truth. Titles, family honor-that's nineteenth-century rubbish.'
'Honor is never out of date.'
She looked at Pendergast curiously. 'You're a rather old-fashioned sort, aren't you?'
'I don't pay much attention to current fashions, if that's what you mean.'
She looked his black suit up and down with an amused smile. 'No, I suppose you don't. I rather like that.'
Again Pendergast looked nonplussed.
'Well'-she stood up, her brown eyes catching the light off the water, a smile dimpling her face-'whether you find the violin or not, come back anyway and tell me about it. Will you?'
'Nothing would please me more.'
'Good. That's settled.'
Pendergast looked at her gravely. 'Which brings me to the point of my visit.'
'The big question. Ah.' She smiled. 'Go ahead.'
'What is the name of that powerful family that once owned the Stormcloud?'
'I can do better than give you a mere answer.' She reached into her pocket, removed an envelope, and laid it before Pendergast. In a lovely copperplate hand was written, Dr. Aloysius X. L. Pendergast.
Pendergast looked at it, his face draining of color. 'Where did you get this?'
'Yesterday, the current Count Fosco-for that was the family that once owned the violin-paid me a surprise visit. Surprise is hardly the word-I was bowled over. He said you'd be coming, that you were friends, and that he wanted me to give you this.'
Pendergast reached down and slowly picked up the envelope. D'Agosta watched as he slid his finger under the flap, tore it open, and pulled out a card, on which was written in the same generous, flowing hand:
Isidor Ottavio Baldassare Fosco,
Count of the Holy Roman Empire,
Knight Grand Cross of the Order of the Quincunx,
Perpetual Arch-Master of the Rosicrucian Masons of Mesopotamia,
Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, etc.,,,,,,,
desires the pleasure of your company
at his family seat,
Castel Fosco,
Sunday, November 4
Castel Fosco
Greve in Chianti
Firenze
Pendergast looked sharply at D'Agosta and then back at Lady Maskelene. 'This man is no friend. He's extremely dangerous.'
'What? That fat, charming old count?' She laughed, but the laughter died when she saw the expression on his face.
'He's the one who has the violin.'
She stared. 'It would be his, anyway-wouldn't it? I mean, if it were found.'
'He brutally murdered at least four people to get it.'
'Oh, my God-'
'Don't say anything to anyone about this. You'll be safe here, on Capraia. He would have killed you already if he thought it was necessary.'
She stared back. 'You're frightening me.'
'Yes, and I'm sorry, but sometimes it's good to be afraid. It will be over in two or three days. Please be careful, Viola. Just stay here and do nothing until I return with the violin.'
For a moment, she did not reply. Then she stirred. 'You must go. You'll miss the ferry.'
Pendergast took her hand. They stood quite still, looking at each other, saying nothing. Then Pendergast turned and quickly walked through the gate and down the trail.
D'Agosta leaned against the fantail of the ferry, watching the island dissolve on the horizon in much the same way it had appeared: with a sense of expectancy, of a fresh beginning. Pendergast stood beside him. Since they had left the small house on the bluff, the agent hadn't said a word. He stared back over the churning wake, apparently lost in thought.
'Fosco knew that you knew,' said D'Agosta. 'That's what saved her.'
'Yes.'
'This whole thing. It was just an elaborate plot to get the violin, wasn't it?'
Pendergast nodded.
'I knew from the beginning that fat bastard had something to do with it.'
Pendergast didn't respond. His gaze was far away.
