She looked forward to her wedding night with Andrew
Cobalt as she never had with her first husband.

Aria sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. Uncut
since before her first marriage, it fell to the floor in
a rich, satiny river the color of oak wood. Andrew came
in silently, without the train of revelers customarily
accompanying a bridegroom, but she saw him in the mirror.

She thought of him as young, though he was only so by
comparison. Gray frosted his thick black hair. His
whippet-thin body was a scholar’s, but kept fit by
frequent exercise. His open collar revealed a tanned
chest, rippled with patterns of muscle.

She turned to greet him. “Good night, Andrew.”

“Good night, Berengaria.”

“Please, call me Aria. Berengaria is a long-dead queen.”

A tight smile crossed his face as he went to the bed. He
lay down, opening his collar further—idly, for his own
comfort. He waited, neither summoning nor inviting her.
He knew she would come.

Aria put down her brush and said, idly, “This is a lovely
house.”

“Purchased from a recluse, or perhaps his executors. It
has been well-kept, and the solitude may be welcome.”
Wiry fingers traced the embroidery on her pillows. “Does
it please you, Aria?” A slight hesitation before he said
the name, but his fingers never stopped stroking, petting
insensate silk.

She rose and came to him. “It does,” she said.

Andrew undressed, pulling the shirt over his head before
she could reach for it. This bared more of the compactly
powerful build she’d glimpsed—along with, in a jagged
line across his lower ribs, a silver scar.

Aria traced it, raising shivers, until he captured her
hand. “That was a long time ago,” he said.

She looked into his eyes—dark, and with a gleam like new
ice over deep water. “And now…?”

He bent forward to kiss her and reached for the hem of
her nightgown.

His feet made scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he
shuffled from the small galley kitchen back into what
served as his living room. The church provided meager
lodgings, but free was better rent than many paid, and he
did not require much room. He had managed to save most of
his salary over the years and looked forward to retiring
to a warmer clime, perhaps near an ocean where he could
afford a large house and a maid to clean it.

The television cast shadows along the walls and ceiling.
No other light shined, not even a candle. John liked it
dark at night, after being under the bright fluorescents
of the church office all day. Even the stained-glass
windows tourists gasped over grew tiresome after long
enough, the sun making the red glass stab his eyes like
knives, causing terrible headaches.

At first, he thought the dark shape in his reclining
chair was a shadow. It had to be a shadow. Then, it
spoke. “Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

“Who are you? How dare you? What do you want? Get out!”
John shouted, blurting every thought in his head in his
panic.

The man did not move. “Please, sit,” he said, pointing
toward the small chintz-covered chair John reserved for
his rare guests.

It was the Englishman, the one who had disappeared from
the confessional. The one John had thought of several
times since the incident. The one he’d dreamed of, much
to his dismay.

“You must leave at once or I shall call the police,” John
said. It never served to let anyone see your fears, or
know your weaknesses. But, he had grown old, and it was
harder than it once was to hide behind the mask of
priesthood, especially here in his ratty old robe and
dirty slippers. He shifted from one foot to the other,
alarmed to find his hand shaking as he tried to point
commandingly to the door.

“You will do no such thing,” the man told him in a voice
so deep, and so genuinely commanding, it caused John to
stand up straighter, a frisson of energy crackling down
his spine. “Sit. We have much to discuss, you and I.”

John did as asked, his voice fainter as he offered one
last protest. “You’ve no right to be in my private
chambers.” Clamping his mouth closed, he swallowed
thoughts about making an appointment, about the lateness
of the hour, about custom and ritual, about the church.
The strange man’s posture, tone, and very presence told
him he’d have none of it.

Wearing a dark suit, white collar and black tie, his
shoes shined so that John saw reflections from the
television, the man looked like an attorney, or an
undertaker. His features, even masked in half shadow,
were arresting. Strong, angular jawbones met to form a
firm, wide chin; long blade-like nose and lips managed to
be sensual though they were thin.

“You’ve dreamed of me,” the man said. His expression held
no animosity, yet his brown eyes glittered with fierce
intensity.

A ripple of fear coursed through John’s middle. It would
do no good to lie. “Yes.”