always called “a scorcher.”
Sighing and impatient, she pulled out her cell phone to check the time—8:36 a.m. Staring at the phone, she thought about calling Sabrina or Domenic to ask if Nico was there. It would be the simplest thing to do. But if he wasn’t with them, she would be facing a serious problem. She had a job to do, people counting on her, and a multimillion-dollar project in her hands. But if Nico wasn’t at the Biblioteca, the temptation to head off in search of him would be almost too much to resist.
Stop
, she told herself.
He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself
.
But she couldn’t quite convince herself of that. Normally, yes. But whatever had happened in the Chamber of Ten the day before yesterday had … what? Scrambled his brain? Somehow he’d been blasted with memories that did not belong to him, and they were confusing him, even changing him. That scared her.
She put the phone away. To the Biblioteca first. Get things under control. If Nico wasn’t there, she could go hunt him down after she made sure everything was on track for the arrival of Howard Finch’s BBC colleagues the next day.
To the east, she saw the water bus churning in her direction across the canal. At least she wouldn’t be waiting out here for—
* * *
—
the book feels warm in his hands. He caresses the supple leather of the cover and finds it unnervingly akin to human skin. But he can almost feel the dark promise that lies within its pages, so any hesitation is immediately dismissed. Forty-seven years he has been searching for
The Book of the Nameless.
Petrarch had publicly claimed not to have a copy, but his private writings, found in his hidden library, had revealed the truth. He had briefly owned it, but given it to a trusted friend, a scholarly monk. Petrarch had not wanted the responsibility inherent in ownership of
The Book of the Nameless.
Always the humanist, he had been afraid to unleash its power, afraid to hold that kind of magic in his hands
.
Now he has acquired the very same copy that Petrarch had so foolishly given away, and he covets it even more than he had before it was his. Seconds in his possession, and already he guards it jealously. If half of the legends surrounding this book are true, his enemies—the would-be mages plotting against him—will not stand a chance. If they ever had
.
“Monsieur?” the Frenchman says
.
Volpe glances up, blinking. The Frenchman has just handed him the book but somehow he had nearly forgotten the man’s presence. Lizotte, his name is. Henri Lizotte. He is a thief of the highest order, though he fancies himself a collector of antiquities. He dresses like a dandy and travels with a small boy all in frills and colors like some kind of harlequin or jester. Lizotte refers to the child as his valet, but Volpe suspects the Frenchman of using him for a different service entirely
.
“It is as I promised
, oui?”
the Frenchman asks, stroking his thin mustache
.
He agrees that the book is, indeed, as promised, and for several seconds considers the option of simply killing the Frenchman. The right gesture to the guards that surrounded them would have ended Lizotte’s life, but the Frenchman must have known the peril into which he was placing himself by coming here, by agreeing to sell this book
.
And how was he managing that feat? How could he part with it, when any fool could have felt its power?
With a flick of his wrist, Volpe gestures toward Lizotte. “Pay him. But get him out of here.”
Away from the book. Volpe is its master now
.
The Frenchman seems content. He casts one final, wary glance back at the book as though afraid it might follow him out of the room, then he happily leaves with the household servants to receive his payment
.
“Well?” asks Il Conte di Tonetti. “Is that
The Book of the Nameless?”
Volpe nods, sizing up the Count. “It is. You’ve done well, Alviso.”
The man smiles. Il Conte Alviso Tonetti had
Sighing and impatient, she pulled out her cell phone to check the time—8:36 a.m. Staring at the phone, she thought about calling Sabrina or Domenic to ask if Nico was there. It would be the simplest thing to do. But if he wasn’t with them, she would be facing a serious problem. She had a job to do, people counting on her, and a multimillion-dollar project in her hands. But if Nico wasn’t at the Biblioteca, the temptation to head off in search of him would be almost too much to resist.
Stop
, she told herself.
He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself
.
But she couldn’t quite convince herself of that. Normally, yes. But whatever had happened in the Chamber of Ten the day before yesterday had … what? Scrambled his brain? Somehow he’d been blasted with memories that did not belong to him, and they were confusing him, even changing him. That scared her.
She put the phone away. To the Biblioteca first. Get things under control. If Nico wasn’t there, she could go hunt him down after she made sure everything was on track for the arrival of Howard Finch’s BBC colleagues the next day.
To the east, she saw the water bus churning in her direction across the canal. At least she wouldn’t be waiting out here for—
* * *
—
the book feels warm in his hands. He caresses the supple leather of the cover and finds it unnervingly akin to human skin. But he can almost feel the dark promise that lies within its pages, so any hesitation is immediately dismissed. Forty-seven years he has been searching for
The Book of the Nameless.
Petrarch had publicly claimed not to have a copy, but his private writings, found in his hidden library, had revealed the truth. He had briefly owned it, but given it to a trusted friend, a scholarly monk. Petrarch had not wanted the responsibility inherent in ownership of
The Book of the Nameless.
Always the humanist, he had been afraid to unleash its power, afraid to hold that kind of magic in his hands
.
Now he has acquired the very same copy that Petrarch had so foolishly given away, and he covets it even more than he had before it was his. Seconds in his possession, and already he guards it jealously. If half of the legends surrounding this book are true, his enemies—the would-be mages plotting against him—will not stand a chance. If they ever had
.
“Monsieur?” the Frenchman says
.
Volpe glances up, blinking. The Frenchman has just handed him the book but somehow he had nearly forgotten the man’s presence. Lizotte, his name is. Henri Lizotte. He is a thief of the highest order, though he fancies himself a collector of antiquities. He dresses like a dandy and travels with a small boy all in frills and colors like some kind of harlequin or jester. Lizotte refers to the child as his valet, but Volpe suspects the Frenchman of using him for a different service entirely
.
“It is as I promised
, oui?”
the Frenchman asks, stroking his thin mustache
.
He agrees that the book is, indeed, as promised, and for several seconds considers the option of simply killing the Frenchman. The right gesture to the guards that surrounded them would have ended Lizotte’s life, but the Frenchman must have known the peril into which he was placing himself by coming here, by agreeing to sell this book
.
And how was he managing that feat? How could he part with it, when any fool could have felt its power?
With a flick of his wrist, Volpe gestures toward Lizotte. “Pay him. But get him out of here.”
Away from the book. Volpe is its master now
.
The Frenchman seems content. He casts one final, wary glance back at the book as though afraid it might follow him out of the room, then he happily leaves with the household servants to receive his payment
.
“Well?” asks Il Conte di Tonetti. “Is that
The Book of the Nameless?”
Volpe nods, sizing up the Count. “It is. You’ve done well, Alviso.”
The man smiles. Il Conte Alviso Tonetti had
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