Evermore - Alyson Noel [92]
“How about the beginning?”
He nods, his gaze drifting away, all the way back to the beginning, as I cross my legs and settle in. “My father was a dreamer, an artist, a dabbler in sciences and alchemy, a popular idea at the time—”
“Which time?” I ask, hungry for places, dates, things that can be nailed down and researched, not some philosophical litany of abstract ideas.
“A long time ago.” He laughs. “I am a tad bit older than you.”
“Yes, but how old exactly? I mean, what kind of age difference am I dealing with here?” I ask, watching incredulously as he shakes his head.
“All you need to know is that my father, along with his fellow alchemists, believed that everything could be reduced down to one single element, and that if you could isolate that one element, then you could create anything from it. He worked on that theory for years, creating formulas, abandoning formulas, and then when he and my mother both . . . died, I continued the search, until I finally perfected it.”
“And how old were you?” I ask, trying again.
“Young.” He shrugs. “Quite young.”
“So you can still age?”
He laughs. “Yes, I got to a certain point, and then I just stopped. I know you prefer the frozen in time vampire theory, but this is real life, Ever, not fantasy.”
“Okay, so . . .” I urge, anxious for more.
“So, my parents died, I was orphaned. You know, in Italy, where I’m from, last names often depicted a person’s origins or profession. Esposito means orphan, or exposed. The name was given to me, though I dropped it a century or two ago, since it no longer fit.”
“Why didn’t you just use your real last name?”
“It’s complicated. My father was . . . hunted. So I thought it better to distance myself.”
“And Drina?” I ask, my throat constricting at the mere mention of her name.
He nods. “Poverina—or, little poor one. We were wards of the church; that’s where we met. And when she grew ill, I couldn’t bear to lose her, so I had her drink too.”
“She said you were married.” I press my lips together, my throat feeling hot and constricted, knowing she didn’t actually say that, though it was definitely implied when she stated her name, her full name.
He squints and looks away, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.
“Is it true?” I ask, my stomach in knots, my heart pressing hard against my chest.
He nods. “But it’s hardly what you think, it happened so long ago it hardly matters anymore.”
“So why didn’t you get divorced? I mean, if it hardly matters,” I say, my cheeks hot, my eyes stinging.
“So you’re proposing I show up in court with a wedding certificate dating back several centuries, and ask for a divorce?”
I press my lips and look away, knowing he’s right, but still.
“Ever, please. You’ve got to cut me some slack. I’m not like you. You’ve only been around, well in this life anyway, seventeen years, while I’ve lived hundreds! More than enough time to make a few mistakes. And while there are certainly plenty of things to judge me on, I hardly think my relationship with Drina is one of them. Things were different back then. I was different. I was vain, superficial, and extremely materialistic. I was out for myself, taking all that I could. But the moment I met you everything changed, and when I lost you, well, I never knew such agonizing pain. But then later, when you reappeared—” He stops, his gaze far away. “Well, no sooner had I found you, than I lost you again. And so it went, over and over. An endless cycle of love and loss—until now.”
“So, we . . . reincarnate?” I say, the word sounding strange on my tongue.
“You do—not me.” He shrugs. “I’m always here, always the same.”
“So, who was I?” I ask, not sure if I really believe it, yet fascinated with the concept. “And why can’t I remember?”
He smiles, happy