Chapter 1
Aida stared at the email from her publisher hovering on her laptop screen like a digital albatross, the cursor blinking expectantly
for a response she didn’t have.
Dear Ms. Reale,
It is with deep regret that we inform you that due to a financial setback, Ovidian is ceasing operations immediately. Unfortunately,
this means we will not be able to move forward with the publication of your book. We understand how much work you have put
into this project, and we deeply apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.
Aida wanted to throw the laptop across the room. Why did they choose to send this email on Christmas Eve, of all days?
The news was particularly devastating. After numerous rejections from academic publishers, three months ago she had finally
secured a contract with Ovidian, a small but respected publisher known for its niche focus on history and art. Her book about
food featured in Italian tapestries was supposed to be her breakthrough, a scholarly work that would boost her reputation.
Instead, the sudden closure of her publisher meant her manuscript, which had taken years of research and writing, was now
in limbo.
As if that wasn’t enough, she had just completed her final semester of teaching.
At the end of the spring semester, the university announced her department would be downsizing due to budget cuts, reducing faculty and course offerings.
With the semester over and no new job lined up, Aida was officially unemployed.
She had spent the summer and fall applying for positions, but the competition in history departments was fierce, and the loss of her book contract was another blow to her prospects.
Now, the reality that she might not have a job in the new year loomed large.
The comforting scent of cinnamon wafted from the kitchen, where Graham was attending to the holiday details she couldn’t muster
the energy for. “Where are the goblets?” he called out.
“Top shelf in the pantry,” she said, eyes still glued to the screen. “Red box. Can’t miss them.”
A few minutes later, the soft shuffle of feet announced her fiancé’s presence in the doorway of the living room. He had five
years on Aida’s thirty-four but looked much younger. With his wavy brown hair and blue eyes that had a boyish charm, he could
have just stepped out of a holiday rom-com. He held a glass of mulled wine. “What’s wrong, love? You look like the world just
ended.”
“Ovidian is shutting down. They won’t be publishing my book. I don’t know what I’m going to do. This was supposed to help
in my job search, but now . . . And with the wedding coming up, how can we afford it?”
Graham’s expression softened, and he immediately crossed the room to sit beside her, handing her the wine. “Oh, Aida. I’m
so sorry. I know how much this meant to you.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “But listen to me, we’ll get
through this. The job market is tough, I know, but you’re brilliant, and there will be another opportunity out there. As for
the wedding, I’ve told you a hundred times that we’ll make it work. We won’t let this ruin everything. We’ve come too far,
and I’m not going anywhere. We’ll think outside the box.”
Aida leaned into him, the warmth of his embrace easing the tightness in her chest. His words were like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of her anxiety. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You won’t have to find out,” Graham replied softly, running his fingers over her necklace with a little silver star pendant,
an engagement gift he had given her that she wore daily. “We’re in this together, for better or worse, remember?”
She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. “It just feels like everything I’ve worked for is slipping away.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang—a discordant jingle that seemed oddly out of place in the quiet moment. Aida reluctantly got
up to answer it, expecting Graham’s parents to have arrived early. But instead, she found a luxurious black envelope with
golden embossing placed meticulously on the welcome mat. No courier in sight, no sign of who had left it. No stamp or address,
just Aida’s name printed in gold block letters. When she picked it up, it was quite cold—whoever had delivered it had not
kept it in a purse or a coat pocket. There was only a neat line of footprints in a dusting of snow. They came from one direction,
up to the town house, then back down the walk and off in the other direction.
Returning to the living room, her curiosity piqued, Aida broke the wax seal and opened the envelope with a sense of anticipation
she hadn’t felt in a while. The invitation inside was printed on luxurious paper, embossed with gold lettering that caught
the glow of the Christmas lights.
Lady Ozie requires your attendance in the Seaport on December 30th at 11:00 a.m. to discuss a matter of importance to your
future. A car will be sent to collect you.
Aida stared at the paper. The elegance of the invitation and the sheer audacity of receiving it on Christmas Eve made it feel
like something out of a fairy tale.
Graham peeked over her shoulder. “What’s that?”
“A joke, I think.”
“A joke? Who would do that?”
