Page 110 of What Blooms in Barren Lands

“There is a messenger,” Russ announced, “from Bastia. Here to see you and Renny.”

“From Bastia?” I straightened up and struggled to keep the slick covers around me. “What, like from that so-called government the Dutch bloke told us about? New Corsica?”

Einar turned around and, upon seeing my struggle, walked over and wrapped the covers tightly and resolutely around me.

“I was actually just thinking about them. About how we would have to meet them and find out how best to deal with them. It had to come sooner or later,” he commented. “I’d just hoped for later.”

He then scooped up his trousers and shirt from the wooden floor to dress hastily.

“Come on.” He patted Russ on the shoulder in passing. “Let’s wait for Ren outside.”

“Sure.” Russ nodded but turned to me as they reached the door. “By the way, Renny, this is a very good look on you, love. A very good look indeed.”

He indicated my dishevelled hair and my skin still flushed from having passed several hours in Einar’s arms, his stubbled jaw tracing every inch of it. He laughed despite Einar’s murderous look and the question posed without a trace of humour.

“Ah, so you want to die, do you?”

A bolt of lightning split the sky outside. Its sharp luminescence seeped through the dust-covered window and fell on Jean-Luc as he paced around the small antechamber. There was a heavy wooden door, and beyond it, our guest awaited our arrival in one of the lesser-used halls.

“Einar, Renny!”

Jean-Luc stopped in his tracks as we filed through the main entrance, soaked as hens despite the walk from our townhouse being very short.

Jean-Luc looked gravely at us and told us without preamble, “I don’t like this. At all. I think I know who this man is,” he added in a whisper, indicating the door behind him with an extended thumb.

“You know him? From before the Outbreak?” I asked.

“Well, yes and no. I feel like his face is familiar. Like maybe I have seen him on TV.”

Einar raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“From how he speaks, how this whole new government is presented ... I have a hunch. You see, a few years before the Outbreak, a new group of separatists formed, calling themselvesLes Fils Véritables de la Corse.”

“True Sons of Corsica?” I translated, and Jean-Luc nodded as Einar turned to me in surprise.

“Translator, love of languages,” I told him out of the corner of my mouth in explanation.

“If I’m not mistaken, he was—and perhaps still is—one of their higher-ups. Individuals were never convicted for a lack of evidence, but this group was known to be armed and highly militant. Responsible for several bombings and multiple attacks on French officials and even some of the more prominent French residents. I myself am pro-separation, or used to be, when it still mattered. But not at the costLes Vrais Filswere willing to pay for it. This group, they are very dangerous.”

Einar listened intently, not taking his eyes off Jean-Luc, and nodded eventually when the latter finished.

“Did the man agree to be searched for weapons?” he asked.

“Aye,” Russ replied promptly. “He carried a rifle, a revolver, and a large knife. Surrendered them all with’oot makin’ fuss, explainin’ as how they were all fer personal protection in case he got stranded on the way ’ere and had to face the infected. I searched him and found no other weapons concealed on him. Fer what it’s worth, he seemed ... an alright bloke. He brought an envelope which he said contains a written invitation for you two.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a trap at all,” I scoffed, and Jean-Luc nodded vigorously, but to my surprise, Einar didn’t join in.

“Let’s hear the man out first,” he said.

“See if he mentions the name of one Victor Ioan Santini,” Jean-Luc advised us. “He was, and perhaps still is, the rumoured leader of the group.”

However I had imagined the man based on Jean-Luc’s distress and Russell’s depiction of him, Angelo Rossi did not meet my expectations in the slightest. He was young and darkly handsome, his narrow face dominated by big brown eyes with long, curled lashes. He was small, but had an air of lean, quick ferocity about him. He looked like the first heartbreak of many a schoolgirl.

“Einar, Renata.” He got up from his seat as soon as we entered, abandoning his cup of coffee. “I meet the legends at last.”

His accent was subtle, the traces of his native French barely perceptible in his speech. He strode towards us with what appeared to be a genuinely excited smile. Enveloping my hand in his, he raised it to his lips instead of shaking it, placing a demure kiss on top of it. Then he grasped Einar’s much larger hand in both of his and shook it, his smile not faltering despite Einar’s steely, unreadable expression.

He introduced himself, saying he came as a representative of the new government.