The Whirling Girl by Barbara Lambert Page B

garnets from caves where unicorns really might still hide, Clare thought as she sipped. The entire setting was a fantasy, an outdoor Aladdin’s cave, and when she looked up into the vine she saw a chandelier made up of hundreds of Venetian glass flowers, each with millefiori petals that threw bouquets of jewelled light. Farnham said the chandelier had been designed by a famous glass master in Murano, as a gift from his spendthrift brother-in-law to his wife Federica. Clare heard a small tinkling sound. One of the glass petals had fallen on her plate. Across the table, Nikki Stockton gave that elf grin and spread her hands as if to say don’t blame me. Clare cradled the tiny petal in her palm, noting how its curve held a scattering of still-tinier flowers, turquoise and rose and lapis, with ruby centres as well as minute gold stars. She would take it home for inspiration; a good omen surely for a flower artist starting on a new venture.
    She felt Luke Tindhall looking at her. She tucked the petal under the rim of her plate. Beside her, washed into indiscretion on a tide of his brother-in-law’s wine, Ralph Farnham began telling of a scandal involving his wife’s mother. Clare only half-listened, conscious of Luke Tindhall’s stare. “A lovely mess!” she heard Farnham say in conclusion, “Only in Italy, old dear. Unless you count our Royals …”
    AS MORE GUESTS APPEARED, one or other of them squeezed in beside her whenever the previous one got up, like musical chairs. A bearded Italian with a beaky nose introduced himself as Vittorio Cerotti, and, in a fate-filled tone, said that while he was the local inspector of archaeology, yes, as Signora Livingston may have heard, he was also “the husband of this beautiful apparition,” indicating the woman who hovered behind. “The Contessa Dottoressa Professoressa Luisa di Varinieri.”
    The Contessa! A vision indeed, though hardly as Clare had expected. She was wearing an outfit that might have drifted straight from one of the famous tomb paintings in Tarquinia, a gauzy dress and red boots with curling toes and a headdress that reared from her shoulders like an elegant cobra hood. When the vision settled beside her, Clare found herself confessing about the imaginary adventures she’d engaged in as a child with the little Etruscan girl; how she’d spent hours imagining the clothes they would wear, poring through her uncle’s books on tomb painting and a reference book about Etruscan mirrors.
    â€œYou must call me Luisa!” The Contessa seemed charmed. “Of course, fashion is so much more important than some bluestockings would have you believe. For as I am sure you know,” she sweetly added, “by studying the costumes that are portrayed, particularly as engravings on Etruscan mirrors, we are able to pinpoint quite accurately the era of such discoveries.”
    She leaned close. In a caffè latte voice, she confided to Clare that it was one of her greatest tragedies that, although thanks to such mirrors there were excellent records of what Etruscans had worn through the ages, still, as things stood, the entire popular literature of the Etruscans had been lost.
    â€œHowever, your uncle, in one of his last articles, hinted at quite a remarkable discovery. Perhaps soon we will have tea and, as you might say, compare notes?” In the warmth of that almond smile the long-forgotten sugary sensation of a schoolgirl crush settled on Clare. She wanted nothing more than to become a helpful friend to this beautiful older woman.
    When Luisa di Varinieri rose, Carl slipped into her place. “We are all fond enemies around this table,
ja
?” he said. “This is the sad case with academics. We are all in hot pursuit of intellectual treasure. I believe every one of my dear friends here is equally intrigued to know what Geoffrey Kane may have discovered, what information he might have left behind in his