“It must be a scam. There’s no return address, phone number, or email.” She handed it to Graham.
He looked it over, an eyebrow raised. “Is Lady Ozie related to Ozzy Osbourne?”
Aida chuckled at the ridiculousness of the idea. But more sobering, why would this “Lady” think anyone would agree to hop
into a strange car without any other information? Imagining her face on episodes of shows like Unsolved Mysteries or 48 Hours, she shuddered. Aida plucked the invitation out of Graham’s hand and picked up her laptop.
“I think it’s Oh-Zee, not Ah-Zee. Let me put this away and I’ll help with dinner.”
She had just set her laptop—and the invite—on the desk in the alcove off the bedroom when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Digging it out, she saw the text was from Felix, a tour guide in Rome who had quickly become a friend after she met him several
years ago when she was researching her book and needed information about specific Renaissance period locations in the city.
When he learned she was no ordinary tourist and not only spoke the language but had a strong understanding of Italian history
and culture, he had quickly taken to her and happily guided her through the city, sharing his expertise and connecting her
to scholars she might not otherwise have had easy access to.
Buon Natale, amica mia! I think someone may reach out to you soon about a job. Rich client of mine, a Lady Ozie.
Aida stared at the envelope in front of her. The gold lettering shone in the gleam of the holiday lights in the window.
A job? Is this a joke? she texted back. Although she desperately needed a job, this seemed too strange to be true.
Felix took a moment to respond and then it wasn’t by text. When Aida’s phone flashed with his video call, she took it immediately.
“Cara! It is much better to see your lovely face. You cut your hair!” Felix smiled through the small rectangle of her phone. His
russet locks were tousled and fell over one eye.
“I did!” Aida held her hand up to show off her new shag cut. “I almost went pink but thought it might make me look too young.”
“Ha! You don’t need the pink. The blond looks good on you,” Felix remarked, before briefly pausing to address someone in the
room. After the sound of a door closing, he resumed. “My handsome Christmas present,” he joked. “But he doesn’t need to hear
this.”
Aida grinned, glad to know he wasn’t alone on the holiday.
“So, this Lady Ozie,” she began. “I received an invitation from her today and I was just about to throw it away. I thought
it was some kind of prank.”
Felix’s expression grew serious. “No, no, Aida, it’s not a joke. It’s a real job offer. So, this is the thing. I’m not sure
if I’ve met Ozie—if I have, I never knew it. One day, I received a letter praising the expertise of my tours and asking if
I would give specialized private excursions to anyone who came to me and was referred by her. But I’m not to talk about them
to anyone. I’ve been sworn to secrecy about the whole thing. It’s all quite clandestine.”
Aida raised an eyebrow. “You’re talking to me though.”
Felix chuckled. “Indeed, but only because I’ve referred you to Lady Ozie. Despite the rather unnecessary shroud of secrecy,
she compensates me at quadruple my standard rate.”
“Wow, that sounds like a nice arrangement. Do you do a lot of tours for her?”
He shrugged. “For the rates she pays, one might expect A-list clientele, but it’s only been a historian from South Africa—a Mr. Johannes Khumalo.
The tours I gave him were specialized, primarily more obscure locations.
I had to prepare pretty well beforehand, making sure I could get access and that I had all the information he might need. ”
“What types of locations?”
“There have been so many, I can’t remember them all. Most recently, Princess Isabelle’s apartment in Palazzo Colonna—a room
of extraordinary beauty—and the optical illusion frescoes of Trinità dei Monti convent. Before Lady Ozie’s team canceled,
I was preparing to show him the secret rooms of Saint Philip Neri in the Santa Maria in Valicella church. Neri is considered
to be a saint of happiness. The spirit of God was said to visit him with a flame that made his heart grow double in size,
and he was filled with warmth and thereafter preached joy to his congregation. But not many people have heard of him.”
“A saint of happiness?” Aida could use a bit more happiness in her life.
“That’s right. According to him, ‘A joyful heart is more easily made perfect than a downcast one.’ He believed we should aspire
to be joyful and happy.”
“Well, don’t most people aspire to that?” Aida asked. “Unfortunately, the world is pretty good at ripping happiness and joy
right out of our hot little hands.”