Page 14 of Bloodlines and Birthright

By mutual, silent agreement, we decided to take the longer, more winding route through the village to the lake shore where the hotels were situated, rather than the steep shortcut where we could be easily trapped. As soon as my heart stopped racing from fear and exertion, a loud crack followed by more explosions set it hammering against my ribs again. Fireworks burst in the sky overhead.

The light flashed across Oscar’s upturned face as he admired them. “The guidebook says a local man sets them off from a barge on the lake every Friday evening.”

The pop and crack lasted a few minutes before culminating in a series of rapid bursts until the show stopped altogether. The smell of burnt gunpowder drifted toward us on the breeze.

“Oscar, how did you know Miss Wheeler and Mr. Defoe would visit Monteoro at all? They didn’t know the book with the ink spell was once housed in the abbey. We purchased the Mackenzie book in Edinburgh which had the only reference to its location. What made you think they’d found out?”

“Miss Wheeler read the Mackenzie book after she stole it from you that night in Edinburgh,” he said. “She must have told Defoe.”

“She said she wasn’t going to tell him she’d had the book in her possession. I believe her.”

“As do I. But she could have told him she snuck into your room and read the relevant passage about the location of the ink spell book then and there. She didn’t have to admit she took it. It’s just my guess, but I’d wager it’s a correct one.”

“A guess? So she never admitted to you that she read the Mackenzie book while she had it?”

“When would she have admitted that? We haven’t corresponded this past year. Every conversation I’ve had with her so far, I’ve had in your presence in Edinburgh. I merely presumed she’d read it because that’s what I would have done if I were in her shoes.”

That explained one mystery. Now to the other. “It was fortunate their private charter boat broke down on the lake so we could arrive ahead of them. I suppose they got here too late to make a safe journey up to the abbey in daylight.”

Oscar’s only answer was to clap me on the shoulder. “We deserve a hearty Italian meal and a local vino for dinner. It’s been a long day.”

“It has. That’s why I’ll have a tray delivered to my room. I want an early night.”

Oscar lowered his hand to his side. “You’re still cross with me.”

“I’m tired, Oscar. That’s all. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

We didn’t speak until we parted ways outside our rooms, positioned next to each other on the third floor of the hotel. Even then, it was merely to say goodnight. By the time I climbed into bed, weary from the day’s travel and exertions, my anger finally dissipated. I didn’t want to be cross with Oscar any longer. If I were infatuated with someone, I’d probably go out of my way to see them again, too. Tomorrow, I’d be kinder to him.

The day promised to be another hot one. After a good night’s rest, I rose early and decided to take a walk along the promenade before breakfast. The lake was even prettier than yesterday beneath the cloudless sky. The hills reflected in the glassy surface, broken only by the beak of a bird hunting its aquatic prey. The first ferry from Como hadn’t yet arrived, but small charter boats were already taking passengers out on private tours or fishing trips. I stepped aside to let four Englishmen hurry past, straw boaters clutched in their hands. The crew of their rowboat seemed unconcerned by their tardiness, however. One sat in the fore section, puffing on his pipe, while the other appeared to be asleep.

Beyond their boat was another, the crewman in deep conversation with— Oscar! What was he doing there?

I started toward him only to stop. He was handing the crewman something. I couldn’t see what, but I had a strong suspicion it was money. I also suspected it was the same boat Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler took the day before from Como. The same boat that had broken down on its voyage. Oscar had paid the man to ensure it broke down to delay their arrival in Monteoro. I’d suspected as much but this confirmed it.

What would Miss Wheeler think of that?

I walked swiftly away and returned to the hotel where I stopped at the check-in desk to ask the clerk if he knew Signore Scala from Villa Corzoni.

“Me? No, Signore Professore. Pietro Scala is too important to know me.”

“Perhaps I should have been clearer,” I said. “Do you know of him? As in, what can you tell me about him?”

“Ah. I understand. You want information. I could tell you some things, like he is from a rich Milano family. They made a lot of money making stairs.”

“Stairs? Oh, Scala means stairs in Italian, doesn’t it?”

“Si. Stairs. Scala. An old name for an old family business.”

“Wooden stairs?”

“Si.”

Most likely they were magician-made if the family’s business had centered around that particular industry for centuries. Wood magic, sometimes called carpentry magic, was one of the more common magics. “Anything else you can tell me?”

“The father of Pietro Scala bought Villa Corzoni from a duke. That was many years ago, when Pietro was just a boy.” He glanced around and, seeing that we were alone in the foyer, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “That is what everyone knows. You can find it in your guidebooks.”

I thanked him and went to walk off, only to double back. “Do you mean to say there is information not in the guidebooks?”