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

would select my groom—that is what fathers do. What I did not anticipate, could not imagine, was how wretched fulfilling a daughter’s obligation would make me feel. Perhaps it is as Mother always says. Perhaps I was shown a faulty amount of indulgence as I grew—presented with five fabrics by my doting father where only one was needed to make a gown—until I believed I would be offered choice where I would not. Or perhaps it is the fact that Sabinus is an old man, and I have met a younger one I like better. Whatever the reason, I cried the day I was told of my betrothal. I remember Mother, looking perplexed, as she often does when dealing with me, and saying, “He is a fine, honorable man from an old Sabine family. What more can you want?”
    What more? Everything more. While what my mother said was entirely true, there is nothing extraordinary about Sabinus. He is the sort of man who does not stand out—neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, ugly nor handsome. His voice is always moderate, his mode of address always correct. Only his interests make him noticeable, and not in a good way. Sabinus is highly educated, yet he professes no interest in art or philosophy. Instead, he is fascinated by the workings of machines, by details of construction and hydraulic engineering better left to workmen, and by the geology of the area surrounding Pompeii.
    By rocks. Yes, rocks.
    I have no intention of getting trapped into another painful conversation with him—doubtless about earth tremors because, since the latest shaking started some weeks ago, that is the only subject he seems capable of discussing.
    Turning with alacrity, I move through the oecus with its graceful paintings of fluted columns and lush garlands, toward the man who is everything Sabinus is not. I must lift a sheet of coarse fabric and walk beneath a scaffold to enter the dining room. My breath quickens at the smell of the paint. Letting the drape fall, I hear my name. The flesh on my arms, on my whole body, begins to prickle. Looking into the scaffolding, my eyes find Faustus—long, lean, his fingers holding a brush, his eyes locked on me. I take a step forward.
    “Stop there! The light has caught you.” His voice is excited and exciting. “I wish I could paint you as you look at this moment. Paint you as Erato. Lower your chin.”
    I comply. Beneath my gown I can feel my nipples growing hard under his gaze. “Would you make me beautiful?”
    “Of course.”
    He sets aside his brush and climbs down, his movements fluid, the muscles of his arms taut and those in his legs plainly visible under the short tunic he wears while he works. He moves around me as I have seen lions move during games at the amphitheater, in a slow circle, his eyes hungry. I am certain mine are as well. Faustus is the one good thing that the expensive and frantic preparations for my nuptials have brought—hired and set to work restoring our villa’s ancient and much admired frescos before I even knew the reasons for these efforts. But the same ceremony that drew him to our villa will separate me from him forever.
    Drawing close behind me, he whispers, “You want me to touch you.”
    Of course I do. But I focus on a larger dream. One that is dangerous and that, until this moment, I have left unspoken. “I want you to marry me.”
    I hear his breath catch. More than a catch, he gasps. Good, I have impressed him with my boldness. “How I wish I could.” He stammers slightly. “Yes, that is what I want,” the natural confidence returns to his voice, “to be your husband.”
    “My father would support your career.” Why not, I think, Father certainly has the money for such patronage. But I know the thought is nonsense. Even if there were no Sabinus, no betrothal, my father would never consider a penniless tradesman as a suitor.
    Faustus’ breath on the back of my neck is warm. “Oh Gods,” he groans. “No more touching up the work of others. Only my own, better, work,