Page 61 of Bloodlines and Birthright

Halfway up the steep incline out of Pecco, I stopped and leaned a hip against the low wall. I looked out over the houses to the lake. “It’s an achingly pretty village, but I am so glad I never have to come here again.”

Miss Wheeler chuckled. “A wood magician needs to see if they can make a raft fly with a moving spell. That way we could fly over the trees and be in Monteoro in no time. On second thought, I doubt anyone’s magic is strong enough to get it to carry one body let alone all three of us.”

Oscar got in before I did. “Your idea is not a mad one. Let me tell you the story about a magic flying carpet.”

We returned to the hotel and informed Signora Colombo of the events that had unfolded in Pecco, including Signore Scala’s idea to adopt her son and make him his heir. Her eyes filled with tears as she hugged Emiliano. The lad hugged her back and thanked us for bringing his father’s murderer to justice.

“He has a great deal of maturity for a boy his age,” Miss Wheeler said, as we waved them off from the hotel foyer.

“I hope he can overcome the tragedy of losing his father in such a brutal manner,” I said on a sigh. “It won’t be easy.”

“At least he’ll have a level of financial security if Scala follows through on his promise to adopt him,” Oscar added.

Miss Wheeler wasn’t so sure the arrangement would suit the boy. “He’s a firework magician. He’ll crave using his magic, not learning about manufacturing wooden staircases.”

“He’ll have to keep his magic a secret,” Oscar said. “I think he and his mother understand the necessity for secrecy all too well now.”

In these days where magic was practiced in the open and magicians flourished, Emiliano may feel it unfair that he could not declare his talent for fireworks. But Oscar was right. Being a firework magician made him a target for bomb makers. Safely detonating bombs from afar would have to wait for an artless solution to be invented. When that day came, perhaps Emiliano could produce fireworks with his magic again. Until then, it was wise to keep it hidden.

Mr. Defoe entered the hotel and inclined his head in a greeting. “Good morning to you all.” He turned to us with a smug face that even me, a man not prone to violence, wanted to punch. “I see your brief incarceration hasn’t done you any harm, gentlemen.”

“No thanks to you,” Oscar said, his tone unruffled. If he wanted to resort to violence to wipe off the smugness, he didn’t show it. “You could have had us freed along with Miss Wheeler.”

“I was able to vouch for her character, not yours. I don’t know you.”

“Let’s not pretend your money had nothing to do with it.”

“Ah, we’re being honest, are we? Well then, I confess that I paid the Carabinieri a bribe to release Adele but not you. Why should I waste money on two rogues who refuse to do business with me?”

“Rogues!” I said. “We are nothing of the sort. We’re honest men, which is more than I can say for you.”

Mr. Defoe smiled that smug smile of his, not in the least offended.

I expected Oscar to chime in with a few stern words of his own, but he was too busy gazing longingly at Miss Wheeler. She was pretending not to notice, and stood quite still, apparently listening to my exchange with her employer. I doubted she heard a word, however.

Mr. Defoe turned to her, causing her to give a little shake of her shoulders, as if to shake off Oscar’s gaze. “I’ve chartered a private boat to take us to Como. It leaves in an hour. That will give us plenty of time before the train to Milan departs. Tomorrow, we’ll travel to Genoa and take the first ship to New York.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Goodbye, gentlemen. I doubt we’ll see one another again.” He strode off without waiting for our replies.

Miss Wheeler looked down at her hands. One glove still contained remnants of the chalk dust she’d thrown at the abbot. Instead of attempting to brush it off, she removed the pouch from her pocket, whispered the moving spell, and directed the dust from her glove into the bag. She pulled the drawstring to close it and palmed the pouch, as if weighing it. “As Mr. Defoe said, this is goodbye. So, goodbye.” Her gaze lifted to Oscar’s, lingering a moment as he stared back with the look of a wounded puppy.

It was I who broke their connection before it grew awkward. “Goodbye, Miss Wheeler. Once again, you have been a revelation and a marvel. Indeed, you’ve become a friend.” My throat constricted with emotion. I cleared it with a light cough. “May we write to you, care of Defoe’s office in New York?”

Her lovely brown eyes flared before softening. She rested a hand on my arm. “I don’t think that’s wise, Professor. It’s best if we have a clean break now, before friendships deepen.”

I understood her perfectly. It didn’t mean I liked it, but I would respect her decision. She was right not to want to encourage deeper affections between her and Oscar if she had no intention of having a relationship with him. He was smitten with her, and I suspect she was with him, but that would pass in time. It was best not to give him hope.

In the spirit of keeping emotions at bay, she gave a perfunctory smile, said “Goodbye and safe travels,” and walked away.

Oscar watched her until she was out of sight, then he continued to stare at the space where she’d been.

He needed a distraction to shake him out of his melancholy and I could think of only one thing that would work. “Let’s call at Villa Corzoni. We didn’t get Scala his letter back, but perhaps he’ll still give us the address of the antique bookseller considering we rendered him a service today.”

“What service?” Oscar grumbled. “We played a part in having his brother arrested for murder, exposing his father’s shameful secret, and forcing him to adopt his nephew.”

“I don’t think we forced him to do that. I like to think he wants to adopt the boy.”

“That’s because you’re an optimist.”

“I suppose I am. After all, I believe we’ll get the address from Scala, one way or another.”