A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii by Kate Quinn, Ben Kane, Stephanie Dray, Michelle Moran, E. Knight, Sophie Perinot, Vicky Alvear Shecter

gossip. More than this, Sabinus recalled what Capella had said—Aemilia was a wellborn girl and well raised. If she was infatuated, it surely went no further … and if it went further, what good could come of dwelling on that or shaming her? He was not willing to lose his friendship of many years with Lepidus. Nor did he desire to call off his wedding.
    Gods be damned! Capella was right, he was a starry-eyed fool. His heart did belong to a fifteen-year-old girl with a lithe figure and red hair that curled about her pale forehead when the weather was humid. He’d had a hard time letting go of her hand when they parted in the small garden. And to own the truth—at least to himself—he’d had absolutely no interest in the stars when he’d gone to sit in that same garden last evening. He had just wanted to be near her. He pulled the small doll in blue silk from his pouch. Sabinus had found it last night as he’d sat on the ground, head on his knees, against a myrtle—hoping its scent would soothe him.
    Just three days, he told himself, gazing down at the toy. In two, Aemilia would be his wife, and in three, they would be trundling toward Nuceria, safe. Safe from both the temptation of the boy artist and the massive quake that he felt in his bones was imminent. Let Pansa and the other officials deal with what came to Pompeii. He had made up his mind: he, his bride, the whole of her family, and his grandmother would avail themselves of the hospitality of Lepidus’ younger brother until word of the new quake arrived. Doubtless everyone from Pansa to Admiral Pliny would be sorry they hadn’t listened to him. But he would be sorry, too. So sorry. Will you be sorry you left them , he wondered. So many died in Nero’s quake. How many might die in Pompeii if he was right about another quake, this one cataclysmic?
    Sabinus tucked the doll away. Pondering the death of many reminded him of his own mortality. There was something he wished to tell Lepidus, something he had meant to tell him last night.
    Sabinus found his friend in the torcularium , admiring the windlass mechanism on his new press. “Ah, Sabinus, though you are not the most discerning wine drinker, the lover of machines in you must admire the efficiency of this.” Lepidus slapped his friend on the back, and Sabinus found himself grinning despite his general melancholia.
    “Stand aside, old man, and let me have a look.” The jest was not new—Sabinus had begun to rib his friend the moment the betrothal ring had slipped onto Aemilia’s finger—but Lepidus still enjoyed it.
    “I will demand more respect from you when you are my son.”
    “It is a strange thing,” Sabinus replied, “but you will be both my father and—until your daughter and I have one of our own—my son of sorts.”
    Lepidus’ brows rose. “Here’s a riddle.”
    “Not at all. I have been meaning to tell you this for weeks, but have been distracted”—he didn’t need to say by what, not to poor, longsuffering Lepidus—“in preparation for my wedding, I have made a testament. Should I die, I have left my grandmother enough to make certain of her comfort and have bequeathed the balance of my property to you.”
    Lepidus rocked back on his heels and regarded Sabinus disbelievingly. “If I did not know you better, I would think this another jest. Come, man, look around you. I would not boast and draw the wrath of the gods, but I do not need your money.”
    “If I die, I still wish to do my duty by your daughter. I wish to provide for her. Besides, who else should I leave my things to? Thanks to Nero’s quake and a certain regrettable run of bad luck in my family line, I am paterfamilias —and a paterfamilias , sadly, without an heir. You are my oldest friend.”
    “One more poke at my age, Sabinus, I warn you!” Lepidus feigned a glower. Then his face softened. “I am touched. We will drink to it—”
    At that moment one of Sabinus’ slaves entered. “Master,” he said