He settled down to take advantage of the two hours he had left to work on the transcription. He hoped to finish the second of the six sections by the end of the week so he could have Caspar fax it to Nima with his notes.
“Dr. Vecchio?”
“Hmm?” He bit his lip, lost in his own thoughts.
“Did you have any questions?”
He flashed her a smile before turning his face back to his work.
“No, I’m fine. Thank you, Beatrice,” he said, his concentration already shifted to the manuscript in front of him. He heard the young woman quietly return to her seat behind the computer.
They worked for the next two hours, both occupied in their own projects. Every now and then, she would glance at him, but he barely noticed, engrossed in his careful transcription. The soughing of the air-conditioner provided background noise to the turning paper, the scratching of his pencil, and the quiet click of the young woman’s keyboard as she typed.
Shortly before nine o’clock, she closed her books and walked to his table. He looked up at her, dazed from concentration. He saw her take note of his precise transcription of the characters. They were a near exact copy of the original, down to the thickness of the brush strokes he recreated with the tip of his pencil, over and over again.
“Dr. Vecchio, I have to ask for the manuscript now. The reading room is closing in fifteen minutes.”
He blinked. “Oh… yes, if I could finish this last character set?”
“Of course.” She waited for him, and Giovanni smiled politely as he closed the manuscript, repacked it, and put the lid on the box.
The girl took the book back to the locked stacks to put it away in the dim room where it was housed. As she locked up the stacks room, she turned back to see Giovanni putting his pencils and notes away in his leather messenger bag.
“Well—”
“Why don’t you like the name Beatrice?” he asked, looking down as he fastened the brass buckle of his bag.
“Excuse me?”
He looked up at her, dark hair falling into his eyes again.
“It’s a lovely name. Why do you prefer to be called by your initial?”
“It’s… old. My name—it sounds like an old woman to me.”
He smiled enigmatically. “Yet, you work around old things all the time.”
“I guess I do.”
He leaned his hip against the sturdy wooden table.
“She was Dante’s muse, you know.”
“Of course I know. That’s why I have the stupid name to begin with. My dad was a Dante scholar.” Beatrice looked down to straighten her own papers on the desk. “Kind of a fanatic, really.”
He cocked his head and studied her. “Oh? Does he teach here?”
She paused and shook her head. “No, he died ten years ago. In Italy.”
His eyes darted back to the table, and he pulled the strap of his bag over his head as some faint memory tickled the back of his mind.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Forgive my curiosity.”
She frowned. “I’m not going to start weeping or anything, if you’re worried about that. It was a long time ago.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize. Good evening, Beatrice.” He exited the room, taking care to make as little noise as possible as he slipped down the dark hallway.
He entered the musty stairwell, taking a deep breath of the humid air to gauge who else was present. Satisfied he was alone, he rapidly descended to the first floor and made his way through the still crowded student-study area. As he approached the glass entrance, he caught a glimpse of Beatrice in the dark reflection as she stood near the elevator in the lobby, her mouth gaping as she stared at him. Not turning for even a moment, he pushed his way into the dark night and strolled toward the parking lot adjacent to the library.
When he reached it, he saw the slight flare of the cigarette as Caspar leaned against the black Mercedes sedan.
“A good evening, Gio?”
Giovanni frowned at his old friend, flicking the cigarette out of Caspar’s mouth as he approached the door. He stood in front of the man, looking down on him as he spoke.
“I don’t like the cigarettes. I thought you had given them up.”
Caspar looked up with a mischievous grin. “If I’m only living for eighty years or so, I’m going to enjoy them.”
Giovanni opened his mouth as if to say something but then shook his head and slid into the dark interior of the late-model sedan. Reaching into his messenger bag, he slid on a pair of leather gloves and crossed his arms while his friend got behind the wheel.
“Any requests?” Caspar fiddled with the stereo as Giovanni’s eyes scanned the dark parking lot.
“Are the Bach fugues still in the changer?”
“Indeed they are.”
Caspar switched the CD player on. In a few moments, the sedan was filled with the alternately lively and melancholy notes of the piano. Giovanni sat motionless, listening with pleasure to the modern recording of one of his favorite pieces of music.
“Mrs. Martin was not in the library this evening,” Giovanni said, his voice low and bearing more than its usual light accent.
“Oh? Everything all right?”
He shrugged. “Look into it tomorrow. Call and find out why she’s changed her hours. If it is simply a family issue, then it is no concern of ours.”
