”