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Holmes

Friday, April 27, 1821

A t Imelda’s revelation, Holmes froze. “Impossible,” he said. “Mari, she—”

He searched his memory for the details of her story, what Mari had seen when she was only eight years old. She had never shared her mother’s name. “Mari said the sea took you from her—that she watched you drown.”

“The first part is true,” Imelda said. “The sea did take me from her. But I did not drown, and Mari knows it.”

There came a rustling sound above Holmes, and then through the gap, several long, red hairs floated downward. She had either run her fingers through her hair, or she’d plucked them out. He lifted one of the strands, trailing it across his palm. Even in the low light, he could make out its blood-red color, just like Mari’s.

He began to think this a trick. Swindling was the Mazza way, after all. Had Quinto some idea that Holmes was in love with Mari? Perhaps he had put him here, just beneath the second mate’s cabin, for a reason—instructing this actress of a woman to sniff out whatever information she could glean.

“What happened, then?” he asked. In a matter of moments, his feelings about her had turned from curiosity to disdain. Either this woman had abandoned her two daughters, or she was lying and pretending to have done so.

“I left to protect them,” she said. “I fooled the Mazza brothers into believing I was the last strega . They did not know I had two daughters. I turned myself over before they could learn that Mari and Sofia even existed.”

Holmes shifted to get a better angle, his back aching. “ Strega? I’ve never heard the word.”

“Mari has not told you?”

“No.” The air around them had grown silent. The brig seemed to have slowed somewhat.

“There are women in Positano with special…abilities. We practice something known as stregheria . Witchcraft. Have you heard about it?”

Nico had once said something about his sister and her odd interests—kitchen spells with herbs and pastes, prayers over babies, olive pits turned to beads—but he hadn’t called it witchcraft.

“I don’t know anything about it,” Holmes concluded.

“Some call us witches of the sea,” Imelda went on. “We can decipher the ocean’s secrets—its strange movements, its seemingly inexplicable behaviors. We understand what it is saying about the things that lie beneath the surface. Things like wrecks, treasure. The ocean reveals it all,” she went on, “though in a language few understand.”

Holmes wondered if stregheria explained some of the more perplexing things about Mari, like her ability to hold her breath underwater for long stretches of time or her skill in finding rare seashells.

“Many years ago,” Imelda continued, “the two Mazza brothers were in the village, and they caught me performing a simple sea spell. I’d been searching for a small silver bracelet Sofia had lost in the shallow waters, very near the beach. I placed my strand of hagstones in the water, reading it, letting it guide me. Within moments, I found the bracelet.”

“Did the bracelet have a tiny seal charm affixed to it?”

Imelda held his gaze. “You have seen it.”

He nodded. “Mari showed it to me once.”

“Does she wear it?”

“No. She is terrified of something happening to it. She keeps it safe, elsewhere.”

“Ah.” Imelda nodded. “Well, little did I know the brothers began to follow me—for days, I later learned. Thank God, they only caught me doing spells on my own. They never saw me with my daughters, nor the other streghe .”

“So Mari is a strega , then?”

“Of course she is,” Imelda said quickly. “And I suspect a better one than I ever was.” She let out a long exhale. “Eventually, the men confronted me at knifepoint. They asked if anyone else in the village had such abilities. I said no, for I was not about to risk the welfare of my daughters or my friends. The men instructed me to come with them, else they would kill me. I convinced them to let me return home for a few hours, so I could gather some things to leave by the shore, which would give the appearance I’d merely gone for a swim. This, I said, would prevent my husband from searching for me, asking questions.” Imelda swiped away a tear. “It was not about my husband at all. I just needed to see my daughters once more. To kiss their foreheads once more.

“Mari, clever girl that she was, followed me out of the house. She was not supposed to see me leave. She, like everyone else, was supposed to think some dreadful accident had befallen me. I’d left my clothes in the sand, wanting to make it look like I’d drowned.” She breathed out slowly. “Based on what you’ve told me, it seems this is the story she used.”

Now more than ever, Holmes wished he had Mari in his arms, she and all her heartaches, her secrets. All these years, she’d hidden behind this tale about her mother’s death. He could hardly believe the truth she’d locked inside, sharing with no one—not even him.

His mistrust of Imelda, too, had dissipated in an instant.

Imelda went on, “After Mari chased me down to the water, I had no choice but to lie to the men. They asked who the girl was, why she was following me. I told them she was my cousin, and they believed it. They believe everything I tell them, for I’ve led them to countless piles of sunken loot. Much of what they have is because of me. This is why Matteo visited me earlier. He and I convene regularly. He moves me from ship to ship, whatever suits his fancy.”

Finally, Holmes understood what Quinto had meant when he said, You haven’t any idea what else is on this brig .

He hadn’t meant jewels at all.

He’d meant this woman, this witch.

“How do you do it?” Holmes asked. “How do you find sunken treasure?”

“We were born with this witchcraft in our blood,” she said. “A strand of hagstones—stones from the sea, with a small hole in them—is all I require. It guides me. Pulls me, quite literally.”

Far more interesting than herb pastes and olive pits, Holmes thought.

“The men believe me immune to the wrath of the sea— al contrario , able to harness it. And if I am being honest,” she went on, “I sometimes think they seized me for more than just the riches I could lead them to. The sea has always been the domain of men, an instrument in their aims of domination. Once they realized who I was, I suspect they were scared. Isn’t that why men fear witches, anyway? A woman using her powers to destroy them? Perhaps they worried if they didn’t hold me captive, I could manipulate the sea against them or disturb trade routes or consort with one of their competitors.” She gave a little laugh. “They wouldn’t be wrong, either.

“I cannot tell you,” she concluded, “how relieved I am that the men never discovered I’d left behind two daughters, both of whom held as much power over the sea as I did.”

“Well,” Holmes said, knowing Imelda was his only ally on the brig, “they know it now.”

She sucked in a breath. “What do you mean?”

“Mari is the one who killed Massimo. She drowned him. I did not say it earlier, but she drowned him from afar, apparently. She somehow had control over the water.”

“My foolish girl,” Imelda whispered. “I wonder if she recognized him from that night I went away. But then again, twelve years is a long time to remember a face.”

“I wrote Mari a letter several days ago,” Holmes said, “telling her to flee. It’s why I took a knife to the rigging, too. To slow our voyage, so she could escape.”

“You are a good man,” she said. “And I hope she’s gotten the letter, for we are but an hour from Positano.”

Holmes froze. “An hour?” He’d known they were sailing again after repairs to the brig, but he hadn’t any way of knowing how far they’d gone.

“Yes,” she said gravely. “I overheard the officers discussing it a short while ago.”

Holmes’s heart thumped harder inside his chest. He might have been a good man, as Imelda had just said, but he was a criminal. A dead man, once he was back on land.

The Aquila shuddered beneath him, inching forward.