Tomasso's head snapped toward the doorway. Catarina gasped and yanked the sheets over herself, and there it was: the practiced motion of her hand tucking her hair behind her left ear, slow and deliberate, as though she were arranging herself for a portrait rather than covering evidence.
"Oh my, it's Giovanna Valente! She must have gotten the wrong idea. Tomasso, hurry, go explain things to her."
She used my maiden name. Not Rossetti. Valente. As if I were a guest in my own house. As if the name I'd carried into this marriage was the only one that still belonged to me.
Tomasso pulled on a robe and stepped out into the corridor. The overhead light caught the planes of his face, and for a moment he looked exactly like the man I'd married seven years ago. The sharp jaw, the dark eyes, the way he carried himself like the world owed him something and he intended to collect. When he saw the tears streaked down my face, his brows drew together in a hard line. Not guilt. Irritation. The expression of a man whose evening has been inconvenienced.
"It's the middle of the night. Why aren't you in bed? What are you doing out here?"