The rain had stopped, leaving the island smelling of damp wood and smoke. The ruins of the Masquerade hall still smoldered, blackened beams jutting up like skeletal fingers toward the darkening sky.

Emergency crews had finally cleared the remaining flames, and the guests had been evacuated, shaken and pale, clutching blankets and each other.

Christiano Barasi stood near the edge of the cleared grounds, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his soaked coat. His gaze stayed fixed on the far side ...