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23

Mari

Tuesday, April 24, 1821

O n the morning the women intended to begin their watch, while Mari was at Ami’s preparing her things to leave, there was a knock on Ami’s door. With a small revolver in his hand, Dante rushed to the window, peering through the closed curtains.

“Corso,” he said, frowning.

The blood drained from Mari’s face. She hadn’t expected him back so soon. She wondered if her father had sent him notice of all that had transpired in Positano.

Or perhaps this was about the engagement.

Dante opened the door.

“Your father said I would find you here,” Corso said to Mari. “May I speak with you privately outside?”

Only a few people knew Mari’s location. Now she felt a surge of irritation with her father for telling Corso where she was. She eyed the pathway leading up to the house. “It isn’t safe,” she said. “Surely he told you what happened.”

“He told me about the kidnappings, yes.” He turned to Dante and Ami. “I am very sorry to learn of Lia. I trust she will be found soon and returned home.”

“Thank you,” Dante said, his jaw set hard. “You two are welcome to speak in the cellar at the back of the house, if you’d like.” After waiting for Mari’s nod, he opened the door to let Corso slip inside.

The cellar was damp, sparse. Corso lit a candle near the entrance. In the flickering light, Mari could make out a few bottles of wine and a pair of boxes holding bruised fruit and wilted lettuce.

Corso reached into his pocket, and Mari braced herself as he withdrew a small box. “The jeweler finished the millegrain just two days ago,” he said, prying it open.

The ring was lovely: a thin band of yellow gold, with intricate filigree wrapped around the entirety of it. The center of the ring bore a cluster of purple amethysts set in a marquise shape.

Mari fought an almost uncontrollable urge to pry the ring out and crush it beneath her shoe.

“What do you think?” Corso whispered. “It is unspeakably valuable, given the custom fil—”

“I think I want Lia home,” she interrupted. “Viviana and the Fontana sisters, too. I want Leo to be alive. I want all of this to disappear.”

Corso paused, studying her, then he snapped the ring box shut. “Come to Rome with me, Mari.” He placed his arm around her shoulder, grazing his fingers along her skin. “Let me take you away.”

Mari flinched, remembering the time Holmes said this exact thing to her—on the same night he’d taught her to trace shapes from the stars. They’d been tucked away in one of the many cliffside caves, looking out at the wide expanse of night sky.

“A mountain,” Mari had said, pointing west. “I see a mountain just there. And another, right next to it.” For a moment, mountains were all she could see among the stars.

Holmes nodded, tucking himself closer to her. He kissed her shoulder, watching her as she watched the sky. “Have you ever been to the mountains?” he whispered.

Mari shook her head. In fact, she had never left the Amalfi region. “No. I have always wanted to go. I’ve heard the peaks north of here, in Austria, are made of stone so white, it hurts to look upon them.”

“The Pale Mountains,” Holmes said. “I’ve met men who have climbed them.” A falling star shot across the sky, then seemed to plunge into the sea. “Let me take you away. We’ll travel there and see the mountains together.”

Mari turned her face to his. “You promise?”

He pushed himself to his feet and walked deeper into the cave. With his knife, in the near total darkness, he carved a tiny, upside-down V into the cave wall.

A mountain.

And beneath this, their initials: M perhaps that had hindered whatever vessel was on its way.

That evening, as Mari sat alone at the mouth of the cave, a gentle breeze kicked up, and a white-and-gray feather landed softly at her feet. She smiled, taking the feather in her hand. It reminded her of Holmes—he’d once shared a story about saving a young plover from a boatswain who intended to keep it as a pet—and she tucked it in her gown, tight against her breast.

She glanced westward—still nothing—and wondered what tomorrow might bring. The Fratelli Mazza? News of the kidnapped women? Or yet again, nothing at all? From what she’d been told, several more villagers had gone to Naples to inquire about the tiny island of Ischia and why the Fratelli Mazza were keeping it so closely guarded. These men had returned frustrated and empty-handed. They hadn’t been able to track down any new information and certainly not the missing captives.

The mood in Positano, then, was grim. Many anguished over the kidnapping of four women. All anguished over the inevitable arrival of another Mazza vessel.