“It wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t have been there. It turned out fine.”

Zaira flashed her teeth at him. “We didn’t even have to set anyone on fire, more’s the pity.”

“Thank the Graces you’re safe.” His arms folded around my shoulders in a swift, fierce hug. Surprise locked every muscle in my body, brittle as glass, but all I wanted was to melt into his chest and forget everything that had happened tonight.

Zaira cleared her throat. “I’ll go get a wet cloth. All you did was smear the blood around.”

She left. I became painfully, achingly aware we were alone.

Marcello started to release me. But I wrapped my arms around his waist, holding him there. With infinite care, as if I could shatter us both, I laid my head on his shoulder.

I was all but nuzzling his neck. Grace of Love, he smelled good.

His arms settled back into place, shaping themselves to me this time with gentle warmth. “You’re really all right,” he breathed.

I could lift my mouth to his. It was only the space of a few inches. I could take this terrible day, this miserable situation, and put something good and wonderful in it. I could let my guard down, for once, and not be alone in my jeweled box of a world.

Marcello stroked my hair, his fingers tangling in the curls Beatrix had pressed in for the party. “Why did the Graces make you a Cornaro?” he whispered.

The weight of my name settled over me like a stifling fur cloak. I stepped back, not quite out of his arms, but putting space between us. “So we could save Ardence.”

Glass clinked. We moved apart as Beatrix set a tray of drinks down on a gold-inlaid table, her eyes averted. She bobbed a quick curtsy and fled the room, passing Zaira on her way in.

“Time’s up, lovebirds,” Zaira called. She flung a cloth at me without warning; it smacked cold and wet into my face.

Marcello muttered something into his drink about not being lovebirds. I perched at the edge of a divan and worked on wiping the blood off, glad to bury my face behind the cloth for a moment. Zaira snatched up a glass from the wine tray and dropped into a chair, snickering.

Marcello settled as well, with a deep, steadying breath. “Do you have any idea who tried to kidnap you?”

“The Owl,” I remembered.

“Who?” Marcello asked blankly.

“Oh, come on, that joke’s too easy,” Zaira protested. Then she sat up straight as if a mouse had bitten her. “Wait! An owl! I know I saw an owl.”

“An owl?” I certainly didn’t recall seeing one.

From her sleeve, Zaira procured a sealed letter. “There! When Mister Boring and Rude Host kicked us out so he could have his little secret meeting with you, I stole his mail.”