“Of course.”
The car was silent as it turned toward Buffalo Bayou.
“Inform me if it is anything other than that.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
A few moments later, they pulled up to the gate, and the wrought iron swung aside at their approach. Giovanni pulled out his pen and used it to push down the button for the automatic window, enjoying the smooth rush of air into the vehicle as it made its way toward the house. The grounds were suffused with the scent of clematis and roses that night, and the air smelled strongly of cut grass.
“The gardeners came early,” he noted.
Caspar nodded. “They did. We’re supposed to get rain tonight.”
“There is a new employee at the desk.”
“Is that so?” Caspar stopped the car near the rear courtyard, shifting the car into park so his employer could exit the vehicle before he put it in the garage behind the house.
“A girl. A student. Beatrice De Novo. Check on her, as well.”
“Of course. Anything in particular you want to know?”
He opened the door, reaching down for his leather bag before he stepped out. “There’s something about the father. He was killed ten years ago in Italy. Let me know if anything jumps out at you.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Giovanni climbed out of the car, resting his hand lightly on the doorframe. Leaning down, he spoke again to his friend.
“I’m swimming for a bit, and then I’ll be in the music room for the rest of the night. I won’t need anything. Good night.”
And with that, he stood up, nudged the car door closed, made his way across the courtyard with the bubbling fountain, and strode into the dark house.
Caspar drove the car back to the garage, parked it, and sat in the driver’s seat, petting the steering wheel lightly.
“He’s getting better, darling. Only one little short on the door panel this time. Not that he noticed, of course.”
Chuckling, he exited the vehicle, locked the garage, and made his way into the house, flipping on all the lights in the kitchen. He thumbed through the mail again, separating the household bills from the extensive correspondence of his employer, before he shut all but one of the lights off again and made his way to the library on the second floor.
Pouring himself a brandy, Caspar settled down with the first edition of A Study in Scarlet that Giovanni had given him for his sixtieth birthday. Forgoing a fire, he opened the window facing the front garden and enjoyed the closeness of the night air, which smelled of the grass clippings the gardeners had raked that afternoon.
&n
bsp; An hour or so later, he paused when he heard the door to the music room close as Giovanni shut himself in. Caspar wondered which instrument would catch his attention, praying it wasn’t one of the louder brasses. He breathed out a sigh when he heard the first notes of the piano struck. From Giovanni’s thoughtful mood earlier in the evening, he expected to hear Bach, so he was surprised to hear the strange Satie melody drift up from the first floor.
“There’s something about the father. He was killed ten years ago in Italy.”
Caspar frowned as he remembered the familiar light he’d seen in Giovanni’s eyes. He hadn’t seen that light for almost five years. Part of him had hoped to never see it again.
“What are you up to, Gio?” he muttered as he stared out the open window.
The gentle dissonance of the piano was unexpectedly disturbing to the man as he sat in his favorite chair. A breeze came through the window, carrying the earthy smell of coming rain to his nose. Caspar stood, walked to the window, and shut it just before fat drops began to fall.
Click here to read more of A Hidden Fire: Elemental Mysteries Book One
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my lovely first-readers: friends and fellow writers, Kristy Scott, Killian McCrae, Caroline Starr and Elizabeth Reinhardt. Thank you for your sharp eyes and honest opinions. You make me so much better.
Thanks to my amazing editor, Amy Eye, at The Eyes for Editing. You make me look good.
Thanks to my girls (you know who you are) and your constant encouragement and camaraderie. You keep me from (most) mental breakdowns.
And thanks most of all to my readers. You make this all possible.
E
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elizabeth Hunter is a contemporary fantasy, paranormal romance, and contemporary romance author. She is a graduate of the University of Houston Honors College in the Department of English (Linguistics) and a former English teacher.
She currently lives in Central California with a seven-year-old ninja who claims to be her child. She enjoys reading, writing, travel, and bowling (despite the fact that she’s not very good at it). Someday, she plans to learn how to scuba dive. And maybe hang glide. But that looks like a lot of running.
Her contemporary fantasy series, The Elemental Mysteries, is a paranormal romance available in e-edition and paperback at all major online retailers. A Hidden Fire, This Same Earth, The Force of Wind, and A Fall of Water are now available.
Learn more about her writing at ElizabethHunterWrites.com or visit the Elemental Mysteries fan site at ElementalMysteries.com. She may be contacted by e-mail at
[email protected].
Elizabeth Hunter, Long Ride Home
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