Caraval (Caraval, #1)(27)

Being cornered by a young man like this, in a dimly lit hall, ought to have made her uncomfortable, but his expression was concerned rather than predatory.

“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I’m sure you had a good reason for sleeping out here, but I don’t think you should stay. I’m in room number eleven. You can sleep there.”

From the way he said it, Scarlett was fairly certain he didn’t intend to stay in the room with her—unlike another young man she knew—yet Scarlett was so used to hidden danger, she couldn’t help but hesitate.

She studied him again in the lamplight, eyes falling on the black rose that inked the backside of his hand, elegant and lovely and a little bit sorrowful. Scarlett didn’t know why, but she felt as if that tattoo somehow defined him. The elegant and lovely part might have scared her away—she had learned that this too often disguised other things—but the sad part drew her in. “Where will you sleep?”

“My sister’s room.” He nodded to the girl at his side. “There are two beds in her suite. She doesn’t need them both.”

“Yes I do,” said the girl, and although Scarlett still couldn’t see her clearly, she swore the girl looked Scarlett over with disgust.

“Don’t be rude,” said the young man. “I insist,” he added, before Scarlett could protest again. “If my mother found out I let a shivering young lady sleep on the floor, she would disown me, and I wouldn’t blame her.” He held out an inked hand to help Scarlett up. “I’m Dante, by the way, and this is my sister, Valentina.”

“Scarlett, and thank you.” She spoke tentatively, still surprised he wanted nothing in return. “This is very generous of you.”

“I think you’re giving me too much credit.” Dante held Scarlett’s hand a beat longer. Briefly his dark eyes traveled below her neck, and she swore his cheeks pinked, but he brought his gaze back up before it could make her uncomfortable. “I glimpsed you from the tavern earlier, but it looked as if you were with someone else?”

“Oh, I—” Scarlett hesitated. She knew what he was asking. But she couldn’t discern if Dante’s curiosity was because of the game, or something that involved actual interest in her. All she knew was that the steady way Dante gazed at her warmed up the chilly parts of her limbs, and she imagined if Julian were in the hall with a pretty girl, he’d not claim Scarlett as his fiancée.

“So, you’d be free to meet me at nightfall for dinner?” he asked.

Valentina groaned.

“Shut it,” said Dante. “Please ignore my sister; she had too much to drink tonight. It makes her a little more unlikable than usual. I promise, if you meet me for dinner, she will not be coming along.” He continued to smile at Scarlett, the way Scarlett always hoped a boy would, as if he wasn’t just attracted to her, but he wanted to protect and take care of her. Dante’s eyes stayed on her as if he couldn’t turn away.

The count will look at me the same way, Scarlett assured herself. For although she wasn’t truly involved with Julian, she was still engaged, and behaving otherwise was dangerous. “I’m sorry. I—can’t. I—”

“It’s all right,” Dante interrupted quickly. “You don’t have to explain.” He smiled again, wider but not nearly as sincere. Silently he walked her to his room before handing her an onyx key.

For a tense moment they both lingered near the door—narrow and pointed. Scarlett feared that despite his word Dante was going to try to go inside with her. But he merely waited for her to make sure the key worked before whispering, “Sleep well.”

Scarlett started to say good-bye, but she broke off as she entered the room. An oil lamp sat on the short wardrobe, illuminating the mirror above it. Even in the dim, Scarlett’s image was clear. Dark hair fell past shoulders barely covered in thin ruffles of gauzy white fabric.

She gasped. The evil gown had transformed again, turning sheer and lacy and far too scandalous to be worn in a public hall or while talking to a strange young man.

Scarlett slammed the door without finishing her good-bye. No wonder Dante had been unable to take his eyes off her.

*

Scarlett did not dream well.

As she slumbered, she dreamed of Legend. She was back in the gilded balcony, wearing little more than an exposed black corset with a red petticoat and trying to cover up with the curtains.

“What are you doing?” Legend swaggered in, sporting his signature blue velvet top hat and a gaze full of wayward intent.

“I was just trying to watch the game.” Scarlett wrapped herself deeper into the curtains, but Legend pulled her away. His hand was as cold as snow, his youthful face concealed by a shadow.

Frost nipped Scarlett’s naked shoulders.

Legend laughed and wrapped both hands around her waist. “I didn’t invite you here to watch, precious.” His mouth moved closer to hers, as if he was about to kiss her. “I want you to play the game,” he whispered.

Then he threw her off the balcony.





NIGHT ONE OF CARAVAL





13

Scarlett woke up covered in cold sweat. It drenched her hairline and the space underneath her knees.

She knew it was only a dream, but for a moment she wondered if the magic of Caraval—if Legend’s magic—had somehow sneaked into her thoughts.