A Hidden Fire
Page 52
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“Well, he’s lovely. And has such a wonderful sense of humor.”
“Unlike his boss,” she muttered as she drank her coffee. She may have said it, but she knew it wasn’t true. Though he had a dry, acerbic wit, Giovanni’s humor was one of the things she liked most about him.
And she couldn’t deny she liked him. Though she had been attracted to him from the beginning, the more she learned, the more she was drawn to him. He could be so aloof, but she was beginning to see the “opposite of frosty” side Carwyn had told her about weeks ago.
That kiss, she thought again as her grandmother chattered on about her date.
“Beatrice, you should go back to work. You’re avoiding him. Does this have anything to do with feelings you may have developed—”
“Nope,” she lied, cutting her grandmother off. “No feelings. He’s my boss. I’m just taking some time off. I have some projects that need my attention, Grandma. And I don’t want you and Caspar gossiping, okay? I’m just…taking some time off. That’s all.”
She gulped down the rest of her coffee, ignoring the almost laser-like stare she knew her grandmother was giving her.
“Well, aren’t you full of shit! Also, Caspar and I will gossip about anything we please.” She smiled sweetly at Beatrice, who finished up her toast and stood to leave. “Working tonight? It’s—”
“Wednesday. Yeah, night hours.” She had taken the previous Wednesday night off like a coward but refused to avoid it any more. She’d just suck it up and ignore her conflicting feelings for the man…vampire…whatever. After all, she was a professional.
“Have a nice day, Mariposa. I’ll see you tomorrow. I have a date with Caspar tonight.”
“Cool. Have fun. Don’t do anything…you know what? I don’t even want to know or imagine. Bye!” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek and walked to the door.
She spotted the minivan parked down the street as she backed out of the driveway. It followed her down the street, always keeping that careful distance she’d become accustomed to. At first the ever-present family car had freaked her out, but when she noticed Giovanni giving them a satisfied glance when he saw them one night, she knew it had been his doing.
First, it had pissed her off. Then, it had freaked her out. But the more she thought about how many things had changed in her world, and the danger that Giovanni and Carwyn had hinted at, the more the thought she could get used to having someone keeping an eye on her safety.
She glanced in her rear view mirror as she took the exit for the university. Yep, she thought, still there.
She wasn’t dumb; she’d known Giovanni had an ulterior motive for hiring her, but she was also willing to put up with it if he could really find her father. It wasn’t until the letters had arrived that the gravity of the danger she was in began to sink in.
If her father had been killed because of something he found out about these books, who was to say her life wasn’t in danger, too?
“What the hell kind of mess did you get me into, Dad?” she wondered for the thousandth time as she pulled into one of the crowded lots. She wondered if her father even knew he had put her in danger. She wondered if he thought about her at all.
Every time she asked about her father, Giovanni simply said he was still waiting to hear. From who or what, she didn’t know.
By the time she walked to the library for her shift, she had successfully managed to shove all thoughts of Dr. Giovanni Vecchio from her brain. This was immediately ruined when she got up to the fifth floor and saw Dr. Christiansen and Charlotte bent over a now familiar shipping box she knew would have a return address from the University of Ferrara in Italy.
Dr. Christiansen looked up with a smile. “Another letter arrived!”
“Of course it did,” she muttered.
She set her bag down behind the reference desk and walked over to look. She glanced at the parchment, but quickly grabbed the notes that accompanied them.
“I’ll go make a couple of copies for the next flood of professors,” Beatrice said as she took the notes—which she knew would include a translation—back to the copy and imaging room.
Hours later she sat in the empty reading room, perusing the translation of the fourth Pico letter. Word of the new document hadn’t spread yet, so the reading room was deserted as she looked over her notes. It was another letter from the scholar, Angelo Poliziano. He talked more about the mystical books in Signore Andros’s library, some trip to Paris Pico was taking, and asked after the little boy, but it was the third section which caught her attention.
I will not linger in this letter, but hope to hear a response from you soon regarding the matter of G. Do not think that your unsigned correspondence has gone unnoticed. Your sonnets have been read in the very rooms of Lorenzo’s home. While they are beautiful work—some of your best—I beg of you to be more discreet in your admiration. You are fortunate so many ladies share the fair skin and dark hair of your muse, as their generality may yet prevent you from becoming embroiled in another scandal.
She shook her head, scribbling nonsense in the margins of her notebook.
Was this truly Giovanni? she asked herself as she finished the letter. Friend of Lorenzo de Medici? Philosopher at age twenty-three and contemporary of some of the greatest minds of the Italian Renaissance? A poet who longed for another man’s wife?
