“Well, I could have a very pretty tail for a costume. Just imagine! Perhaps done in net and paste jewels. And a magnificent wig,” she said dreamily.
As he studied her, his face settled into that bemused wonderment.
“Even so, Mariana, no matter what... you’d be the most riveting lobster to ever grace the stage.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
He gave a soft laugh.
They sat in the kind of silence Mariana had never known. It was perfect.
“You are gifted,” he said.
“I know.”
He smiled at that again, and damned if he didn’t look pleased with the answer.
“But that’s precisely it, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s a gift. I hadn’t much to do with it. I’m a... vessel for that voice. I got lucky.”
“No. You’re wrong,” he said firmly but ruefully. “One person might look at a little cloudy rock and say, ‘What a nice rock.’ It’s the dedication, the determination, the instinct, the...spirit...that ultimately tumbles that rock into a glittering diamond.”
She knew he was right. He delivered it as if it were gospel. What must it be like to be so certainof things? What would it be like to be able to rely upon him as a rudder through life? He was so often right.
“If that is in fact true,” she said carefully but firmly, “you may have to contend with the notion that you are in fact a hero deserving of statues and accolades. Not just a man with the conveniently right temperament for an impossible job. Because the same concept applies.”
He was still. Then his head went back a little, thoughtfully, and then came down in a nod.
And then he smiled at her, and that’s how they sat for a moment or two, enmeshed in a bemused glow of mutual appreciation.
He stirred abruptly and handed the letter back to her. “Why don’t you read this paragraph aloud. I think you’ll be able to translate all of the words in it. The one at the bottom of the page. I’ll help if you need it.”
“Very well. I shall give it a try.” She cleared her throat. “‘We... should like to’... this word that looks like... prove?”
“Prova. Prove. Rehearsal. Rehearse?”
“‘...three weeks...cominciando’? Beginning?”
“Yes. Very good. Beginning.”
“‘We should like to commence rehearsals in’... oh my... that’s nearly three weeks away. I’ve only a very little time to get there! And here are the words ‘Signor Antonio Grieco’—oh, I do like his work! He’s a fine composer. And look at this. The money is good! Am I reading this correctly?”
“Oh, yes. That’s what he’s offering to pay you.”
They had begun by sitting a few inches apart. Somehow, as if they’d slowly been melting, their thighs were now touching, and their shoulders were touching, and suddenly James could no longer think.
A few strands of hair lay against her throat. They glowed like filaments in the firelight. They might as well have been actual gold.
Tension spooled. Tighter and tighter.
Her words grew quieter, faltered, trailed off, stopped.
Her eyelids had shivered closed. And now the little tendril of hair behind her ear fluttered with her breathing. He could see the pulse beating in her throat.
And then finally, delicately, gently he swept those red-gold strands away, his own hand shaking a little from all that he held in check.
He felt like an animal. He wanted to mount. To ravish. Devour.
He warned her of this. Into her ear he confided, each word soft with amazement, scorching with intent:“I want you.”
