spinning the racquet that was in his hand.
“I’m Billy, by the way. Quinn. Billy Quinn.”
Luciana smiled.
“And you are . . . ?”
Luciana smiled once more.
“ . . . going to make a game of this? Make me guess?” She was a coy one, wasn’t she? “All right, then. I’m up for the sport.” He stilled the racquet between his hands, turned to face her, head cocked to one side. “You’re not a Florence, are you?” He narrowed his eyes. Florence? He hoped not. He hadn’t much admiration for the Florences he’d met, though he had no doubt she could change that impression.
She said nothing.
“A Louise perhaps?”
Her brow rose.
“No? No.” Definitely not a Louise. “Are you a Marie?”
She shrugged.
“Helen? Hélène?” He said it more to himself than to her. He studied her eyes, those beautiful, shining eyes.
She said nothing.
“Lucy?”
Ah – he was so very close! If only he had known it. But Luciana had an Italian-sounding c and she did not recognize her name in his. But she caught the question in his tone and shook her head ever so slightly.
“No?” He lowered his head, raised his brow.
She shook her head once more.
“No. Fine, good. Then are you . . . Carolina?”
Nothing.
“Suzanne?”
A door near the entry swept open and Mrs. Quinn stepped out into the hall. “Smith?” She called for her butler. He materialized quite suddenly from . . . it was difficult to tell exactly where. “Will you have that girl come – ” She paused as she turned toward the back of the hall and saw her son. “Billy?”
He saluted her with his racquet.
“Is that Madame’s girl there?”
“It is.”
“What’s she doing? I told her to go through and wait in the kitchen.” She was used to servants rushing to do her bidding, and to her way of thinking, the shop girl was one of them. So it was irritating that the girl should stay seated when she was being spoken to. “You – girl. Come here. I’m done with you. I’ll have to keep these books for another day. I don’t have time to go through them now.”
Billy stood, and when he did, Luciana did the same. She looked at him inquiringly. He shrugged. Gestured her forward. She walked to where Mrs. Quinn stood and held out her hands for the books.
But Mrs. Quinn would not relinquish them. “Come tomorrow. I’ll be done with them then.” She disappeared back into her sitting room and shut the door.
There was nothing to do about it. The strega had the books, and she wasn’t letting them go. Luciana thought of trying to make an appeal to the butler, but that venerable personage had already vanished, and even if he had been there, she wouldn’t have known the words to say.
Billy opened the door and gestured her through. They both went out into the summer’s bright sun, supremely unsatisfied. Luciana was going back to Madame’s without the books. And Billy still hadn’t learned her name.
Julietta, however, was supremely satisfied with herself as she started home that evening. The embroidery she was working on at the shop was almost done. Though she’d enjoyed the novelty of working with the gold- and silver-wrapped threads, she was looking forward to the next project even more. She had the pleasures of a new pink and white messaline gown to revel in, and there were so very many good things in the coming weeks to look forward to. There was Saint Marciano’s festa, there were Saturday evening dances at the Sons of Avellino Hall. And there was also Angelo Moretti.
“Buon giorno.”
For a moment, as she turned a corner from the glare of Temple Place into the shade of Washington Street, she thought she’d managed to summon the spirit of her beloved. She looked over in the direction of the greeting, expecting – oh. Her hopes died. “I was thinking I could walk home with you.”
It was only Mauro. She smiled. But it was purely reflexive.
She looked him over from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He was carrying his bag. But
“I’m Billy, by the way. Quinn. Billy Quinn.”
Luciana smiled.
“And you are . . . ?”
Luciana smiled once more.
“ . . . going to make a game of this? Make me guess?” She was a coy one, wasn’t she? “All right, then. I’m up for the sport.” He stilled the racquet between his hands, turned to face her, head cocked to one side. “You’re not a Florence, are you?” He narrowed his eyes. Florence? He hoped not. He hadn’t much admiration for the Florences he’d met, though he had no doubt she could change that impression.
She said nothing.
“A Louise perhaps?”
Her brow rose.
“No? No.” Definitely not a Louise. “Are you a Marie?”
She shrugged.
“Helen? Hélène?” He said it more to himself than to her. He studied her eyes, those beautiful, shining eyes.
She said nothing.
“Lucy?”
Ah – he was so very close! If only he had known it. But Luciana had an Italian-sounding c and she did not recognize her name in his. But she caught the question in his tone and shook her head ever so slightly.
“No?” He lowered his head, raised his brow.
She shook her head once more.
“No. Fine, good. Then are you . . . Carolina?”
Nothing.
“Suzanne?”
A door near the entry swept open and Mrs. Quinn stepped out into the hall. “Smith?” She called for her butler. He materialized quite suddenly from . . . it was difficult to tell exactly where. “Will you have that girl come – ” She paused as she turned toward the back of the hall and saw her son. “Billy?”
He saluted her with his racquet.
“Is that Madame’s girl there?”
“It is.”
“What’s she doing? I told her to go through and wait in the kitchen.” She was used to servants rushing to do her bidding, and to her way of thinking, the shop girl was one of them. So it was irritating that the girl should stay seated when she was being spoken to. “You – girl. Come here. I’m done with you. I’ll have to keep these books for another day. I don’t have time to go through them now.”
Billy stood, and when he did, Luciana did the same. She looked at him inquiringly. He shrugged. Gestured her forward. She walked to where Mrs. Quinn stood and held out her hands for the books.
But Mrs. Quinn would not relinquish them. “Come tomorrow. I’ll be done with them then.” She disappeared back into her sitting room and shut the door.
There was nothing to do about it. The strega had the books, and she wasn’t letting them go. Luciana thought of trying to make an appeal to the butler, but that venerable personage had already vanished, and even if he had been there, she wouldn’t have known the words to say.
Billy opened the door and gestured her through. They both went out into the summer’s bright sun, supremely unsatisfied. Luciana was going back to Madame’s without the books. And Billy still hadn’t learned her name.
Julietta, however, was supremely satisfied with herself as she started home that evening. The embroidery she was working on at the shop was almost done. Though she’d enjoyed the novelty of working with the gold- and silver-wrapped threads, she was looking forward to the next project even more. She had the pleasures of a new pink and white messaline gown to revel in, and there were so very many good things in the coming weeks to look forward to. There was Saint Marciano’s festa, there were Saturday evening dances at the Sons of Avellino Hall. And there was also Angelo Moretti.
“Buon giorno.”
For a moment, as she turned a corner from the glare of Temple Place into the shade of Washington Street, she thought she’d managed to summon the spirit of her beloved. She looked over in the direction of the greeting, expecting – oh. Her hopes died. “I was thinking I could walk home with you.”
It was only Mauro. She smiled. But it was purely reflexive.
She looked him over from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. He was carrying his bag. But
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