Page 35 of Skotos
“No, it is not,” she replied, her brow lifted. “I could never let you stay in some horrid hotel surrounded by beige wallpaper and subpar upholstery. I would never forgive whatever fashion choices Will made after being surrounded by such blandness.”
“My fashion decisions—”
She cut Will off with a wave of her hand. “You are mine for the duration. The sooner you surrender,the happier we will all be. You may give me one of your silly bird names if it makes you feel better. I am sure that crusty Manakin of yours would approve.”
Will gaped. I just shook my head. The Baroness was a force of nature and would not be denied—ever.
Otto placed our luggage in a neat row on the top stair, humming what sounded like a German military march mashed with a polka.
“Come inside,” she said, sweeping an arm toward the enormous foyer now ablaze with golden light. “This air will give you crow’s feet, and I refuse to be seen with tired men. It tarnishes my reputation as the goddess of these mountains.”
Will and I followed her up the steps, exchanging yet another glance. My suspicions hadn’t vanished, but fatigue had softened under the weight of her theatrical affection.
The Baroness made an impression—or animprint, perhaps.
She was the eye of every storm, and right then, we needed a little calm—even if it came in the form of silk and scandal.
When the Baroness opened the doors, a liveried servant stepped forward and took our luggage. Without missing a beat, she said, “Take their bags to the east guest room, the one with the blue tapestries.” The servant nodded and disappeared down the hall.
Then she turned to us with a conspiratorial smile. “I know you are tired, but indulge an old woman and join me in the tower for a moment. The nighttime views of the mountains are breathtaking, especially beneath a pregnant moon.”
I opened my mouth to object, but a delicate, bejeweled hand landed on my arm as the Baroness said, “Please, Thomas, only for a moment.”
We followed her through the grand foyer, the heels of her shoes clicking smartly against the polished marble floor. Oil paintings loomed from every direction—ancient ancestors and heroic generals captured in windswept battle scenes or courtly poses, all painted in warm hues that gave the space a comfortable glow. Gold sconces lit our path, flickering with soft light, while thick velvet drapes stood parted to reveal moonlight shimmering through towering arched windows.
The Baroness paused before a section of walnut paneling in the middle of a hallway and pressed her hand against a seam so expertly hidden it might’ve been carved by angels. With a quiet click, the pocket door swung open, revealing a narrow, wrought-iron spiral staircase.
“You remember this passage, yes?” she said over her shoulder as we began to climb. “It used to be just a wooden ladder. A general nearly broke his neck coming up to deliver some particularly bad news. Irewarded him with cognac and replaced the ladder the next week.”
We climbed—and climbed.
The stairs twisted like a seashell, tight and narrow, every step echoing with centuries of history. My legs burned by the third turn, but I bit back any complaints. Will behind me was silent, too, though I could hear his breath quickening. The Baroness sprinted upward, a girl racing toward her beau, her breaths as calm as if she slept beneath the warmth of thick blankets.
Our heads finally poked through a rectangular hole to reveal the converted bell tower—no longer a place of chimes and clappers, but a hybrid of luxury and technology. Plush leather chairs flanked a wide circular window, which framed the snow-dusted Alps in the distance. A large telescope stood on a tripod. Nearby, an array of radio and listening equipment hummed and blinked in the shadows.
The Baroness closed the floorboard door, locking a mechanism into place, then turned and reached up to cup Will’s cheek. Her gaze hardened and, when she spoke, her words carried an edge of something darker.
“While your plane was in the air, an explosion killed the Prime Minister of Italy.”
18
Will
“Wait, what? Say that again.” The switch from sweet and doting to calculating and clandestine had my head spinning quicker than a New York taxi driver’s U-turn.
The Baroness sank into one of her leather chairs. Forgetting all pretense, she slumped back, her dress billowing about her feet as her head fell backward to rest against the plush cushion of the chair.
“Two hours ago, Alcide De Gasperi, the Prime Minister of Italy, was assassinated in his own driveway. Someone planted enough explosives in his car to wreck one entire side of his home. By some miracle, his wife and teenage daughter were unharmed.”
“Dear God,” I breathed, dropping into the chair beside the Baroness.
Thomas paced, first lengthwise across the perch, then in circles about its perimeter, bumping my leg each time he passed.
“What do we know?” he asked.
The Baroness made a show of straightening until her spine was ramrod and her chin high.
“De Gasperi was a devout anti-Communist. He founded the Christian Democratic Party, in part to blunt Moscow’s influence creeping across the continent. The man helped anchor Italy within NATO and your Marshall Plan when no one thought the former Axis country would even sit at the table.”
