Silent in the Sanctuary. Deanna Raybourn
had sent me by messenger the day I had left England.
I drew the pendant from the depths of my gown, turning it over in my palm, firelight burnishing the silver to something altogether richer. It was warm from where it had lain against my skin all these months, a talisman against loneliness. I ran a finger over the head of Medusa and her serpent locks, marvelling at the elegance of the workmanship. The coin was old and thin, but the engraving was sharp, so sharp I could imagine her about to speak from those rounded lips. I turned it over and touched the row of letters and numbers he had had incised as a code only I would decipher. I had felt a rush of emotion when I had first read it, certain then that someday, in some fashion I could not yet predict, we would find our way back to each other. For where thou art, there is the world itself.
And yet. Here I was, five months on, without a single word from him, his pendant now cold comfort for his indifference. I laid my head back down on my arms and gave one, great, shuddering sob. Then I rose and carefully placed the pen into its holder and closed the inkwell. I tamped the pages of my notes together and laid them on the blotter. I opened the morocco portfolio and dropped the pendant into it. Medusa stared up at me, expectant and poised to speak. I closed the portfolio, snapping the closure with all the finality of graveyard dirt being shoveled onto a coffin. Whatever had sparked between Nicholas Brisbane and I was over; a quick, ephemeral thing, it had not lasted out the year.
No matter, I told myself firmly. I was going home. And I was not going alone.
THE SECOND CHAPTER
Britain’s a world by itself.
—CYMBELINE
There are few undertakings more challenging than planning a journey for one’s family. It is a testimony to my good nature and sound common sense that I arranged our return to England without resorting to physical violence. Violante, who had raged and howled against not being taken to England to meet her new family, decided she had no wish to leave the land of her birth and commenced to weeping loudly over each meal, watering her uneaten food with her tears. Lysander, always the softest and most malleable of my brothers, persuaded by a sister’s single shimmering tear or outthrust lip, had grown a carapace of indifference and simply went about the business of eating, paying no more attention to Violante than he did the dozen cats who prowled about our loggia, purring for scraps.
Although Plum had joined enthusiastically into the scheme of Christmas at the Abbey, it suddenly occurred to him that he was leaving the fine northern Italian light indefinitely. He spent most of his time in the salon, painting feverishly and ignoring the summonses to meals, contenting himself with a handful of spicy meats tucked sloppily into a hunk of bread and a bottle of wine filched from the cellars. It was left to me to organise our departure with Alessandro’s help. He was invaluable, cheerfully dashing off to deliver a message or secure another cart for our baggage. No task was too menial for him. He wrapped books and tied parcels with as much good humour as he had shown introducing us to the delights of Florence. I sorely missed him when he left us the day before our departure, promising to meet us at the train station in Milan. He was secretive and a little quiet, I thought, but he smiled and kissed my hand, brushing his lips not over my fingers, but across the pulse at my wrist. Before I could reply, Morag managed to drop an expensive piece of porcelain that belonged to the owner of the villa, and by the time I had sorted out whether or not it could be repaired, Alessandro was gone.
The next day we rose early and made the trip into Milan, Plum resplendent in a garish tasselled red fez he had purchased on his travels. Violante sobbed quietly into her handkerchief, blowing her nose every minute or so, and Lysander was busily tapping his fingers on the window, beating out the measures of a new concerto. The morning was brilliant, the rich white-gold light of Lombardy rolling over the landscape, gilding the scene in the style of a Renaissance masterpiece. Even the smallest detail seemed touched with magic. The humblest peasant on the road was magnificent, a gift to commit to memory and treasure on a bleak grey day in England. I sighed, wishing Italy had seen fit to give us a kinder farewell. It would have been easier to leave her in a rainstorm.
Milan at least blunted the edge of my regret. The railway station was thronged with people speaking dozens of dialects in four languages, and I knew I would not miss the chaos of Italian cities. There was something to be said for the orderliness of English society, I reflected, looking for the fourth time to the station clock. Alessandro had scant minutes to find us, I realised. I scanned the crowd anxiously for his tall, elegant figure.
“Perhaps he’s been run over by a carriage,” Morag put in helpfully. I fished in my reticule and extracted her ticket.
“Board the train, Morag. Your seat is in third class. I will see you in Paris.”
She took the ticket, muttering in Gaelic under her breath. I pretended not to hear her and turned away, just in time to see Alessandro approaching. He was hurrying, as much as Alessandro ever hurried anywhere. His clothes were perfectly ordered, but his hair was slightly tumbled, and when he spoke his voice was faintly breathless.
“Ah! I have found you at last.” He greeted my brothers and Violante, who wailed louder and waved her handkerchief at him.
“Come along, Alessandro,” I told him. “We’ve only a moment or so to board.”
“Then let us embark,” he said, bowing from the neck. He offered his arm, and I noticed his other was carefully holding a basket covered with a damask cloth. Luncheon, I thought happily.
We were seated quickly in a surprisingly comfortable compartment. Violante and Lysander had begun an argument and were quietly hissing at one another. Plum took out his sketchbook to record a face he had seen on the platform. Only Alessandro seemed excited by the journey, his dark eyes flashing as they met mine.
“I have brought you a gift, a souvenir of my country,” he said softly, placing the basket on my knees. I stared at it.
“I had thought it was luncheon, but as the basket has just moved on its own, I rather hope it isn’t,” I told him.
He laughed, a courteously modulated sound. Florentines, I had observed, loved to laugh but only modestly.
At his urging I lifted the damask cloth and peered into the basket.
“How very unexpected,” I murmured. “And how kind of you, Alessandro. I don’t suppose you would mind telling me what it is, exactly?”
This time he laughed fully, throwing back his head and revealing a delightful dimple in his cheek. “Ah, Lady Julia, always you enchant me. It is a dog, what you call in your country an Italian greyhound. Surely you recognise her. Her breed has been painted for centuries.”
I peered again at the trembling creature nestled against a cushion. She was black and white, large patches, with a wet black nose and eyes like two bits of polished Whitby jet. She lifted her nose out of the basket and sniffed me deeply, then sighed and laid her head back onto her paws.
“Of course. I see the resemblance now,” I told him, wondering how this frail, ratlike creature could possibly be related to the cosseted pets I had seen gracing the laps of principesse in gilded frames.
“È ammalata,” Alessandro said apologetically. “She is a little unwell. She does not like the travelling. I put her yesterday into her little basket, and she does not like to come out.”
“Oh, that is quite all right,” I said, hastily pulling the damask over her nose. “Perhaps she just needs a bit of rest. What is she called?”
“That is for you to decide.”
I did not hesitate. “Then I shall call her after my favorite place in all of Italy. I shall call her Florence.”
Alessandro smiled, a smile a nymph would envy, beautiful curved lips and even white teeth. “You pay the greatest honour to my city, my Firenze. I am glad that you like her. I wanted you to have some token of my appreciation for this kind invitation to your family’s home.”
Strictly