Page 54 of Bloodlines and Birthright

“So Giovanni was a firework magician as well as a wood magician?” I asked. “That’s quite extraordinary.”

Miss Wheeler posed the question to Signora Colombo.

The widow pressed her lips together then tried to move past us. We stepped aside to let her go, although Miss Wheeler continued to speak to her, hopefully telling her that we could help them.

Emiliano stopped, forcing his mother to stop, too. She seemed to be urging him to continue, but he responded with a shake of his head. He addressed Miss Wheeler.

She gasped then covered her mouth with her fingers.

“What is it?” Oscar asked.

“He is the firework magician. Emiliano. Not his father. He inherited it through his maternal grandmother.” Miss Wheeler indicated Signora Colombo. “She isn’t a magician herself, but her mother was, and now Emiliano. He has only known for two years. Ever since finding out, he has set off the fireworks for the enjoyment of the tourists, but thinking Emiliano too young, his father took the responsibility for it, although he never told anyone that magic was involved. Neither knew that the magic could also detonate a bomb from a distance. Not until De Angelis approached Giovanni. The Monteoro fireworks display is well known in the area, and De Angelis had heard that fireworks magicians could detonate bombs from a distance with a spell. He put two and two together and wanted Giovanni to use magic on one of the anarchists’ homemade devices. Giovanni refused. He couldn’t have done it, anyway, but he didn’t want his son entangled with the anarchists, so he kept the boy’s name out of it. He tried to convince De Angelis he was of no use to him but wasn’t believed. De Angelis became threatening, trying to coerce Giovanni into doing his bidding. Signora Colombo wanted to leave Pecco, to disappear, but her husband refused. He wanted to claim his birthright from the Scala estate. He had the letter from his father, and he planned to engage a lawyer in Milan to help him fight for his portion of the inheritance. Disappearing would cost him everything. She became angry with Giovanni.”

When Miss Wheeler paused for breath, I filled in a piece of the puzzle for her. “That’s when Signora Colombo decided they needed to take a drastic step to protect Emiliano. They faked his death.”

Miss Wheeler nodded. “Emiliano has been hiding in the house ever since.”

“And the murder?” Oscar asked. “If De Angelis believed Giovanni was the firework magician, why did he kill him? De Angelis needed him.”

Miss Wheeler posed the question to Signora Colombo. “She says De Angelis grew angry with her husband for his continual refusal and must have lost his temper.”

At the mention of the village, Signora Colombo spat on the ground. Then she gestured for her son to continue walking.

Oscar dogged their steps. “Miss Wheeler, please tell her we’ll help her if she stays.”

“How can we help her?” I asked.

“By accompanying her to visit Pietro Scala. That letter is the key to her son’s future. He has a right to his inheritance. The Scala business may be in trouble, but I’m sure that boy’s inheritance is more money than he’ll ever make as a fatherless, poorly educated boy from a provincial village. We can help persuade Scala to give Emiliano something.”

Miss Wheeler explained his reasoning to the widow. I was surprised that Signora Colombo didn’t continue walking. She seemed to consider the proposal. With a glance at her son, she nodded then exchanged a few words with Miss Wheeler.

“I’ve told her she and her son can stay in my room at the hotel,” Miss Wheeler said. “Just until De Angelis and his friends leave the area for good. I also told her it’s probably best if her son never uses his firework magic again. If he’s noticed, it will attract the wrong sort.”

“That won’t be easy,” Oscar muttered. “A magician can’t help but be drawn to his or her craft.”

“Indeed,” Miss Wheeler said grimly.

The women chatted quietly as we walked to Monteoro. After a while, Miss Wheeler interpreted for us. “She seems relieved to have us on her side. I think she has felt quite alone in Pecco ever since moving there upon her marriage. She wasn’t born in Pecco or Monteoro and the villagers have always treated her like an outsider.”

“Being married to a man of illegitimate birth probably didn’t help,” Oscar added.

While we’d been talking, clouds had closed in, blocking the moonlight. Oscar lit the lantern to help guide us. Despite the extra light, or perhaps because of it, my nerves stretched even more. The light exposed us while deepening the shadows outside the glow. The dark silhouettes of the trees took on a giant anthropomorphic quality, their branches seeming to reach out to us like claws. I kept close to my friends and listened for sounds beyond our footsteps.

We all heard the low rumble of men’s voices at the same time and stopped as one. Signora Colombo clung to her son and must have hugged him too tightly. He gasped. Or perhaps it came from her.

The voices also stopped. Then came the sound of footsteps running down one of the narrow Monteoro alleys. Retreating, thank God. It must have been some young men up to no good, as young men seem to do everywhere.

Miss Wheeler insisted she knew a back entrance to the hotel and took Signora Colombo and Emiliano that way. They’d take the stairs up to her room where they could rest for the night. She suggested asking Defoe to pay for them to stay there longer, even though she and Defoe had to leave Monteoro. Miss Wheeler seemed convinced he’d do it since he had so much money and cared little how it was spent. Oscar and I promised her we’d go with the Colombos to call on Pietro Scala in the morning.

The plan felt hastily thrown together, and I spent the next little while in bed thinking of all the things that could go wrong. Our first act should be to hire an interpreter since Miss Wheeler was departing. It was no use trying to help Signora Colombo if we couldn’t understand her.

I must have fallen asleep because I awoke to shouting in the corridor and banging on my door. I’d hardly got a chance to register that it was Oscar shouting when my door was flung open. A hapless hotel employee holding a key stepped aside as two Carabinieri pushed past him.

I froze. My voice failed me. All I could do was stare at the policemen shouting at me in Italian, and wonder if they’d let me change out of my night clothes into something more suitable. Suitable for what?

“What is the meaning of this?” came Oscar’s snarl. I couldn’t see him. He was still in the corridor. “We’re British citizens! English. Inglesi.”

“You are arrested,” said one of the Carabinieri. I recognized him as the fellow we’d spoken to in the piazza.