Page 44 of Bloodlines and Birthright

My question hadn’t been for her, however. “Oscar?”

“I plan to keep our promise, too.” It was very nearly, but not quite, the same thing.

Miss Wheeler asked a maid hanging washing on a line if Signore Scala was at home. The maid fetched the majordomo. When he emerged from the villa, he looked set to order us to leave the premises but hesitated when he recognized Oscar and me. On our last visit, he’d been under the impression we were English art dealers. It wasn’t clear whether Scala had told him the truth, but he did seem uncertain as to why we were using the service entrance. Even so, he invited us to wait in the drawing room while he checked if Scala could receive us.

A few minutes later, Signore Scala arrived. Without a word of greeting, he blurted out, “You have it? You have the envelope with my wood spell?”

Oscar cleared his throat and introduced Miss Wheeler.

Signore Scala gave her a tight smile, politely welcomed her, then repeated his question to Oscar.

“Not yet,” Oscar said. At Scala’s look of disappointment, he added, “But we believe we soon will. There has been a problem, you see. The boatbuilder is dead.”

This was clearly news to Signore Scala. For several moments, he simply stared at Oscar, unblinking. “Oh,” he finally said. “That is unfortunate. But it changes nothing. Indeed, it is even more urgent to get the envelope back now. If the spell gets into the wrong hands, it will be a disaster. I need to get it back.”

What did he mean by the wrong hands?

“It will hardly ruin you, Signore,” Oscar said. “It will merely allow someone else to improve their wooden things with the aid of a wood magician. Nothing more.”

Signore Scala twisted the gold ring with the emerald gem on his finger. “The boatbuilder wanted to ruin me. Perhaps he was working with anarchists. He had sympathy for them, I think. He was heard saying the workers in Milan’s factories are paid poorly and are worked too hard.”

“And are they?” I asked.

Signore Scala’s nostrils flared as he looked down his nose at me. “They are paid the same as others who work in Milan’s factories, Professor. I do not have to give more.”

His attitude revolted me. Men like him never seemed to care that their workers lived in terrible conditions, barely able to feed or clothe their families, at risk of descending into poverty if they became ill or injured and couldn’t work.

“Do you have no sense of responsibility toward them?” I asked. “Do you not want to do what’s fair and right?”

“What is fair and right is that I give them work. They are welcome to leave if they do not like the pay and conditions.”

“And go where? Every factory owner is paying the same!”

He merely shrugged in that dispassionate manner that was starting to annoy me.

Despite my anger and revulsion, all I said was, “History is not on your side, Signore Scala.”

He shifted his weight to face me fully and drew himself up to his full height. He was every bit the lord of the manor, yet I wasn’t intimidated. Perhaps that was because I’d seen him naked in bed without his wig. “History will show I am right.”

The quelling looks Miss Wheeler and Oscar gave me stopped me from biting back. They were right to do so. We’d deviated from our plan, and I was in danger of making him close up.

Signore Scala turned back to Oscar. “If you are not here to tell me you found my spell, then why are you here, Mr. Barratt?”

“We’ve discovered the abbot is your brother,” Oscar said.

The tight muscles in Signore Scala’s face twitched. “So?”

“Is that why he gave you the books instead of selling them to you? He wanted to help you financially, since you are his brother and your business is struggling?”

“Struggle? An odd English word for this situation. But I ask again, so? What does my business troubles matter to you? The books are gone, and I will not tell you who has them until you give me my spell.”

“It doesn’t worry you that the abbot might be accused of corruption if the bishop gets wind of it? He could lose his position.”

Signore Scala shrugged. “I do not care. I do not like my brother, Mr. Barratt. Make no mistake, he did not give me those books to help me. They are to help the factory. He does not want the family name to suffer, and the family name is linked to the family business. He hates me. I will not tell you why. It is a private matter.”

Oscar gave no indication he knew what that private matter entailed. He simply thanked Signore Scala.

Signore Scala opened the door and asked the majordomo, hovering nearby, to see us out. Before we left, he said, “You will continue to look for my spell? You have questioned the boatbuilder’s widow?”