Wake followed Catherine into the crowd and watched as Faber gruffly ordered her to go to their room, adding that he would be there shortly, then brushed aside a protesting Brown and strode over to the bar table. Catherine was on the verge of tears as she glanced at Wake before disappearing from view.
He almost followed her, but held back, for Brown abruptly spoke up again, asking everyone to ignore the incident and not let it spoil the evening that he had planned for them. “Our martial entertainment is over, ladies and gentlemen. Now we’ll move on to some culinary entertainment, for which my chef is justly famous.”
The guests, chattering excitedly, reformed their line and filed past a taciturn Variam, who shepherded them into the two dining rooms. Strom appeared and spoke quietly. “Nice demonstration of European manners, wasn’t it? They do get their feathers ruffled here. Especially the French and the Prussians.”
“Are those two really going to duel at dawn, sir?”
Strom grinned. “Looks that way, doesn’t it. No great loss, no matter who loses. They’re both obnoxious.”
“Mr. Consul General, perhaps I’m naïve, but I didn’t think people still did that.”
Strom regarded Wake for a second. “They may look pretty polished around here, Peter Wake, but just under the glitter they get as tribal as any African. Fortunately, they don’t think we Americans are worth getting upset over.”
24
Sotto la Luna
Wake was in a trance for the rest of the evening. He couldn’t keep his mind off that vision of Catherine in the sunset. At dinner he sat between Christine Strom and the Greek consul’s wife, who kept telling him that English food was dull and she could do so much better. Across from him was the vulcanologist he had met at the French soirée in Genoa, still boring people with rantings about how volcanic lava could energize lights in lamps. Catherine never returned and Wake worried about her. Faber didn’t appear too stable when he went inside after filling himself at the bar. It was an excruciating evening and he wanted to lash out at someone in frustration.
After dinner, the Royal Navy contingent—minus Drummond, who was with the senior diplomats in Brown’s private study—clustered in a corner of the dining room, the ladies having adjourned to a parlor somewhere in the castle. Allen came over and passed along an invitation to join the British naval officers, Wake almost leaping at the chance to get away from the society people and be with his own kind. When he arrived at the smoky gathering—Wake didn’t mind pipe smoke but had never abided cigars very much—he was offered some British West Indian rum, which he accepted with grateful enthusiasm. Sea stories and war stories ensued, with Allen asking Wake to tell of his experiences during the American Civil War. Wake did, prefacing that they weren’t of real tale-telling quality but could show the character of blockade duty.
As the evening grew late he noticed Drummond return to the dining room, which was now raucous with laughter and shouting. The admiral was in deep conversation with none other than Commander John Fisher, who stopped midsentence when he saw Wake.
“Hello, Wake. Didn’t think you’d be here,” Fisher said with a smile as Drummond poured himself some rum over at the side table. “Got on the diplo party list, eh? Dreary stuff, most of the time, but old Brown’s got quite the hideout here, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir. I’m very impressed with the castle and appreciate his invitation. But I think it’s because the senior American naval officers are gone, sir.”
Fisher shook his head. “No, Lieutenant. It’s because Brown likes your mettle. Heard of your reputation and was keen on having you around.”
“Well, that’s flattering, sir. I hope I haven’t disappointed him.” Wake remembered his earlier suspicion on where Fisher had been headed and decided to be bold. “Is your holiday with friends over now, sir? On your way back to England?”
Fisher tilted his jaw back, then allowed the smile to return. “Yes.”
Wake decided to press, his eyes on Fisher’s, willing his voice to sound nonchalant. “And where did you say you were visiting, sir? Croatia, I think?”
“I don’t believe that I did, Lieutenant. Have a pleasant evening. I must be going now.”
Fisher rejoined Drummond, and Wake saw by his watch that it was almost midnight, the realization making him suddenly tired. He said his thank-yous and bid good night, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hallway was lit by two small lamps, creating a gloomy cast that brought Craven Walker’s dream of lava lights to mind. Wake was ruminating on the feasibility of using lava for energy when Variam quietly came up from the shadows at the end of the hall and stood at attention, handing over an envelope.
“A message for you, sir. No reply desired.”
Wake thought perhaps it was Fisher or Allen, or maybe Strom or Brown, who wanted to meet him for breakfast the next morning and discuss something privately. Then he saw the script on the outside of the envelope and instantly knew. Variam bowed and made his way silently down the hall, leaving Wake to study his name written in feminine cursive. A moment later Wake was holding the note under the dim light, trying to read the words. All it said was: Lovers’ Walk—midnight.
He pulled out his watch again. Both tiny brass hands were pointing up.
***
Wake slipped into his room and, in a shaft of light through the window from
