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 B
Authors: Kate Quinn, Ben Kane, Stephanie Dray, Michelle Moran, E. Knight, Sophie Perinot, Vicky Alvear Shecter
Tags: Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Thrillers, Amazon, Retail, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense
Ads: Link
immortalizing you for the ages. If only it could be so.”
My eyes travel over the figures on the room’s rich, red walls—all movement, color and mystery. I’ve been told the painted figures engage in sacred and mysterious rituals, designed to turn a girl into a woman, a virgin into a wife. Small wonder then that I see my own face among them. I am the bride sitting, wistfully touching her hair and gazing into the distance as an attendant beautifies her. But I do not see my groom. Instead, I see my artist, Faustus, my personal Eros—though he is far, far more handsome than the winged figure depicted in the final panel of the mural.
“Come tonight,” he begs.
Two nights ago I crept from my cubiculum as my ancient nurse lay snoring. Came here, to the triclinium, in darkness, for a stolen kiss. I wonder, on my wedding day as I sit beside Sabinus on a banqueting couch in my flammeum , my girdle tied into the knot of Hercules, will my eyes seek the corner where, beneath the scaffolding, I let Faustus’ lips touch mine for the first time?
The drapery in the doorway from the portico twitches. Faustus jumps back as if my hair were not just flame-colored, but fire itself.
Sabinus sticks his head in. “Aemilia Lepida, I thought I might find you here.” Is it the light, or do his cheeks color? His blush makes me nervous. Whatever my attachment to my artist, I have been chary. I may be angry at my father, but I have no desire to shame him or to dishonor my family. “I have finished with your father,” Sabinus continues. “Come walk with me in the viridarium . Your mother has given permission.”
He holds back the drop cloth. There is nothing for it, I must go. Once we are in the portico he offers an arm, which I ignore. I am careful not to look directly at him as he walks beside me. His unnerving way of locking his eyes on mine whenever he can catch them gives me the feeling he can see the things I am careful not to say.
My mother’s ornamental garden is her pride and joy: all carefully sculpted shrubs, tinkling fountains, and exquisite marble sculptures. As we enter, I notice that she sits at the far end, near the freshly painted statue of Livia that will shortly be moved to the newly created shrine to her. I should have known—Sabinus is overly nice on such points; he would prefer to be chaperoned, even so few days before we are wed. Your worry for my reputation is wasted, Sabinus. Both because you are too staid to lay a hand on me, and because Faustus already has. I shiver at the thought of how close Faustus stood just moments ago, but Sabinus does not notice for he is waving to Mother. She smiles in return. Then he turns and walks me toward a bench beside the long shallow pool. I sit. He looks down at me intently.
“I have been thinking about our future—”
So have I, if dreading counts as thinking .
“—I mean to be a good husband to you, Aemilia Lepida. I have watched you grow up. I understand the care and esteem you have been accorded by your father, and I mean to proceed in the same vein.”
He speaks true. Sabinus visited this house before I lived here, before I was born. My father bought the villa after it was damaged in Emperor Nero’s quake—bargaining the price down to nearly nothing. He intended it to be a place to spend summers by the glittering sea away from the repressive heat of Rome, and a place to indulge in the viniculture that is, appropriately for a wine merchant, his dearest hobby. Sabinus, father’s old school friend, was already living in Pompeii and supervised work restoring the villa when Father could not be here. And when my parents fled to Pompeii as fire swept Rome, my nurse told me that Sabinus waited beside her at the entrance to help them down from the wagon.
“When you were a little girl, I thought you fond of me.” The eyes, which have changed from brown to startling gold in this light, press still further into me. “But I know you do not favor me now.”
Here is a
My eyes travel over the figures on the room’s rich, red walls—all movement, color and mystery. I’ve been told the painted figures engage in sacred and mysterious rituals, designed to turn a girl into a woman, a virgin into a wife. Small wonder then that I see my own face among them. I am the bride sitting, wistfully touching her hair and gazing into the distance as an attendant beautifies her. But I do not see my groom. Instead, I see my artist, Faustus, my personal Eros—though he is far, far more handsome than the winged figure depicted in the final panel of the mural.
“Come tonight,” he begs.
Two nights ago I crept from my cubiculum as my ancient nurse lay snoring. Came here, to the triclinium, in darkness, for a stolen kiss. I wonder, on my wedding day as I sit beside Sabinus on a banqueting couch in my flammeum , my girdle tied into the knot of Hercules, will my eyes seek the corner where, beneath the scaffolding, I let Faustus’ lips touch mine for the first time?
The drapery in the doorway from the portico twitches. Faustus jumps back as if my hair were not just flame-colored, but fire itself.
Sabinus sticks his head in. “Aemilia Lepida, I thought I might find you here.” Is it the light, or do his cheeks color? His blush makes me nervous. Whatever my attachment to my artist, I have been chary. I may be angry at my father, but I have no desire to shame him or to dishonor my family. “I have finished with your father,” Sabinus continues. “Come walk with me in the viridarium . Your mother has given permission.”
He holds back the drop cloth. There is nothing for it, I must go. Once we are in the portico he offers an arm, which I ignore. I am careful not to look directly at him as he walks beside me. His unnerving way of locking his eyes on mine whenever he can catch them gives me the feeling he can see the things I am careful not to say.
My mother’s ornamental garden is her pride and joy: all carefully sculpted shrubs, tinkling fountains, and exquisite marble sculptures. As we enter, I notice that she sits at the far end, near the freshly painted statue of Livia that will shortly be moved to the newly created shrine to her. I should have known—Sabinus is overly nice on such points; he would prefer to be chaperoned, even so few days before we are wed. Your worry for my reputation is wasted, Sabinus. Both because you are too staid to lay a hand on me, and because Faustus already has. I shiver at the thought of how close Faustus stood just moments ago, but Sabinus does not notice for he is waving to Mother. She smiles in return. Then he turns and walks me toward a bench beside the long shallow pool. I sit. He looks down at me intently.
“I have been thinking about our future—”
So have I, if dreading counts as thinking .
“—I mean to be a good husband to you, Aemilia Lepida. I have watched you grow up. I understand the care and esteem you have been accorded by your father, and I mean to proceed in the same vein.”
He speaks true. Sabinus visited this house before I lived here, before I was born. My father bought the villa after it was damaged in Emperor Nero’s quake—bargaining the price down to nearly nothing. He intended it to be a place to spend summers by the glittering sea away from the repressive heat of Rome, and a place to indulge in the viniculture that is, appropriately for a wine merchant, his dearest hobby. Sabinus, father’s old school friend, was already living in Pompeii and supervised work restoring the villa when Father could not be here. And when my parents fled to Pompeii as fire swept Rome, my nurse told me that Sabinus waited beside her at the entrance to help them down from the wagon.
“When you were a little girl, I thought you fond of me.” The eyes, which have changed from brown to startling gold in this light, press still further into me. “But I know you do not favor me now.”
Here is a
Similar Books
