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Then she’d listened to her brain. And Ilsi died.

So she’d thrown the rules out the window and picked someone entirely different.

Poor Hugo.

It had been worth a shot.

She could put all their names in a bucket and ask Dea to guide her hand. Or read another dozen historical texts in search of hints that didn’t exist. Maybe rearrange their names to see if she could spell anything fun with the letters.

If only she could extinguish her thoughts like blowing out a candle. Her family used to affectionately joke about her “busy brain” but it wasn’t amusing when her thoughts refused to quiet themselves so she could rest.

She’d heard of people who struggled to sleep because of tingling in their legs, but the restlessness that plagued her nights went deeper than muscles. It was a nagging need, like her skin had shrunk in the wash and would never fit again.

In daytime, she could stay busy enough to ignore it, but when the night grew quiet and still, the clamoring returned.

Movement was her only remedy, so she spent most evenings pacing. Even when she wasn’t especially anxious—rare, but it happened—she’d walk her room for hours. But she’d already been on her feet all night socializing, if one was generous enough to call hours of stilted small talk “socializing,” so she closed her eyes and guided her thoughts to a sandy beach. Hot sand between her toes, waiting for someone special to row back to shore with fresh-caught fish for dinner. The sun, blindingly bright behind a tiny rowboat, erased the rower’s features, but imaginary Alessa knew exactly who it was, and her heart swelled…

Darkness descended, but before she’d fully sunk beneath, she jerked awake.

She couldn’t breathe.

Her eyes snapped open.

Couldn’t see.

Something—someone—had her pinned, trapped, crushing her windpipe. Thrashing, she fought to free herself. Her fingers scrabbled against leather. Hands, encased in thick gloves, tightening around her neck.

She wasn’t strong enough.

Alessa forced her fingers to reach, touching coarse fabric, a hard chest, thick arms—a sliver of bare skin between his collar and some sort of mask over his head.

The man’s grip faltered. She sucked in a desperate breath before he extended his arms to keep his vulnerability out of reach.

“Go easy, will you?” he growled in a coarse whisper as his hands tightened. “I’m trying to be respectful about it. Just let go and it’ll be over soon.”

Stars burst in her vision, colorful flashes in the darkness, like fireworks celebrating her impending death.

Eight

Di buone intenzioni è lastricato l’inferno.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

No.She refused to die like this.

Arching her back, she strained until she caught the man’s collar, yanking it down.

She didn’t need to overpower him. Only one touch.

Her finger pressed into his flesh, and he screamed. The stifling weight vanished, and she heard thrashing over the rasp of her labored breathing. She dragged herself up to sitting as the door flew open.

“I-intruder,” she croaked, pointing a shaky hand. “Attacked me.”

Her eyes adjusted enough to see Lorenzo’s eyes widen as he glanced from her to the man and back. He wasn’t the bravest guard, but at least he was there.

She coughed, wincing as the pain flared brighter.

Lorenzo examined her attacker, his face flickering with thoughts she couldn’t decipher, and one she could—recognition.