Free Gladly Beyond by Nichole van Page B

show them all.
    I flipped to the selfie on my phone and froze. Stared at the photo, heart rate spiking.
    He was back—my Mr. Darcy photobomber.
    He stood about twenty feet behind, to the left of a brightly-colored retro carousel and facing me. Dressed the same in a cut-away green coat, tight breeches and top hat pulled low.
    I whirled around, standing on tiptoe and scanning the busy square.
    Nothing.
    No bobbing top hat. No one in Regency-era costume.
    Why was he doing this? More importantly, how was he doing this?
    I hesitated and then, steeling my nerves, flipped back through the other selfies I had taken.
    My hands visibly trembled by the third one.
    Just like the day before. . . there he was. In every single photo.
    Standing behind me on the Ponte Vecchio.
    Walking toward me on Via Calimala.
    Leaning into the porcellino , head angled my way.
    Never threatening, per se. Just . . . there.
    I studied each photo, trying to get a clear look at the guy’s face, but that hat was in the way.
    Bloody hell. I needed to check my photos more carefully as I took them. I felt like slapping a moron sticker on my chest.
    Why would some guy dress up like a Regency gentleman and then stalk me through downtown Florence, photo bombing every chance he got? Two days in a row, no less?
    It made no sense on any level. Beyond loony and straight into certifiable territory.
    Lifting my head, I stood rooted to the spot, studying the bustling piazza around me.
    Tourists sat at cafe tables around the perimeter. Kids ran through the center, scattering pigeons. The occasional taxi drove through the enormous arch on the west side. Groups of people moved around me.
    No Mr. Darcy.
    Now what?
    I clenched my teeth. I was in my boyfriend-city, a place I dearly loved. I refused to hail a cab and scurry back to my hotel like some frightened mouse. Not going to happen.
    Just to prove I would not chicken out, I kept walking. Down the street. Around the cathedral baptistery. And up the Duomo steps.
    Almost daring Mr. Darcy to follow me.
    I waited in the brief line to get into the cathedral, carefully scanning the piazza below me, looking for my would-be stalker.
    Still no top hats, walking sticks or coat tails in sight.
    What was up? Why only show himself in my photos?
    Behind me, a group of French high schoolers came rushing up the steps and crowded in line, pushing me forward. One boy glanced in my direction and did a double-take, elbowing his neighbor.
    I quickly turned my head.
    Too late. I heard a mutter of fou and then psycho before being waved inside the enormous doors. Yet another moment to file under ‘Signs Your Life Is a Hot Mess’—a stranger halfway around the world says ‘psycho’ and you know they’re referring to you.
    Sheesh. Was everyone out to hassle me today?
    I quickly moved into the cool interior of the cathedral and wandered down the wide nave, putting space between me and the French school group, losing myself in the crowds of tourists.
    For all its lush exterior decoration, the interior of the Duomo is spartan. Mostly whitewashed walls broken by the occasional funerary inscription. What it lacks in ornament, the cathedral makes up in size. Despite being over seven hundred years old, it is still one of largest cathedrals in the world.
    Spinning around, I carefully studied the people. The French school group was back at the entrance, security searching their packs.
    No tall Mr. Darcys anywhere.
    Just to be sure, I framed the vast space in my camera and took a photo. No selfies for now. I immediately flipped to the image.
    Whew. Still no Mr. Darcy. Just perfectly normal people.
    I breathed out in relief.
    Coming inside the cathedral had been a smart move. If he followed me in here, I would notice for sure. There was nowhere to hide in this space.
    Nodding at my own cleverness (and feeling somewhat smug), I turned to my left and paused.
    A large monument stood above me. I craned my neck to look at it. A mixture of carved stone and