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“I wish,” he whispered, tugging his shirt back up in a movement as sharp as his tone, “that you didn’t paint me so many times. Maybe then you wouldn’t have noticed the differences.”

“Why haven’t you—” Some combination of a hiccup and an unwanted sob interrupted my sentence. I wiped my face roughly with my sleeve. After anotherhic, I tried again. “Why haven’t you drank from me?”

Zeno finally gave me a sideways glance, and there was nothing in his eyes but distant defeat.

“I can’t,” he replied in a soft yet certain tone. “I can’t hurt you, not even that small amount. Not anymore.”

“But I’m your—“

“You’re so much more than just mybeniamina, Cora. I will figure things out soon. I can get blood. Iwillget blood.”

Ice ran through me. I remembered the photograph of the man in the suit, with his throat torn open. Even if that wasn’t Zeno’s doing, it was easy enough to gather blood from corpses. I knew the answer to the next question, but I asked it anyway. “Are you . . . going to go to the hospital to get transfusions, then?”

Silence. Dead silence. I put a hand on his shoulder and implored him with my eyes. He finally acquiesced and answered, “The whole blood transfusions I require take two to four hours on average. I don’t have that sort of time, especially not to leave you alone. Not until I find them. Not until I can ensure your safety.”

Basilio and Vincenzo and the entire Medici army versus the two of us were odds I wasn’t fond of. Especially not when Zeno was visibly falling apart. I bit my lip, furrowed my brow, and made a big show of grappling with inner turmoil. Then I gazed into his eyes, communicating as much trust as I could with them.

“I’ll wait until then, Zeno,” I lied with a smile. “No matter how long.”

“Of course,mia passerotta,” he whispered, cupping my face in his hand, eyes full of adoration and resolve. “I have no intention of conceding.”

That’s the problem,I thought as I pressed my lips to his and entangled my fingers in his hair.That’s why I have to act on my own.

Chapter 43: Rubato

It had only been a few days since I’d confronted him, but every minute had been excruciating.

I opened my eyes slowly, having relied on nothing but the slowing rhythm of Zeno’s breathing to inform me when it was safe to do so. The room was lit by a single lantern in the far corner of the room, and with such little visual acuity, it would have been easy to pretend that things were normal. Zeno was snoring softly, crickets were chirping, and the bed was still warm. But I knew if I tore the blanket off and brightened that little lantern, I would see a body mottled with yellows and greens.

For the dozenth time, I considered rolling back over, drifting off into sleep, and trusting that somehow, everything would get better. That a letter would show up in the mail saying,Hey Zeno! This is Basilio. We’re going to leave you alone forever,and Zeno would actually believe it. But we had waited for weeks, and while the danger continued to escalate, Zeno continued to deteriorate.

I moved across the bed, featherlight, and crept outside the room. I had prepared for these next three minutes over the last three days.

Three days ago, I tested every drawer in the kitchen to see which creaked the least and used it to hide my backpack. I peered inside and went through my mental checklist.

I looked in the largest pocket: plenty of food and water, a flashlight, my medications, a first aid kit, my phone (powered off currently, of course) and a phone charger. There was only one final step before departing now.

I placed a pile of neatly folded sun-protective clothing on a table beside the door, and set a note on top:

Zeno,

If I make this note too long, it might seem weird or final, so let me assure you it isn’t. Just think of this like your love letters, because when I see them, they remind me you’ll be back. Similarly, I’ll be back once I’ve figured out this situation. I want us to be able to spend our days safely back at the abbey, and I want you to get healthy again. If you plan to go after me (which we both know you will), please wear the clothes beneath this message, even if it’s still dark out when you find this. I won’t forgive you if you’re careless.

I love you,

Cora.

I had hoped seeing all of these things together would give me some greater sense of preparedness, but it did very little. I swallowed down my anxiety, drew on the heavy backpack, and emerged fromla cantina.

Then, for the first time in months, I left thetrullothrough the front door for more than a few minutes.

Tonight the air was heavy with humidity. The road before me was carved from rugged stone, a smooth and seamless path with streetlights illuminating it as bright as day. Obviously, walking or riding down the main road would likely go poorly, but that meant traversing the rocky, unlit crags.

When I took a cursory step out to see where I was going, the door shut behind me loudly. I couldn’t go back now.

I ducked quickly around thetrulloand out of vision. It was astonishing how after walking only about twenty feet, I could barely see where my feet would fall next. A curtain of light rain sprinkled almost imperceptibly, shrouding my route even further in darkness. I thanked my past self for having scouted the region out earlier that day but still kept one hand on my flashlight if need be. Thetrullowas built on the edge of a plateau, whose flat face sharply tapered to form a steady lip a ways down. There was a single traversable divot between these points, but it was narrow and steep.

Already regretting my decisions, I pushed through bushes of rock roses to begin my descent. The gravel beneath me was loose and crunched beneath my feet. My old sneakers had zero traction, so it wasn’t a matter ofifI fell, but when. I flickered on the flashlight and propped it awkwardly under my chin, as if my arms would actually be of any help when I tumbled.