She wished there were some polished surface in which she might see her reflection, but the dragon had provided her with nothing more vainglorious than a brush. She felt her head, petted the thick mane she’d wrestled with all her life, wondered if it might be a relief to be free of it now. But where to start?
She pulled a thick mass forward over her left shoulder and tested the length. It was nearly to her waist. If she cut it at the neck, might she possibly fit the rest beneath a crispin? Or perhaps inside a padded roll as she’d seen the noble ladies wear? She’d tried to wrap her wealth of hair inside a turban and failed with each attempt. But with half the hair, she might succeed.
Gaspar’s words came back to her, and all thoughts of fashion dissolved. She simply wanted to be rid of it all, and rid of the pain that gnawed at her innards. Then she would turn her thoughts to the dragon and how to make him rue the day he’d laid eyes upon her.
She raised the blade and hoped it might guide itself, but a flash of light made her pause. It was the reflection of her face in the smooth silver surface. Her face. Was that smooth flesh her enemy as well?
If the dragon kept her locked away so he could gaze upon her at his leisure, she would make true and certain he never wanted to look at her again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Gaspar did not go to Isobelle at Compline, leaving her to pray alone as he’d promised. His past always made him feel foolish, and he’d gone to sleep feeling decidedly mean. The kindest thing to do for her was to allow her to sleep. And when she woke, he’d apologize.
Dawn was not so considerate of him, however, and the pale blue light woke him as surely as a trumpet’s blast. He rose to face his day of penance and decided to walk the beach and practice the apology he must deliver with her morning meal.
Perhaps he would begin by explaining that it was his heart that was the true captive here. The bars that held him prisoner were long curled strands of dark red hair, and even as he watched her sleep through the intricately designed screen, he was on the inside, looking out. He had no gate, and no key. He would be bound to her forever, even if she left him.
The sky was clear and empty but for a gull that had much to complain about. His fellows fled the beach and joined him, andtogether they went in search of something that apparently could not be found onIsola del Silenzio, his Island of Silence.
He strolled to the western point and found the tide had washed nothing interesting onto the shore. The south beach had nothing more than a thin offering of shells. There was something new on the east side, however. A large bit of dark fur. Perhaps a remnant of what was once a sea lion.
He neared it cautiously, not knowing if some small animal might still be alive enough to strike out at him. But as he bent over it, he realized it was hair—Isobelle’s hair!
He spun in the sand and looked at the tower, wishing, as he ran, that he could see through the stones. With no protection on his feet, he paid close attention to his footing, as thus found another clump of hair. He snatched it up midstride and continued toward the arched doors. He stopped dead when he noticed the second lock had not been moistened by the sea spray, but by blood.
The ever-present wind brought a cry to his ears, but it was not the gulls; it was Isobelle, sobbing. A gust tugged at the dark red hair in his hand as if it were determined to take it from him.
“Isobelle.” It was both a whisper and a prayer, and he repeated it with every step as he ran to her.
James Ferguson,former MI6 agent for Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, was pleased to find that people in the fifteenth century were much more trusting than people from the twenty-first. He had no need of Google. Everyone knew everything about everyone. He supposed that was what happened when there was no telly to watch. These people simply watched their neighbors for entertainment.
A Scotsman looking for another Scotsman was nothing to raise a brow over. However, a Scotsman looking for a Scotswoman who’d recently been arrested as a witch was another matter entirely. These Venetians were quick to tell all they knew and quicker still to offer consolation in the form of food. Wonderful food. And to a growing lad of six feet eight inches, they were generous with their plates and their pity.
“Of course, you’ll wish to know where she’s buried,” said one woman with a sly wink, “only there is no grave to find.”
Another was quick to join in, ladling the last of her rich soup into James’ empty bowl. “And not because she perished, I’d vow.”
“I was getting to that,” the first complained. “No one witnessed the execution of a red-haired Scotswoman. No one?—”
“Some say she disappeared in a puff of smoke the moment God’s Dragon put her into a boat.”
“I was getting to that as well!”
The women began to bicker in Italian, forgetting he only spoke French and could not understand more than a word or two.
“Ladies, please,” he said in French, reminded them of his limited tongue. “What is this about a dragon? God’s Dragon?”
“Gaspar Dragotti,” the first woman whispered, looking around her kitchen as if this Dragotti might be lurking among the spices hanging from the ceiling beams. “Special Investigator to The Patriarch of Venice himself. He is the authority who arrested her. But she disappeared?—”
“As soon as he put her upon the water!” The second woman hurried out of the reach of the first one.
“Did anyone see this?”
“Yes! Icarus was there. He saw it all.”
“Icarus?”
“The dragon’s servant. He swears the woman disappeared.”
