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“Who is looking for me?”

“Mr. Lirael is here to speak with you.”

I prop myself up on my elbows. “Elijah?”

“Yes, Viscount.”

I slide out of bed slowly. Étienne moves closer to support me, but I raise a hand, stopping him.

“Tell him I am coming. I will manage here.”

He bows respectfully and withdraws. I lean my hands on the dark wood cabinet and meet my reflection in the mirror. A sigh of disappointment leaves my lips.

When I enter the small sitting room, I find Elijah already settled on the sofa, legs elegantly crossed, his profile motionless. Long golden-blonde curls frame his face as he sips his tea.

“Hello, Elijah.”

He barely looks up. “Viscount Evander.”

“To what do I owe the honor?”

I sit across from him.

He sets the cup on the saucer, displeased. “Insipid. Don’t you think?”

“I agree. Don’t drink it.”

“Your friend here,” he points to Étienne, “brought it to me.”

I turn just enough to catch the tense gaze of my valet.

“He does not know your tastes. Forgive him.”

“You look terrible.”

A laugh escapes me, if it can even be called that.

“Is that why you came? To assess my appearance?”

Instead, he opens the folder beside him and pulls out several sheets.

I lean forward to take them.

“Verdi... Donizetti... Gounod, Wagner.”

Lifting my gaze, I find his eyes fixed on me.

“They are compositions suited for voice, cello, and piano,” he says. “Do they seem appropriate to you?”

“Yes, certainly. It is something that can be done.” I lift the score. “Why show them to me?”

He leans forward slightly, closing the distance. “Have you no news from Lavinia?”

“Mademoiselle Duprés, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

He picks up a silver plate with his fingertips.