Matteo went to the door without hurrying.
There was no reason to rush. Rushing would only make him appear nervous, and nervousness had a smell men like Esmond could taste from the other side of a wall. Matteo kept his cane in hand, adjusted his breathing, and crossed the hall with the measured irritation of a man answering an unwanted visitor rather than walking toward a ghost from his own past.
When he reached the entrance, he opened the door.
An old human stood outside.
White hair, neatly arranged. No beard. A narrow face with unfamiliar lines, the sort of face Matteo could have passed on the street without recognizing, which was almost certainly the point. Esmond had changed bodies, faces, names, or all three. Age had touched this appearance, but not in a way Matteo trusted. There was care in it. Design. A false frailty placed over something patient and venomous.
The old man's raspy voice scraped through the doorway.
"Matteo."
Matteo held the cane still against the floor.
