Page 64 of Bloodlines and Birthright

He looked entirely too pleased about it, considering it might mean a bidding war to buy the tattoo book from the antique bookseller. A bidding war we couldn’t possibly hope to win against Defoe. Then again, Oscar’s good mood had nothing to do with the book and everything to do with the prospect of seeing Miss Wheeler again.

While I looked forward to seeing her again, too, I worried more about the effect it would have on Oscar. One parting was sad enough. Another, mere days later, could shatter him.

Rome was nothing like Lake Como. The genteel serenity of the lake and the cozy languor of the villages felt like a world away. Rome was hot, loud and lively, just as I expected Italy to be. Shopkeepers vied with one another to be heard, neighbors argued at the tops of their voices, and other drivers and some bicyclists shouted at our coachman as they had to veer out of our way. The fellow had taken Oscar’s directive to hurry to heart and encouraged his horse with a crack of the whip in the air.

I clutched my valise tightly to my chest as we rounded a sharp bend far too quickly. I released one hand to grab onto the strap to stop myself sliding into Oscar, seated beside me in the hansom. He grinned, apparently finding our speed exhilarating.

“Look, Gavin! I think that’s the Colosseum in the distance.” He pointed to an ancient structure just visible above the roofs of other buildings. “We’ll go for a proper tour of the sights tomorrow, after we have the book safely in our hands. Do you fancy seeing St. Peter’s Basilica or have you had enough of religious institutions after the Abbazia di San Vittore?”

“The buildings themselves are magnificent, and I have nothing against seeing St. Peter’s. There are also some catacombs, I believe. I wonder if they’re open to tourists. Oh look, an ancient wall.”

The crumbling structure rose jaggedly beside the road, looking quite out of place tucked between more modern buildings. Rome was extraordinary. It was more chaotic than London, smellier and noisier, with seemingly no traffic etiquette at all, yet I was transfixed by it, and we’d only arrived a mere hour earlier. We’d not even found ourselves a hotel yet. We’d taken a cab straight from the station.

“Isn’t this place marvelous!” Oscar had to raise his voice to be heard over the rumble of our wheels on the cobblestones. Although they were worn smooth by centuries of use, many were loose and some were missing altogether, making it quite a rough, loud ride.

“Imagine working here for a while,” I said. “There must be so many interesting books in this city. So much history, and not just on the topic of magic.”

Oscar laughed.

“What’s so amusing?” I asked.

“Nothing. We’re slowing down. I think we’ve arrived.”

We paid the driver and alighted. We’d both held our valises on the journey and now carried them to the address we’d read at Signore Scala’s villa the day before. The sign painted above the door declared it was indeed the premises of Leonardo Benedetti, libraio antiquario.

“I do hope we beat Defoe,” I said. We’d not seen the American and his assistant on our journey. If they’d caught the same train from Milan as us, they’d have been in the first-class car, while we’d been in second. They certainly couldn’t have arrived in Rome before us.

When Oscar didn’t answer, I turned to look at him. He was peering into the shadows at the end of the narrow street, his brow creased. I pushed my glasses up my nose to see better, but I was quite sure there was no one there.

I entered the shop and drew in a deep breath, drawing the smell of old paper, leather and something altogether earthy into my lungs. Like the abbey library, it was a warm, inviting place. Unlike the abbey, the shop ceiling was low, the wooden beams mere inches above my head. Even after removing his hat, Oscar had to duck to get through the door without bumping his head.

I thought the shop was empty at first, then a face peered around a stack of books on a desk near the back and greeted us in Italian. I responded and asked him if he spoke English.

“I do. I am Signore Benedetti, at your service.” He clasped gnarled fingers together on top of the desk and peered over his spectacles at us. He had an impressive array of wrinkles across his forehead and around his eyes, like a diagram of a maze.

“My name is Professor Nash, and this is Oscar Barratt. We’re book collectors from London, currently on a mission to stock a new library about magic.”

“Ah! You have come to the right place.” Signore Benedetti stood slowly, a hand to his lower back, and reached for a walking stick leaning against the wall. He hobbled out from behind the desk and smiled. At least, I suspected it was a smile, judging by the way the wrinkles folded. His mouth was invisible, hidden beneath the wild, wiry gray hair of his beard and moustache. “I recently acquired some books all on the subject of magic. Lovely books, very well kept, very old. They came from an abbey up north.”

Oscar and I exchanged glances. We smiled. “May we see them?” he asked.

We joined Signore Benedetti near the desk where he peered into a trunk filled with books. “I have not yet unpacked and catalogued them. My back, it aches.” He made a show of rubbing his lower back. “My son is my assistant, but he is pigro, incompetente.”

I couldn’t interpret the first word, but the second one was easy to translate. “May we look through them and choose some we’d like to purchase?”

“Please do.”

He returned to his chair at the desk while Oscar and I knelt and pulled out book after book. We took our time, scanning pages for references to tattoo magic. Few were in languages we could understand, however. It was hopeless. We’d have to buy them all to study at length back in London.

“Is there one you want in particular, Professore?” Signore Benedetti asked.

“There ought to be one referencing tattoo magic. We were led to believe you had it. Do you know which one it may be?”

“I believe you are referring to Ritus et Ritus Populi Insularis. The English translation is Rites and Rituals of an Island People.”

Oscar closed the book he’d been studying and set it aside to search through the others. “Which one is it?”

“It is gone, Signore Barratt. I sold it three days ago.”