10
August 23, 1849
Fiesole, Italy
Just as he had months past, Alis strode out of the steam and smoke of the Maria Antonia railway station with godlike swagger.
Only this time, instead of remaining stock-still and awestruck, Chrissi squealed in delight and ran to him, giggling wildly as he caught her in his arms and spun her in a circle.
“You’re home!” she cried. “I missed you so.”
Laughing, he set her down. “It’s only been three days, lass.”
“Three days of eternity, you mean. I feared some demonic deity had tampered with Time itself, the minutes passed so slowly.” She pressed her palms to the lapels of his coat.
“Och, I paid the demon myself, lass,” he grinned. “I wanted to ensure ye were as miserable without me as I was without your bonnie self.”
Heedless of onlookers, Chrissi kissed him right there, the tang of coal smoke eddying around them. It felt imperative. Necessary, even, to express theloveadorationhappinessoverflowing in her chest.
“Tell me!” She pulled back, bouncing on her tiptoes. “I want to hear every detail. Your telegram was ridiculously brief.”
“I told ye the important bit—”
“Success!That is all you said. I want all the details of your—no,our!—triumph!”
She tugged him toward the stand where acarozzacould be hailed for the return trip to Fiesole. Her father, ever indulgent, had permitted her to make the short jaunt into Florence alone.
The entire journey had felt so adult. Grown-up.
Another confirmation that hers would not be a life confined to hearth and home as other women.
No, she and Alis would dominate the antiquarian world—researching and publishing side by side. Case in point, he had just returned from meeting with an English publisher of archaeological articles who resided in Rome.
Chrissi had hated that she could not travel with him. Not alone. Well, not without fueling scandal.
“Next time,” Alis had promised, his lips against hers. “Soon, we shan’t ever be apart again.”
Now, Alis handed her into acarozza, giving the driver their direction in Fiesole before stepping into the carriage himself.
Chrissi grabbed his hand in both of hers. “Tell me!”
“Why so impatient, my love?” he laughed. “Do the details truly matter? Your words will be published.”
“Of course details matter.” She kissed his cheek. “This publisher only prints a journal every two years; it’s an honor to be included. I want to hear every last word that was spoken of my brilliance.”
He laughed again, but Chrissi finally noticed that he appeared . . . tense. Nervous, perhaps? His knee bounced in time to the clatter of the carriage wheels, and he kept glancing away, his grip on her hand growing tighter.
She frowned, a trickle of unease chasing her spine.
“Tell me,” she repeated, less exuberantly. “Didthe meeting go well?”
“Aye!” His tone too bright. “The publisher very much admired the detail in my illustrations, as well as your clever insights into archeology as a practice.”
As well he should, Chrissi thought.
Alis’s illustrations had been works of art, so precise and lifelike, they seemed to bound off the page.
As for herself, she had spent weeks crafting just the right tone to the paper—insightful and intelligent with droll pops of humor. In the end, Alis had only offered a few suggestions for correction. The words of the article were, for all intents and purposes, entirely her own work. But she didn’t mind sharing the limelight with Alis. Surely as they continued with their publications and excavations, he would begin contributing to the writing as well.
