She opened the door herself, the servants having fled to the kitchens at the first crack of thunder. The man on the step was not what she expected. He was tall, lean as a rapier, with eyes the color of tarnished silver. His coat was soaked through, but he wore it like a military uniform.
“Raul Korso Leo Domenico,” he said, his voice a low, precise baritone. No accent. Or rather, every accent. A ghost of Rome in the vowels, a shadow of Vienna in the consonants, and the cold, hard logic of London in the grammar. “Your servant, my lady.” The English Tutor - Raul Korso Leo Domenico -...
“Your name,” the boy pressed. “Raul. Korso. Leo. Domenico. It is not one man’s name. It is a regiment.” She opened the door herself, the servants having
The grandsons stood frozen. The tutor placed a hand on each of their shoulders. His coat was soaked through, but he wore
Korso (the elder) swallowed. “If you had not come, we would have remained ignorant.”
English Tutor. Smuggler of fire.