She shifted her shoulders against the rock wall of the cave. Despite the cool mountain air, the stiff climb had left her feeling hot and dirty. Hoping to catch a cooler breeze, she lifted her hair from the nape of her neck. It hung limp and lifeless against her hand, still heavy with salt and the remains of the crude soap. A movement close by drew her attention and she looked up, catching the stare of a young woman about her own age. The girl blushed and looked away.
“Don’t go,” Emma called softly. “Do you have something I could use on my hair?” She mimed combing the tangled mess.
The girl bobbed in a curtsey and sped away. Had she even understood? Thank God Marco spoke good English, although it made her much more dependant on him than she liked.
The girl hurried back to her side, holding out a tortoiseshell comb and a small hand mirror.
“Grazie.” At least she’d learned to say a few words in Italian from her holiday in Rome. She began to work the comb through her hair, frowning as she tried to recall a few more phrases. She wasn’t likely to be ordering from a menu, so she could forget anything but words for basic food.
The comb stuck on a knot of hair and she cried out in pain. The young woman watched her, wide-eyed.
“Bugger this for a lark,” Emma said. Here was one frustration she could do something about. “Do you have scissors?” She made a cutting gesture with her fingers. Again the girl nodded and sped away.
Emma looked at herself in the mirror. Her face already looked thinner and her nose and forehead had turned pink from the sun. She ran her fingertip around her lips, feeling the tingling response. Despite her weariness, despite the danger and the circumstances around her, her body sparked with an inner energy that had nothing to do with the hours spent in the water or the long climb up the mountain, but had everything to do with the mysterious Marco.
The girl came back and thrust long-handled shears into her hand. She said something incomprehensible. Emma smiled her thanks and grasped a hank of hair. Despite their obvious age, the scissors were sharp and she snipped off a handful of hair just below her ear. She paused for a moment and looked again in the mirror. A glimmer of the old Emma with the fashionable bob was beginning to reappear.
“Tally ho,” she whispered and sawed off another clump.
She heard a gasp from behind her and felt the girl’s fingers on her hands. “Signora,” she said, “signora, no.”
“Oh yes. Oh most definitely si, si.”
“Auito. Momento, signora.” The young woman tugged at the scissors and Emma understood she wanted to help. She let go of the blades and watched in the hand mirror as the girl snipped off the rest of the long tresses and evened the ends. A year of her life disappeared with the hair. A year of the new reformed Emma, who no longer went to titillating parties, who had nothing to do with politics. A year’s penance that had finished by putting her on a boat to Cairo and then washed her up at the mercy of an Italian brigand who set her pulses racing and her blood on fire.
When her hair was as short as it had ever been, she moistened her lips, still watching as the comb ran the length of each strand. She shook her head. It felt light and unencumbered.
“Bene,” she said and grinned at the girl.
“Io sono Irena,” the girl replied, pointing to her own chest.
“Well, Irena, I’m happy to meet you.” Emma shook the girl’s brown hand. “Thank you for your help.”
A shadow fell across them. Irena dropped her hand and the smile disappeared from her face as Giovanni loomed over them and spoke sharply. The girl gathered up the things she had brought, gave another bob and hurried away.
Emma watched her go, then turned to Giovanni. “Was that necessary?” she asked. “She only wanted to help me.”
Giovanni frowned, making his expression even more dark and brooding. To her surprise he spoke in English. “No talking with our people.”
Before she could protest, Marco strode up to them and dismissed Giovanni with a wave of his hand. The man disappeared in the direction of the dwellings. They all seemed very good at ordering people around.
“I don’t think he likes me,” Emma said.
“It’s not his job to like anyone. He is responsible for our security.” Marco looked at her more closely. “You have cut off your hair.”
“Absolutely right. It feels good.” She bent her head forward and shook it again, peering at him through the dark curtain.
“You should have asked me first.”
She paused in her movements. “I beg your pardon?”
“It will be more difficult to disguise you as one of us. Italian women do not cut their hair.”
“I’d bet five pounds that some of them do. But let’s talk about leaving here-”
“It will soon be dark,” he said abruptly. “We must talk. Then, you must eat and sleep. Come with me.”
He turned on his heel and took two steps, picking up a flaming torch, then looked back at her, tapping the paper he still carried against his leg. “Come.”
Emma stood with a sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy.
She followed Marco farther into the cave, noticing that most of the people who had seemed so busy when she arrived had disappeared, probably into the houses or outside. Way at the back was an empty space where the roof was lower than in the inhabited area. It was a darned good job she wasn’t claustrophobic, she thought as they moved into the tight space. Marco wouldn’t want a prisoner with the screaming heebie-jeebies.
Marco stopped by some boxes piled against the farthest wall. “Sit.”
All this bossing around was beginning to irritate her, but she did as she was told.
Marco paced before her. He waved the paper under her nose. “This is yesterday’s newspaper,” he said.
“What news is there? Do they have anything about the ship?”
He opened it out so she could see the headlines and columns. “All the front page.” He folded it smaller again and pointed to one column. “Here is the passenger list and the names of the bodies they have recovered.”
Emma craned her neck to see better. It was difficult to make out the small print in the flickering light.
Marco let his finger rest on a name under the heading: Morti. “Here is Lady Emma Houndsdale. They recovered her corpse last night.”
“What?” Emma seized the paper and peered more closely. There were three lists, one of the passengers, one of the bodies. The last column held the names of five survivors.
“I don’t understand.”
“They found a body they identified as Lady Emma. So that leaves the question of who you are.”
“I’m Emma Houndsdale.” She searched the passenger list. “There she is-” She pointed to a name. “Catherine Hall. She was-is-my maid. They haven’t found her. I mean, they have found her.” She closed her eyes and held back tears. “Poor Catherine,” she whispered. “Poor, poor Catherine.”
She let the paper fall and leaned back against the stone wall. “We changed places last night. She has dark hair like me and is about the same height. There was a fancy dress party after dinner and I let her go in my costume. She was excited about it and I thought it would bore me to death. No one would know who she was behind the mask. She and I had traded places before.”
Catherine had given her many an alibi in the past when she wanted to slip away unobserved from a boring evening. Or had a secret rendezvous.
She looked at him as the hot tears brimmed in her eyes and she blinked them back. “My family must believe I’m dead,” she said. “You have to take me back to Naples first thing in the morning. I need to let them know the truth.” The thought of her grieving father stabbed at her heart. Don’t mourn me, Daddy. I’m alive. I’ll be home soon.