“Unlike his boss,” she muttered as she drank her coffee. She may have said it, but she knew it wasn’t true. Though he had a dry, acerbic wit, Giovanni’s humor was one of the things she liked most about him.
And she couldn’t deny she liked him. Though she had been attracted to him from the beginning, the more she learned, the more she was drawn to him. He could be so aloof, but she was beginning to see the “opposite of frosty” side Carwyn had told her about weeks ago.
That kiss, she thought again as her grandmother chattered on about her date.
“Beatrice, you should go back to work. You’re avoiding him. Does this have anything to do with feelings you may have developed—”
“Nope,” she lied, cutting her grandmother off. “No feelings. He’s my boss. I’m just taking some time off. I have some projects that need my attention, Grandma. And I don’t want you and Caspar gossiping, okay? I’m just…taking some time off. That’s all.”
She gulped down the rest of her coffee, ignoring the almost laser-like stare she knew her grandmother was giving her.
“Well, aren’t you full of shit! Also, Caspar and I will gossip about anything we please.” She smiled sweetly at Beatrice, who finished up her toast and stood to leave. “Working tonight? It’s—”
“Wednesday. Yeah, night hours.” She had taken the previous Wednesday night off like a coward but refused to avoid it any more. She’d just suck it up and ignore her conflicting feelings for the man…vampire…whatever. After all, she was a professional.
“Have a nice day, Mariposa. I’ll see you tomorrow. I have a date with Caspar tonight.”
“Cool. Have fun. Don’t do anything…you know what? I don’t even want to know or imagine. Bye!” She kissed her grandmother on the cheek and walked to the door.
She spotted the minivan parked down the street as she backed out of the driveway. It followed her down the street, always keeping that careful distance she’d become accustomed to. At first the ever-present family car had freaked her out, but when she noticed Giovanni giving them a satisfied glance when he saw them one night, she knew it had been his doing.
First, it had pissed her off. Then, it had freaked her out. But the more she thought about how many things had changed in her world, and the danger that Giovanni and Carwyn had hinted at, the more the thought she could get used to having someone keeping an eye on her safety.
She glanced in her rear view mirror as she took the exit for the university. Yep, she thought, still there.
She wasn’t dumb; she’d known Giovanni had an ulterior motive for hiring her, but she was also willing to put up with it if he could really find her father. It wasn’t until the letters had arrived that the gravity of the danger she was in began to sink in.
If her father had been killed because of something he found out about these books, who was to say her life wasn’t in danger, too?
“What the hell kind of mess did you get me into, Dad?” she wondered for the thousandth time as she pulled into one of the crowded lots. She wondered if her father even knew he had put her in danger. She wondered if he thought about her at all.
Every time she asked about her father, Giovanni simply said he was still waiting to hear. From who or what, she didn’t know.
By the time she walked to the library for her shift, she had successfully managed to shove all thoughts of Dr. Giovanni Vecchio from her brain. This was immediately ruined when she got up to the fifth floor and saw Dr. Christiansen and Charlotte bent over a now familiar shipping box she knew would have a return address from the University of Ferrara in Italy.
Dr. Christiansen looked up with a smile. “Another letter arrived!”
“Of course it did,” she muttered.
She set her bag down behind the reference desk and walked over to look. She glanced at the parchment, but quickly grabbed the notes that accompanied them.
“I’ll go make a couple of copies for the next flood of professors,” Beatrice said as she took the notes—which she knew would include a translation—back to the copy and imaging room.
Hours later she sat in the empty reading room, perusing the translation of the fourth Pico letter. Word of the new document hadn’t spread yet, so the reading room was deserted as she looked over her notes. It was another letter from the scholar, Angelo Poliziano. He talked more about the mystical books in Signore Andros’s library, some trip to Paris Pico was taking, and asked after the little boy, but it was the third section which caught her attention.
I will not linger in this letter, but hope to hear a response from you soon regarding the matter of G. Do not think that your unsigned correspondence has gone unnoticed. Your sonnets have been read in the very rooms of Lorenzo’s home. While they are beautiful work—some of your best—I beg of you to be more discreet in your admiration. You are fortunate so many ladies share the fair skin and dark hair of your muse, as their generality may yet prevent you from becoming embroiled in another scandal.
She shook her head, scribbling nonsense in the margins of her notebook.
Was this truly Giovanni? she asked herself as she finished the letter. Friend of Lorenzo de Medici? Philosopher at age twenty-three and contemporary of some of the greatest minds of the Italian Renaissance? A poet who longed for another man’s wife?
