Douglas Preston - Brimstone

Pendergast slipped down the path, entered the patio, and knocked on the door.

Silence.

"C'è nessuno?" he called.

The wind sighed through the rosemary bushes, carrying the fragrance of the sea with it.

D'Agosta looked around. "There's someone over there," he said. "A man, digging." He nodded toward a small, terraced vineyard a hundred yards away, where a figure was turning earth with a spade. The man was wearing a battered straw hat, old canvas pants, and a rough shirt unbuttoned partway down the front. Seeing them, the person straightened up.

"Correction: a woman digging." Pendergast set off down the path with a vigorous step. Reaching the vineyard, they stepped gingerly through clods of freshly turned earth. The woman watched them approach, leaning on her shovel.

Pendergast paused to offer the woman his hand, giving his usual little half-bow. In response, she removed her straw hat, shook out a mass of dark glossy hair, and took the hand.

D'Agosta froze. This is no middle-aged woman.

She was stunningly beautiful, tall, athletic, and slender, with spirited hazel eyes, high cheekbones, skin tanned and freckled from the sun, nose still flaring from the effort of digging.

After a moment, he realized Pendergast, after having bowed, had straightened again but seemed rooted to the spot, still holding her hand, saying nothing but looking into her eyes. The woman appeared to be doing the same. There was a moment of utter stillness. D'Agosta wondered if they had known each other before-it almost seemed as if they recognized each other.

"I am Aloysius Pendergast," Pendergast said after a long moment.

"I'm Viola Maskelene," she replied in a rich, warm English accent.

As they released each other's hand, D'Agosta realized Pendergast had uncharacteristically forgotten to introduce him. "And I'm Sergeant Vincent D'Agosta, Southampton Police."

The woman turned to him, as if noticing him for the first time. But the smile she gave him was full of warmth. "Welcome to Capraia, Sergeant."

Another awkward silence. D'Agosta glanced at Pendergast. He had a most uncharacteristic look of surprise on his face, as if somebody had just dropped a scoop of ice cream down his back. What was going on?

"Well," said Lady Maskelene with another smile, "I assume you're here to see me, Mr. Pendergast?"

"Yes," he said hastily. "Yes, we are. It concerns-"

She held up her finger. "A hot vineyard is no place to have a civilized conversation. Let's go back to my house and enjoy something cool on the terrazza , shall we?"

"Yes, of course."

She smiled again: a dazzling, dimpled smile. "Follow me." She set off across the field, her big boots clomping through the clods of earth. The terrazza was shaded by a pergola draped with wisteria, and bordered by blooming rosemary and miniature lemon trees. It was like being perched on the edge of the known world, the cliffs dropping away to an infinity of blue, stretching to the horizon and merging imperceptibly with the sky. The expanse was broken by a single, tiny black reef, about a mile offshore, which only served to increase the sense of distance, of infinity.

Lady Maskelene seated them around an old tiled table, in battered wooden chairs, and then disappeared into the house. A minute later she returned with a wine bottle without a label, filled with a pale amber liquid; some glasses; a bottle of olive oil; and a battered clay platter heaped with thick pieces of rough-cut bread. She set down the glasses and, moving around the table, filled them with white wine. As she passed D'Agosta his glass, he caught her faint scent, a perfume of grapevines, earth, and the sea.

Pendergast took a sip. "Is it yours, Lady Maskelene?"

"Yes. The olive oil is mine also. There's something marvelously satisfying about working your own piece of ground."

"Complimenti." Pendergast took another sip, dipped a piece of the rough bread in a dish of olive oil. "Excellent."

"Thank you."

"Allow me to tell you why we've come, Lady Maskelene."

"No," she said in a low voice, looking not at him, but far out to sea, her hazel eyes almost blue in the intense light, a strange smile on her lips. "Don't spoil this . particular moment just yet."

D'Agosta wondered just what particular moment she might be talking about. The faint sound of surf and the cries of seagulls drifted from the edge of the cliff.

"What an enchanting villa you have here, Lady Maskelene."

She laughed. "A villa it is not-just a simple seaside bungalow. That's why I love it. Here I have my books, my music, my vines, my olive trees-and the sea. What more could you ask for?"

"You mentioned music. Do you play an instrument?"

A hesitation. "The violin."

Now we're getting somewhere, thought D'Agosta. As usual, Pendergast was sliding into the subject sideways.

"You are here year-round?"

"Oh, no. I'd get bored. I'm not that much of a recluse."

"Where do you spend the rest of your time?"

"I lead a rather decadent life. Fall in Rome, December in Luxor, at the Winter Palace."

"Egypt? That's a curious place to spend the winter."

"I'm directing a small dig in the Valley of the Nobles."

"You're an archaeologist, then?"

"An Egyptologist and philologist. There's a difference, you know-we study a great deal more than dirt, pots, and bones. We've been excavating the tomb of a Nineteenth Dynasty scribe, full of fascinating hieratic inscriptions. Of course, the tomb was looted in antiquity, but fortunately all the looters wanted were the gold and gems. They left the scrolls and inscriptions intact. We found the scribe himself in his sarcophagus, holding a bundle of mysterious scrolls full of magical formulas which we have yet to unroll and translate. They're exceedingly delicate."

"Fascinating."

"And then, come spring, I go to Cornwall, the family place."

"Spring, in England?"

She laughed. "I love mud. And freezing rain. And sprawling on a fur rug in front of a roaring fire reading a good book. How about you, Mr. Pendergast? What do you love?"

The question seemed to take Pendergast by surprise, and he covered his confusion with a sip of wine. "I love this wine of yours. Fresh, simple, unpretentious."

"It's made from malvasia vines brought to the island almost four thousand years ago by Minoan traders. For me, the flavor somehow evokes history itself, the Minoans crossing the wine-dark sea in trireme ships, bound for distant islands . " She laughed, sweeping her black hair from her face. "I'm an incurable romantic. When I was a child, I wanted to grow up to be Odysseus." She looked at Pendergast. "And you? When you were a child, what did you want to be?"

"A great white hunter."

She laughed. "What a curious ambition! And did you become one?"

"In a way. But on a hunt in Tanzania . I discovered quite suddenly that I had lost the taste for it."

More silence. D'Agosta gave up trying to make sense of what tack Pendergast was taking. He sipped the wine with renewed interest It was very pleasant, if a bit dry. And the bread was fabulous, thick and chewy, the olive oil so fresh it was spicy. He dipped a piece of bread, stuffed it in his mouth, followed with another. He hadn't eaten breakfast and had been a bit too severe with his diet. He glanced surreptitiously at his watch If Pendergast didn't hurry things up, they'd miss the ferry.

Then, to D'Agosta's surprise, the woman brought the subject up herself.

"Speaking of history, there's quite a lot of that in my own family. You know of my great-grandfather, Luciano Toscanelli?"

"I do."

"He did two things in life exceptionally well: playing the violin and seducing women. He was the Mick Jagger of his age. His groupies were countesses, baronesses, princesses. Sometimes he would have two or three women in a day, and not always at different times " She laughed lightly.