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Before I got the chance to answer, a match was lit, and the warm glow of a beeswax candlestick sprang forth. Although the lighting was dim, I could discern a figure amongst the shadows.

Duca de’ Medici was sitting in a wingback chair, his head resting against the top rail, his arms spread wide along the wings. Despite the awkwardness of the pose, he looked utterly at peace, practically as though he were sleeping. Or maybe, given the formality and the archaic nature of his outfit—canvas trousers held high at his waist by suspenders atop a white button-down shirt—I was staring into a massive open coffin.

“Sit, please.” The man gestured with a wave of his hand to the chair opposite him.

As I sat, his white lashes fluttered open. The quick movement of his pale, ruby eyes struck me as strangely lupine. He stared at me with his head at a peculiar angle. Even from the corners of his eyes, I saw him watching my every movement.

In a sudden yet fluid motion, he uncrossed his legs and shifted toward me.

Seeing Duca de' Medici’s slender body, it was hard to believe the stories in my textbooks of vampires overtaking entire villages in their search for blood. And yet, with those elegant, calculated mannerisms, it was easy to understand how they had maintained power in the church and kingdoms for hundreds of years. Per my thorough research on this Medici before me, I would argue the link was rather direct—if you included bastards, that was.

Duca de’ Medici bore no small resemblance to the art commissioned by his illustrious forefathers. He had the same thin Roman nose of Michaelangelo’sDavid, the same prominent Cupid’s bow as Donatello’s counterpart, and the same heavy brow as the statues on the chapels of his relatives. Like those statues, he was depigmented compared to his Italian brethren. If memory served, oculocutaneous albinism type 1A was the exact mutation commonly associated with vampirism.

He ran a porcelain hand through pale blond hair.

“So,” I said, wringing my hands. “You must be Duca de' Medici.”

“Please,” he said, resting his head back onto the wing chair with a tone of disdain. “Zeno. Or, if you must use a title, just Duca.”

Where I was from, plenty of people shed their given names. I had done so myself. But here, in the realm of titles and nobility, it felt odd to do so. I scoured my brain to come up with an explanation, but was unsuccessful.

Another huff from the vampire prompted me to reply, “Which do you prefer?”

He closed his eyes again with a sigh and replied, in a thoroughly exasperated tone, “I don’t.”

This time, I allowed the silence to linger. Strangely, it was the act of doing nothing that changed everything in the vampire. He leaned forward with an acutely interested gaze and gingerly lifted the needle from the gramophone.

“Pardon my manners,” Duca de’ Medici said once the record stopped spinning. “Your name is?”

It took me a moment to reply, for the candlelight had glinted off of a pearly fang. I hadn’t ever seen one in person before now. “Um . . . Cora. Cora Bowling.”

“Signorina Cora Bowling.” He spoke my name slowly, enunciating every syllable. When his eyes flickered to me and he said nothing more, I realized he was commanding me to speak.

I nodded and gestured to the now-motionless record player. “Was that Tchaikovsky?”

“Not a terrible guess, actually,” he replied, popping a chocolate truffle into his mouth from a tray on the coffee table. “Rachmaninoff,Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, Opus 43, Variation 18. You can tell it’s him because of the wide chords and use of ‘Dies Irae.’”

Not a terrible guess, actually.I held back a sneer. What a pompous ass.

Duca de’ Medici nudged the tray of chocolates closer to me after carefully selecting another one for himself. “They’re raspberry flavored,” he noted.

“I should make more ‘not terrible' guesses in the future, if this is what I get,” I said without thinking.

He didn’t laugh, or scowl, or make much of a response at all. I stuffed a truffle in my mouth, then another, trying to bury the lump in my throat.Positive thinking, Cora.Another truffle down the gullet.I guess if I fail this interview now, at least I’ve tried these damn good chocolates.

“Which composers do you listen to?”

I jumped when he spoke—not that having been mentally present would have made answering much easier. I chewed my cheek for a bit. His gaze remained steady on me.

“Not very many,” I finally replied. “Pretty much just Vivaldi.”

He frowned and said, “I like more recent composers than that—like Chopin—because you can hear recordings of them performing the works.”

“I think it’s nice to hear subjective interpretations.”

Duca de’ Medici scoffed again and folded his arms. “Why wouldn’t you want to hear the songs being played as they were truly meant to be heard? Does that not defeat the purpose?”

“But isn’t it fascinating that someone heard something in their head, transcribed it, and then someone lifetimes away tried to hear it again?”