Harris paused and smiled in a self-deprecatory way. ‘I could go on and on.’
Elisabetta looked up from her note-taking. ‘I’m curious about the astrological symbols depicted in the magic circle. Do they have a particular significance?’
Harris furrowed his brow at the question. ‘Stephanie, may I see the book?’
It was still on her lap. Meyer passed it carefully to him. He opened it to the title page. ‘Well, it’s the standard zodiac, I suppose. Constellations, planets. To be honest, I’ve never thought about it in a rigorous way.’ He looked up, blinking. ‘Maybe I should.’
Perhaps sensing an opening, Meyer broke her long silence. ‘I’m sure you’ve been wondering why I came to Rome with Professor Harris,’ she said.
‘I don’t know about my daughter, but
‘Let me be open with you,’ Meyer said. ‘I’m here on behalf of the University. We want this book. We want it badly. It represents a tremendous gap in our library collection. Christopher Marlowe was a Cambridge man, one of our most illustrious and colorful graduates. Yet we do not possess a single copy of one of the early quartos of this, his most famous play. Oxford has one and we do not! This must be remedied. As a friend of the University and a supporter of the humanities I have pledged my personal resources to facilitate the acquisition of this book. Is it for sale, my dear?’
‘How much?’ Carlo chirped.
‘Papa! Please!’ Elisabetta begged, staring him down. She turned to face Meyer. ‘I don’t know what to tell you. I’m so honored that the two of you came all the way to see me. Frankly, it’s not something I’ve thought about.’
‘But the book is clearly yours,’ Meyer said, pressing on. ‘I mean, it’s yours and the decision to sell it rests with you, does it not?’
‘I have no personal possessions,’ Elisabetta said. ‘I was given the book as a gift to the Church. I suppose if someone were to buy it, the funds would go to my Order.’
Meyer smiled politely. ‘Well, then. Now that we’ve seen it and Professor Harris is initially happy with its authenticity and condition, perhaps when we return home we can send you an offer in writing. Would you then entertain a formal offer?’
Elisabetta flushed. ‘You’ve been so kind to come and speak with me. Of course. Send me a letter. I’ll speak to my Mother Superior. She’ll know how to respond.’
When the visitors were gone, Elisabetta slumped wearily on the sofa, surrendering to her fatigue. She removed her tight veil, ran a hand through her short hair and massaged her throbbing scalp. Her father shuffled back with a fresh cup of coffee and a look of paternal concern on his face.
‘You need to sleep. No one goes through a night like you had without a need for rest. Have your coffee. Then go to your room.’
Elisabetta took the cup. ‘You sound like you did when I was a child. “Go to your room, Elisabetta, and don’t come out until you’re ready to say you’re sorry.”
‘Someone had to give you some discipline,’ Carlo said. ‘Your mother was a very soft person.’
At that moment she could almost see her mother through her misty eyes, young and beautiful, passing from the hall to the kitchen. ‘I still miss her so much,’ she said.
Her father sniffed defiantly – his way of saying he wasn’t going to let himself succumb to emotion. ‘Of course you do. We all do. If she hadn’t died maybe you wouldn’t have done what you did.’
Elisabetta stiffened. ‘What did I do?’
‘Became a nun.’ She could tell that once it was said that he regretted it but it was clear he meant it.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ she said evenly. ‘Maybe if Marco hadn’t been killed, maybe if mama had been alive, maybe, maybe, maybe. But things happen in a life, God has ways of testing us. My answer to his tests was to find Him. I don’t regret it for a minute.’
Carlo shook his head. ‘You were a beautiful vibrant girl. You still are. And you’ve hidden yourself away behind your nunnery and your habit. I’ve never been happy about this. You should have been a wife and a mother and a scholar. That would have made your mother happy.’
Elisabetta fought the urge to be angry. He was stressed by the events of the past few days and she forgave him. ‘Why have you spent all these years going after Goldbach?’ she asked.
He huffed a laugh. She knew he was smart enough to see where she was going. ‘Because it’s my passion.’
‘And it’s your quest,’ she added. ‘Well, my passion, my quest, is to be with God, to feel Him deeply within my soul. To honor Him with my work with the children. That’s my passion. That’s what makes me happy.’
The door buzzer went off. It was like the bell that signals the end of a boxing round. They both seemed relieved.
‘Have they come back?’ her father said, scanning the room to see if their visitors had left anything behind.
He answered the intercom and came back to the living room to tell Elisabetta that her Mother Superior, Sister Marilena, was here to see her.
Elisabetta rose and hastily put her veil back on. She greeted Marilena at the door.
‘My dear,’ Marilena said with concern, grabbing her hands. ‘I’ve been so worried about you. Word came to us of your ordeal last night.’
‘I’m all right,’ Elisabetta said. ‘God was with me.’
‘Yes, yes, I’ve been giving thanks all day.’
Elisabetta took Marilena to the sitting room. The kettle was whistling again in the kitchen where Elisabetta had sent her father.
‘Such a lovely place,’ Marilena said, glancing around the room.
‘It’s where I grew up,’ Elisabetta said.
‘So warm, so cultured. Everyone at the school has been worried about you.’
‘I hope it’s not a big distraction,’ Elisabetta said.
‘We’re strong enough in our mission and our faith not to lose sight of what we must accomplish with the children and with God.’ Then Marilena laughed. ‘Of course it’s a distraction. You know how we talk! Even my mother can speak of nothing else.’
‘Tell mama I miss her,’ Elisabetta said, realizing with a start that she’d just said something similar.
Suddenly Marilena turned serious. She had the same expression on her face that she wore when preparing to give parents a bad report on their children. ‘Mother-General Maria called me today from Malta,’ she said somberly.
Elisabetta checked her breath.
‘I don’t know where the decision was taken, I don’t know why it was taken and I certainly wasn’t consulted. You’re being transferred, Elisabetta. The Order wants you to leave Rome and report to our school in Lumbubashi in the Republic of Congo. They want you there in one week.’
SEVENTEEN
London, 1586
THE YOUNG MAN cast nervous glances around a walled garden dominated by a mulberry tree which had grown too large for its small patch of greenery.
‘Who did you say owns this house?’ Anthony Babington asked.
‘A widow woman,’ Marlowe answered. ‘Her name is Eleanor Bull. She’s known to Poley. She’s one of us.’
They were in Deptford, on the south bank of the Thames. It was early summer and the preceding weeks had been overly hot and humid. Fetid organic river vapors hung unpleasantly in the air, causing the delicate Babington to sniff at a scented handkerchief for relief. He was twenty-four, fair and beautiful, even with his face scrunched from
