Chapter 6 #2
“Is it? Oh. I see.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t think Brother Eduardo meant that. His English may be good but it’s not his mother tongue. It’s unlikely he knows that meaning.”
“He might if he’s one, too.”
“Oscar! You can’t go about accusing people of…” I lowered my voice. “…of that.”
“I’m simply chatting to a friend about the complexity of our beautiful language. Now, concentrate on what we’re going to say to Scala. Knowing he may be an aesthete could prove helpful.”
I wasn’t sure how, but I didn’t ask him to elaborate.
He seemed lost in his thoughts, while I suddenly became aware of our surroundings.
The path from the gate ambled through the ornamental gardens.
Sprawling lawns gave way to clusters of huge trees, some I recognized as European, others that looked more exotic.
Bees and butterflies danced on the warm air, and insects chirped cheerfully from the direction of the pond, it’s glistening surface just visible through the trees.
Up ahead, the gleaming jewel of the villa that we’d seen from the ferry as well as the road up to the abbey, took pride of place amid the verdant setting.
Somehow it was both serene and pompous. I couldn’t wait to see what it looked like inside.
Did my appreciation of the villa and its gardens make me an aesthete?
Under the traditional definition of someone who appreciated beauty and culture, I certainly was.
But what about the alternative definition Oscar, and perhaps Brother Eduardo, had given?
Was my appreciation of beautiful things the reason why some mistakenly thought I liked men in that way?
“Impressive,” Oscar murmured as he knocked.
The door was opened by a footman, or perhaps he was the majordomo, who also seemed to be under the impression we were the two Englishmen who’d come early for their appointment. We did not correct him. He took our hats and invited us to wait in the entrance hall while he fetched Signore Scala.
“Impressive,” Oscar said again, as he took in the marble floor and grand sweeping staircase. “I’ve seen something like this in a ladies’ magazine.”
“You read ladies’ magazines?”
“It was India’s copy and I read it while waiting in her drawing room. Do you think those busts are real?” He indicated the heads of what appeared to be Roman emperors set into recessed wall cavities. “They look as though they’ve been dug up from an archaeological site.”
“Surely they’d be in a museum if they were.”
The majordomo returned and showed us through a door flanked by marble columns into another room that was just as worthy of a magazine article as the entrance hall.
A gilt framed mirror above the fireplace—made of marble, of course—caught the sunlight streaming through the arched windows and reflected it back into the space.
The air was sweetened by the scent of flowers arranged in vases decorated with hints of gold.
I breathed in deeply as my gaze skimmed past the majordomo, standing formally by the door, to the paintings of ancient ruins nestled in idyllic landscapes.
I leaned closer to Oscar and whispered, “I think the hotel clerk was wrong. Scala doesn’t appear to be suffering financially.”
“Unless these are all fake,” Oscar whispered back. “Or he has placed everything of worth in this room and the rest are bare.”
The majordomo bowed as a gentleman dressed in a light-colored lounge suit with golden-yellow cravat entered. The newcomer smiled, revealing a set of straight teeth beneath his pencil-thin black moustache.
“Welcome, welcome to my home. I am Pietro Scala.” He took Oscar’s hand and shook it vigorously. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Which one is Mr. Fry-Ponsonby and which is Mr. Hoskins?”
Oscar cleared his throat. “We have a confession to make. We are not the gentlemen you were expecting. My name is Oscar Barratt, and this is Professor Gavin Nash. We’re book collectors.”
Signore Scala’s smile vanished. He glanced at the largest painting on the wall then at his majordomo.
“Please, don’t throw us out,” Oscar said quickly. “We want to make you an offer to buy the books you recently received from the Abbazia di San Vittore.”
Signore Scala arched his brows before dismissing his majordomo. He invited us to sit. “You spoke to the abbot.”
“We did,” Oscar said. “He says he gave them to you. We’d like to buy them.”
“We’re starting a library,” I said. “It will contain books about magic, and be open to the public. We believe the books now in your possession will be worthy additions to the collection.”
Signore Scala turned his dark eyes onto me.
Crossing one long leg over the other, his forefinger stroking his moustache, he was the cliched fashionable Italian gentleman.
The lighter shade of his suit set off his tanned skin superbly, and the golden cravat matched the thick gold band of his emerald ring and the gold watch chain.
He cut a trim, fine figure that some would call handsome, but I wouldn’t be one of them.
There was something too perfect about him, too manicured and unnatural.
I couldn’t quite place my finger on it until I realized I couldn’t guess his age.
Despite wrinkles around his eyes and across his forehead, his hair was black and thick.
Middle-aged men did not have hair that luxurious, not even Italian men. It must be a wig.
“You are enthusiastic, Professor,” Signore Scala said, smiling. “I like this.”
“The history of magic is my specialty.”
“You are a magician?”
“No. But Oscar is.”
“Ink,” Oscar added.
Signore Scala pointed at his chest. “Wood.” He acknowledged a fellow magician with a nod of his head in Oscar’s direction before turning back to me. “Did the abbot spit on you when you told him about your library?”
I blinked at him. “Er, no. He did not.”
Signore Scala grunted. “He does not like magic. He says it is the devil’s work.
He says I am an abomination against God.
” He grunted again, and this time the corners of his lips lifted with a half-smile.
It seemed the accusation didn’t bother him too much.
Unless that was a fake reaction, much like the fake hair.
“Simply because you’re a magician?” I asked.
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Not just that.”
It took me a moment to realize he could be referring to what Brother Eduardo had alluded to, that Signore Scala was an aesthete, and not in the sense that he admired beautiful things.
“If he doesn’t like you, why did he give you the books?” Oscar asked.
“I do not think he cared who got them, just that they were not in his abbey a moment longer. I have a large library, and so the librarian of the abbey gave them to me.”
“Brother Eduardo,” I said, for no particular reason.
Signore Scala smiled at me as he traced his moustache with his finger.
Oscar cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to part with the books, Signore?”
Signore Scala put up a hand to stop him. “I am afraid I cannot sell them to you.”
“But you haven’t heard our offer yet!”
“I cannot sell them because I do not have them. I sold them to an antique bookseller.”
“Then may we have his address?”
Signore Scala regarded Oscar for a moment then slowly nodded. “I will give it to you. But first, you must do something for me.”
“Go on.”
“You must steal back a spell that was stolen from me.”