Three Months Later
London didn't have the warmth of Sicily; it had the gray, indifferent bite of a wet whetstone. The rain wasn't a cleansing force here; it was a persistent traveler that clung to the soot-stained brickwork of the East End.
Seraphina stood on the balcony of a nondescript apartment overlooking the Thames. She wasn't wearing white silk anymore. She wore a tailored black trench coat and a look of cold, sharpened focus that had aged her a decade in ninety days. The salt-burn on her skin had faded, replaced by the pale, porcelain mask of a woman who lived in the shadows.
Behind her, the sound of a violin echoed through the sparsely furnished room.
"The phrasing is off, Dante," Seraphina said, not turning around. "The third movement requires more aggression. You're playing i
