Chapter Fourteen #2
Alistair had had enough of Mount Vesuvius but not enough of Ismay, and now it seemed that was about to come to an end, whether he was ready for it or not.
She’d saved him twice now. Once from the boar and again on the mountain.
Her bravery in the face of very real danger was unmatched as was her tenacity in the pursuit of living life on her own terms. He could respect that.
He envied it in fact, even if she had little to show for that tenacity.
In the confines of the carriage, he cocked his head, giving every appearance of listening intently as she regaled him with the rather fantastical story of the martyred San Gennaro.
He was listening. How could one not listen to Ismay in full animation?
But he was also thinking. What would become of her when he left?
What would become of her dreams? He wished there was some gift he could leave behind that would help her protect those dreams from the likes of Professor Loughty and her well-meaning parents. Perhaps the journal?
‘Ever since, he’s been the city’s patron saint, protecting us from the volcano,’ Ismay concluded, drawing Alistair’s thoughts back.
‘Do people really believe that?’ Alistair found the story hyperbolic in the extreme—dried blood that liquefied three times a year and also on special occasions to show the saint’s approval of the city’s choice.
‘Has anyone stopped to consider the improbability of centuries-old dried blood spontaneously turning to liquid?’ He’d never heard of such a thing.
It defied logical thought. Liquid could dry, but once something dried, it did not become wet again. Everyone knew this.
‘San Gennaro isn’t the only saint’s blood that liquefies around here,’ Ismay argued in earnest. ‘There’s Saint Patricia, Saint Pantelemone, even the blood of Saint John the Baptist.’
‘It doesn’t strike anyone as odd that such a supposed miracle occurs nowhere else in the world, just here?’
‘That’s why we’re the City of Blood,’ Ismay insisted.
Alistair grimaced. ‘What a delightful epithet.’
‘Well, how can you explain this? When the mountain erupted in 1631, ash and gases rolled down its sides in great pyroclastic flows towards the city. The priests got out the vials of blood—hardened blood, mind you—and San Gennaro’s relics and carried them through the city.
The blood liquefied and the lava stopped at the city gates.
’ Her eyes were alight with the thrill of the debate.
‘Maybe the lava had cooled, having travelled so far from its source and could go no farther. The city was simply lucky,’ he replied, tempting her to respond so he could watch her eyes flash. ‘You’re a scientist, Ismay. Do you truly think some bones and old blood stopped a volcano?’
She gave him a superior look. ‘As a scientist, I think there are things that defy human explanation. Just because something seems impossible doesn’t mean it is.’ He would miss this the most: the debating, the arguing, her confidence in believing she was irrevocably correct.
Back at Vista Sulla Baia, they offered a short account of their visit with Monticelli and the climb up Vesuvius, leaving out Alistair’s brush with disaster and Ismay’s incautious rescue, a conspiratorial glance passing between them as they wove their story.
‘I’m glad you’re both home safe,’ Sir Thomas said with uncustomary solemnity when they finished.
‘It was the height of recklessness to go up the mountain right now, and at night. Signor Monticelli should have known better with all the activity.’ He fixed Alistair with a hard stare.
‘Might I have a word in my study? Ladies, please excuse us.’
‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Alistair asked as the door shut behind them.
‘I should say so.’ There was no offer of a drink of rucolino.
This was not a friendly talk. Alistair was reminded of his first impression of Sir Thomas Rose, a man of great intensity who masqueraded as a benign absent-minded scholar.
‘My daughter was in your care this weekend, and you exposed her to unconscionable risk. Monticelli can risk his own neck all he likes, but you should not have allowed him to imperil Ismay’s.
A man who intends to be a husband must do better.
’ Sir Thomas’s eyes blazed with the righteous indignation of a father wronged.
He could protest that Ismay’s mind had been made up, that she would not have listened and the best he could do was go along and protect her, although she had ended up doing the protecting.
He could imagine what Sir Thomas would have thought of that.
What sort of man allowed himself to be led around by his wife?
So Alistair said instead, ‘Yes, sir. It was a mistake in judgement on my part. I underestimated the situation.’
For a moment, Alistair thought he’d managed to mollify Sir Thomas.
The older man nodded, but it was not a favourable agreement.
‘You most certainly did. It seems to be a trend with you. I’ve heard stories about your gambling and wagering.
It seems taking chances is second nature to you.
I may have done some overestimating of my own.
I had hoped offering you some responsibility in my business and in my family would steer you towards a steadier course. Your father had hoped it, too.’