Florence stirred beneath a pale morning haze, the sun rising reluctant and thin behind a veil of mist. The bells of Santa Croce had not yet tolled the hour when Esmé stepped into the courtyard behind the glass shop, the earth cool beneath her soles, the scent of dew clinging to stone and rosemary.
She hadn't slept.
Even now, hours later, the image of the shadow on the rooftop lingered in her mind—sharp and vivid as a shard of glass pressed against skin. The eyes, glowing faintly red in the dark, had not been a trick of the moonlight. She was certain of it. And yet…
"Dreams," her father said when she'd mentioned it at breakfast. "You've worked too late, that's all. Stay away from the fumes. They stir visions in tired minds."
He had gone to speak with a client, leaving her to manage the shop alone until midday. Esmé didn't argue. There was no point.
And yet she couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted—something subtle, like the weight of air before a summer storm. The city felt different. Watchful.
She lit the forge out of habit, though she didn't intend to work glass. Instead, she unrolled a sheet of rough parchment and began sketching what she had seen. A figure cloaked in shadow, poised on a rooftop above the lantern-lit street. Eyes not like a man's. Predatory. Knowing.
It couldn't have been Luca di Rosso. Could it?
He had been dressed in finery, surrounded by a noble procession. What would he be doing leaping across rooftops like a thief in the dead of night?
But she had seen him look at her. No—not look. See. Through her. Into her. As if he'd read the questions forming in her mind before she could speak them.
She pressed her charcoal harder, deepening the outline of the figure on the parchment.
"Curiosity killed the saint, you know."
Esmé turned sharply to find Fiora leaning in the doorway, arms full of fabric swatches and gossip.
"You mean 'curiosity killed the cat,'" Esmé said, covering the drawing quickly.
"No. I mean Saint Vellia. She was burned in Venice for asking too many questions," Fiora said brightly. "And possibly for falling in love with a magician. The story changes depending on the region."
Esmé smirked despite herself. "You sound like a bookseller."
"I was one, briefly. For two days. Then the owner realized I couldn't stop rearranging everything by color." Fiora stepped inside and dropped her armful onto the nearest workbench. "Speaking of dangerous love stories—guess who's been invited to the Palazzo Rosso this week?"
Esmé arched a brow.
"Me, obviously," Fiora said, grinning. "The Lady di Rosso saw one of my gowns on her niece and sent for me. I nearly fainted when the letter arrived. Think of it—me, in their hall. Real chandeliers. Musicians who tune their lutes."
Esmé crossed her arms. "Are you going for the music, or for a glimpse of Luca?"
Fiora's eyes sparkled. "Can't I enjoy both?"
Esmé hesitated. She wanted to laugh. To tease. But the shadow of last night still hung over her.
"Have you ever heard rumors about him?" she asked, voice low.
Fiora blinked. "Besides the usual? That he's twice engaged and twice bereaved? That he doesn't age, never eats at banquets, and was once seen walking the same street three nights in a row wearing the exact same clothes?" She paused. "I also heard he has no reflection, but that came from a wine merchant."
"And you believe any of it?"
Fiora shrugged. "It's Florence. People believe saints weep blood and statues whisper at dawn. Why not a cursed noble with ruby eyes?"
Esmé glanced toward the shuttered windows. "Have you ever seen anything… strange? At night?"
Fiora narrowed her gaze. "What did you see?"
Esmé hesitated. She wanted to say it aloud. To give the moment shape and weight. But fear curled in her throat—fear of sounding mad. Fear of being right.
"I thought I saw someone watching me from the rooftops," she said finally. "Last night. After the procession."
Fiora frowned. "Someone watching, or something?"
"I don't know."
They fell silent for a moment. The fire crackled softly behind them.
Then Fiora stepped forward and took her hand. "If you think something is wrong, Esmé, I believe you. But be careful. Noble houses have long memories. And sharp teeth."
Esmé nodded. "I won't do anything reckless."
But even as she said it, her mind was already working.
————————————————————
By late afternoon, the city had returned to its usual bustle. Markets hummed with noise. Church bells rang across domes and courtyards. And Esmé, cloaked and hooded, walked swiftly along the northern bank of the Arno.
She didn't know what she was looking for exactly. Perhaps the place where she had seen the shadow. Perhaps something that would tell her it hadn't all been imagination.
The rooftop from last night belonged to a crumbling tenement near the Piazza San Lorenzo, overlooking a crooked alley lit by a single oil lamp. She climbed the stairs to the top floor of the adjoining building—an empty structure under renovation—and stepped out onto the flat stone roof.
The wind tugged at her cloak. The city stretched out below her in warm amber tones, the Duomo rising to the south like a sentinel of stone.
There was no sign of anything unusual.
No footprints. No marks. No—
A flash of movement caught her eye.
Esmé turned sharply—and gasped.
Across the alley, on the rooftop where the shadow had stood, something shimmered.
Not a man.
Not quite.
It was a faint outline—like smoke, caught in the shape of a body. And then, like mist under a sunbeam, it vanished.
Esmé stood frozen, heart pounding.
She wasn't imagining it.
There was something here.
And it had seen her.
————————————————————
That night, she sat alone in the shop long after the forge had gone cold. The drawing she had made now lay on the counter in front of her, joined by others—half-formed sketches of symbols she had glimpsed in the stone, swirling patterns of light left behind like a burn on the air.
She didn't hear the knock at first.
It came again—soft. Measured.
She stood slowly and moved toward the door, hesitating only a moment before unlocking it.
A boy stood there. No older than twelve, thin as a reed and bare-footed. He wore a page's livery, though it was faded and too large for him.
He handed her a sealed parchment.
"For you," he said, then vanished into the night without another word.
Esmé turned the parchment over. It bore no crest. Only a symbol pressed into black wax: a rose with thorns, encircling a drop of blood.
Her hands trembled slightly as she opened it.
The letter was written in an elegant, old-fashioned hand:
You are asking questions better left to silence.
But if you insist on looking into shadows, know this:
They will soon begin to look back.
—L.R.
Esmé stared at the initials.
L.R.
Luca di Rosso.
Her blood ran cold.