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Holmes

Sunday, April 15, 1821 2:20 a.m., somewhere near Anzio

I cannot sleep for having just woken from a terrible nightmare about Mari. I am lying here now in my berth, writing by candlelight. The sea is calm, but my hands are trembling.

I dreamed that our plan went awry—that I drowned in the sea before I could make my way back to her. We did not end up together at all. Another man—not Corso, but someone nameless, faceless—came for Mari and rowed her away from Positano.

Faster , Mari told this man in my dream. Row as hard as you can. Get me away from here. She sat behind him, her legs outstretched in the little boat. He was bigger and stronger than me, able to row quicker than I ever could.

Yes, my love , he told her, rowing harder. His Italian was perfect—no accent, nothing to be misunderstood. Mari bent forward, then she ran her finger between his shoulder blades and down his lower back, reaching toward the front of him…

By the grace of God, I woke before it could get any worse.