Something in Matteo’s bedroom changed, as if the air shimmered differently around him. Hair on the back of his neck prickled. A quick look around the room showed nothing different from moments before, but a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He slowed his breathing, softening his own movement, listening. A creak, unfamiliar, fingers sliding along a wall, a thump could be his imagination, so subtle and soft the sound. Behind his wall, another thump turned his head, and a shuffle at the servants’ panel. And then the slow sliding of wood sounded behind him.

His skin crawled with the sensation of eyes watching, but he remained standing at his table, flipping through pages of a book as if nothing were amiss. The soft padding of feet moved closer. He shifted his weight forward to the balls of his feet while the intruder drew nearer behind him. Then he spun, grabbing an unlit candlestick. He swung it furiously in a great arc outward but stopped his arm before it connected with her face. “Éléonore. What are you doing here?” Stumbling from the stopped momentum, he retreated two steps, his breath catching. He ran a hand through his hair.

The corner of her mouth turned up, and she sashayed toward him, wearing a thin chemise. When she was close enough that he could smell the soap she used in her hair, their bodies almost touching, she said, “I missed you. I am alone tonight and wish I weren’t.”

Matteo frowned. “How did you get in here?”

She raised her eyebrows. “The servants’ entrance, of course. Do you think I forgot all our games as youth, running through these halls?” She chuckled a low, throaty laugh. “Oh, Matteo. There is nothing about you that I have forgotten.”

He folded his arms across his broad chest, the muscles tightening.

“You cannot be in here. Come back tomorrow through the front entrance, and fully dressed.” He walked toward his bedroom door, swinging it open. More and more, he regretted his childhood days, running at her side, fishing, climbing trees, the lot of it. She’d grown into a dangerous and powerful woman, and he could not be rid of her.

She pouted. “Don’t send me out. Not yet. It’s Robespierre,” she whispered. “I am afraid.” Her body trembled. “I need you, Matteo. You are my other half, the one my soul longs for.” Reaching for him, she placed a hand on his arm. “He is too much. Too vicious. I am trapped.” Pleading, she stepped closer, pressing herself against him, resting her head on his chest.