Page 8 of Bloodlines and Birthright

Oscar sat again and the waiters resumed their duties. The volume of the conversations around us were even louder and more heated than before. Leaflets were brandished in anger, fingers pointed and fists banged, making my nerves jump.

Oscar asked a passing waiter who spoke English to explain the situation.

“It is the work of anarchists,” the waiter said, with a wave in the direction of the piazza.

“How do you know it’s the anarchists?” Oscar asked.

“Palazzo Marino is Milano’s…how do you say in English…city hall. The anarchists have threatened to blow up government buildings.” The waiter lifted both shoulders in a shrug. “Who else would do it?”

“The bomber didn’t do a very good job,” I said to Oscar after the waiter left. “The building is still standing and he injured himself and was captured.”

“That’s the problem with bombs,” he said. “The bomber has just a brief window in which to get away uninjured. All the methods for delaying the bomb’s detonation are unreliable. Slow-burning substances can be extinguished by a passerby before they reach the bomb, or even blown out by the wind, and clockwork mechanisms are unreliable and prone to failure.”

“India could create one that worked.”

One side of his mouth quirked with his wry smile. “Thankfully she’s not inclined to blow things up.” He lifted his coffee cup to his lips only to lower it again. “Do you recall the firework magician that India and Matt met a few years ago? She used her magic on bombs to detonate them from afar.”

“I do. Thank goodness her magic was very rare.” Hopefully it was so rare that she was the only firework magician in existence. While I sympathized with the laborers who worked under harsh conditions, I didn’t agree with their violent methods to get their point across. Innocents shouldn’t be injured in the pursuit of fair working conditions.

By the time we left the café, the bomber had been removed and people were once again going about their business, although an air of unease had settled over the Piazza della Scala and the nearby Piazza del Duomo. A group of youths dressed in working men’s attire of flat cap and neckerchief lingered near the entrance to the Galleria Vittorio, but they’d have been foolish to cause trouble with so many Carabinieri out in force. The law enforcers kept the youths in their sights as they moved along anyone getting too close to the bomb site.

“I think we should dine in the hotel tonight,” Oscar said.

I readily agreed. As interesting as Milan was, it was too volatile for my liking. I’d be glad when we reached the calmer, safer countryside.

Departing Milan proved somewhat frustrating the following morning. Our train was delayed due to a strike that had been suddenly called by the railway workers, but it lasted only two hours and we eventually got under way.

I didn’t read a single page of my book on the journey to the village of Como. There was too much to see once the industrial outer reaches of Milan gave way to the green countryside. Dappled with farms and villas, and the ever-present Alps looming in the distance, it was a dramatic and picturesque landscape, and I wanted to drink it all in.

Upon arriving in Como, we transferred to a luxurious paddle steamer along with hundreds of other passengers, many of them tourists experiencing the breathtakingly beautiful lake for the first time, too. Oscar had wanted to purchase first-class tickets, but I insisted we save money and sit in second-class. The journey would take a mere two to three hours, and we didn’t need the luxury of velvet-covered seats and mahogany paneled walls, although I did want to sit inside, out of the sun. According to the man in the ticket booth, the boat’s upper deck had few wooden benches under the awnings and not everyone would be able to sit. It seemed to me that the tourists and some Italian gentlemen preferred first or second class, while the economical upper deck attracted locals. Some even carried caged chickens and baskets or sacks containing produce, and I spotted an artist with a sketchbook under his arm.

While Oscar studied the other passengers, my gaze was once again drawn to the scenery. Pretty villages clustered at the feet of hills along the lake’s edges, the spires of their churches rising above the terracotta roofs. Occasionally, a larger villa with manicured gardens occupied a prominent outcrop of land, drawing the eye like a conquering emperor stamping his authority on the surrounds. Apparently, Caesar himself had a villa on the shores, but its precise location was lost to time.

“It’s more beautiful than I imagined,” I said on a breath.

Oscar made a non-committal noise as another paddle steamer passed us going in the opposite direction, albeit much slower. A crewman leaned over the railing of the forward deck, seeming to speak to someone on the other side, out of our view. With a wave and a hand signal, the funnel spewed a column of black smoke into the air. The steam-powered paddlewheel increased the speed of its rotations and the boat moved on, revealing the smaller vessel on the other side that had come to a complete stop. It must be a private charter ferrying wealthy passengers across the lake that had got into some difficulty. The larger public ferry had stopped to check if they needed help, but it seemed the crew of the small steamer had it in hand.

It wasn’t the crew that caught my attention, however. One of the passengers who’d come onto the deck for fresh air seemed familiar. From a distance, I couldn’t make out her face, but the dark-skinned woman dressed in a lemon and cream-colored gown holding a matching parasol reminded me of Miss Wheeler. That beautiful lady had captured Oscar’s heart when we met her in Edinburgh last year. Her intelligence, bravery and skill with both her umbrella and magic chalk had led us to rescue two missing magicians from their captors.

I was about to point her out to Oscar when I noticed the man beside her. Where she held herself with poise and grace, his stance was all arrogance. With a fat cigar between his lips and one hand clutching the railing, he gestured aggressively at a crewman with his other hand. Seeing them together, I was in no doubt who it was.

What were the American railroad magnate, John J. Defoe and his enigmatic assistant, Miss Adele Wheeler, doing at Lake Como at the same time as us?

And did Oscar know they’d be here? Was that why he’d been studying the faces of the other passengers on our ferry and not the scenery? Was the coincidence not a coincidence at all?

More importantly, did their presence have anything to do with the reason we’d delayed our journey?

Chapter 4

I did not tell Oscar about sighting Miss Wheeler and Mr. Defoe on the broken-down boat. I wanted to be one hundred percent certain before mentioning her name to him. He’d been low in spirits after our Scotland jaunt ended, and although he didn’t admit being hurt by her rejection of his offer to leave Defoe’s employ and join us, I suspected it was the reason for his melancholy. He’d hid it well. He pretended to be cheerful. He joined in lively debates at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, and smiled often. But when he thought no one was looking, his smiles faded and his gaze grew distant. Either he was pining for the sort of adventure we’d had in Edinburgh or for Miss Wheeler. Perhaps both.

We checked into our rooms in the Grande Hotel, situated on the lakefront promenade in the pretty village of Monteoro. I’d not even finished unpacking when Oscar knocked on my door.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Not quite.” I invited him in while I retrieved my hat. “Have you got the map?”

He removed it from his inside jacket pocket, waved it around, then pocketed it.