The crack snaked upward! Right before her eyes!
She did it again, this time positioning her comb over the left tile. Nothing. She tried it over the right.
And then harder.
Isabella gasped as the crack literally shot through the plaster, until it ran all the way along the top of the tile. And then she did it a few more times until it ran down the other side.
With bated breath, she dug her nails in on either side of the tile and pulled. She shifted it back and forth, shimmying and jimmying, prying with all her might.
And then, with a creak and a groan that reminded her of the way her great-grandmother moved when she managed to hoist herself from her wheeled chair into her bed, the tile gave way.
Isabella set it down carefully, then peered at what was left. Where there should have been nothing but wall, there was a little compartment, just a few inches square. Isabella reached in, pinching her fingers together to make her hand long and skinny.
She felt something soft. Like velvet.
She pulled it out. It was a little bag, held together with a soft, silky cord.
Isabella straightened quickly, crossing her legs so that she was sitting Indian style. She slid one finger inside the bag, widening the mouth, which had been pulled tight.
And then, with her right hand, she upended it, sliding the contents into her left.
“Oh my G-”
Isabella quickly swallowed her shriek. A veritable pool of diamonds had showered into her hand.
It was a necklace. And a bracelet. And while she did not think of herself as the sort of girl who lost her mind over baubles and clothes, OH MY GOD these were the most beautiful things she had ever seen.
“Isabella?”
Her mother. Oh, no. Oh no oh no oh no.
“Isabella? Where are you?”
“In-” She stopped to clear her throat; her voice had come out like a squeak. “Just in the washroom, Mummy. I’ll be out in a moment.”
What should she do? What should she do?
Oh, very well, she knew what she should do. But what did she want to do?
“Is this your translation here on the table?” came her mother’s voice.
“Er, yes!” She coughed. “It’s from Galileo. The original is right next to it.”
“Oh.” Her mother paused. Her voice sounded funny. “Why did you-Never mind.”
Isabella looked frantically at the jewels. She had only a moment to decide.
“Isabella!” her mother called. “Did you remember to do your sums this morning? You’re starting dancing lessons this afternoon. Did you recall?”
Dancing lessons? Isabella’s face twisted, rather as if she’d swallowed lye.
“Monsieur Larouche will be here at two. Promptly. So you will need…”
Isabella stared at the diamonds. Hard. So hard that her peripheral vision slipped away, and the noise around her faded into nothing. Gone were the sounds of the street, floating through the open window. Gone was her mother’s voice, droning on about dancing lessons and the importance of punctuality. Gone was everything but the blood rushing past her ears and the quick, uneven sound of her own breath.
Isabella looked down at the diamonds.
And then she smiled.
And put them back.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank Eloisa James and Alessandro Vettori for their expertise in all things Italian.
About the Author
JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. The New York Times bestselling author of fourteen novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest.
Please visit her on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.
