“We’re going down again,” Charles announced. “Come on!”

  Candace faced the crater. “You are having nightmares, old man,” she said loudly and clearly. “Think of something nice, and go back to sleep.” Then she turned back to Charles and began to walk down toward the vestiges of a path countless feet had made.

  Charles kept up with her. The view ahead spread out as far as the sea, which was now shining like a polished jewel in the far distance. There was no one else in sight, no birds circling, no small creatures on the rock, which was gray-red in color but of the texture of a motionless sea. It was like a riptide stayed in a single instant.

  Neither of them spoke until they reached the first grass. Charles was amazed how beautiful he found it. No cultured plant in a garden had ever looked more passionately alive than these rough greenish-brown grasses springing out of the earth, finding roots and nourishment in what looked like a lifeless waste. What absurd courage!

  He found himself smiling for no sensible reason. He was tired, his back ached, and his feet hurt. They were still miles from home. On the other hand, the weather was fine and dry, and the route was gently downhill the rest of the way. And no doubt Stefano would have made something delicious for dinner.

  “Wasn’t Mr. Walker-Bailey a beast at lunch?” Candace said suddenly, as if they had been discussing it only a few moments before.

  “About Quinn’s work? Yes,” Charles agreed. “I admit, it had the effect of making me want to read it.”

  She laughed. “I’m glad. That’s the last thing he would want. Although I don’t know whether you would like it or not. You might be scandalized.” She glanced sideways at him to see his reaction.

  “Were you?” he returned.

  “Oh, no.” She sounded very grown-up, and looked so terribly young.

  He thought immediately that she had been just a little upset by it, but she would never admit it. She was on the brink of adulthood; it lay ahead of her, whether she was ready for it or not. And from the tiny bit he knew of her, he was quite sure she would embrace it. She would never retreat from life, even when it might be wiser to do so.

  “Then I think I might manage it,” he said conversationally. “If I can’t, then it will do me good to be scandalized.”

  She considered that in silence for several steps.

  “Why do you think it would upset me?” He was too curious to let it go.

  She weighed her answer while they walked another fifty yards or so. The track through the grasses was quite clear now, but there were still a few steep bits that required concentration.

  “It’s the way men think about women,” she said at last. “I mean, if men fall in love with women, they sort of…” She very deliberately did not look at him. She seemed to be watching her step in the grasses, but he knew she was avoiding his eyes.

  He waited for her to continue. He was interested in what she was going to say, but on the other hand, he did not want to embarrass her.

  “They expect them to be all very pure and obedient,” she went on in a rush. “We’re not supposed to be told about anything…scandalous. It isn’t ladylike. Women who enjoy that kind of thing are bad. Actually I think I would rather be bad.” There was a flush of color on the side of her face that he could see.

  He was very careful not to smile. At this moment she looked so very young. He could easily understand the weight of Finbar’s responsibility.

  She walked for several more paces before she turned to face him.

  “Have you any daughters?” she asked.

  It was the last comment he had expected.

  “No. No, I’m sorry to say, I haven’t.” He was sorry. Right at this moment he would like to have had a daughter more than anything else he could think of: a bright, funny, sensitive, impossibly brave daughter.

  “Oh. I’m sorry.” She was instantly contrite. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Uncle Roger says I ask all sorts of things I shouldn’t. I just thought you might, because you seem to understand me. We can be friends, though, can’t we? So I can still ask you things?”

  “Of course we can,” Charles agreed. His throat was choked with emotion. He was being absurd! He had never thought much about children before, and when he had, he had pictured sons. Now, in the space of a day, he felt as if he had been bereaved of an important pleasure.

  She smiled at him, shy and pleased. Then suddenly she increased her pace, and the next time she spoke it was about old, ordinary subjects.

  “Mr. Walker-Bailey says that Quinn is really a poor writer, which is just stupid, because everyone says the book is a masterpiece. He also says that Quinn will never write another one. What do you think?”

  “I think I need to read it,” Charles replied quite seriously. “I admit, from what you say of the book, and the heroine of it, Lucy…?”

  “Yes, Lucy. Nobody ever says what her other name is.”

  “Right, Lucy…she doesn’t sound like the sort of woman whom Quinn would understand at all, never mind create. Which goes to show that we have no idea what people are like inside.”

  She smiled at him again. “Of course we don’t. That’s marvelous, don’t you think? You could have all sorts of passionate dreams, wounds inside and no one else can see them, unless you allow them to.” Her face clouded again. “But of course lots of people don’t want to see. They don’t care. I care! Don’t you?”

  That was a hard question to answer. The truth was that until now he had not cared greatly. Maybe that was part of his unhappiness. But he could not say that to her.

  “The older I get, the more I care,” he said. And that was definitely honest. Yesterday he had not cared enough. Today, as far as she was concerned, and perhaps Finbar, and Isla Bailey, even Bretherton, yes, he cared. Bailey’s cruelty angered him. Charles didn’t know them at all, but he wanted Isla to be able to keep her home. He felt for Bretherton’s hopeless affection for her.

  “But you’re not so very old,” she pointed out. “So maybe you are going to care a lot more yet?” She said it as if to comfort him, as if it were a happy new thought.

  He was a great deal less sure about that, but he did not argue. They walked the rest of the way mostly in companionable silence, with just the occasional observation about a plant or the ever-changing view. Twice more, they noticed a plume of smoke or steam rise from the mountain and cast a momentary shadow across the land.

  Sunset was a glory of hot color staining the sky across the west. They stood side by side watching it, both knowing that the darkness would come swiftly after, and they would have trouble picking their way over the uneven ground. It did not matter. Charles said nothing. He was certain in his own mind that Candace felt exactly as he did. This particular sunset would never happen again. There would not be exactly this banner of fire across the sky, quite such a delicate breath of turquoise above the cloud, like some ancient enamel, green, tender with age. The last colors would come in the same places, but perhaps the indigo of night would be somehow different.

  When they moved on Candace turned to look at him once. He was certain she was smiling, but he could no longer see her face.

  Dinner was excellent. Stefano had spent a good deal of the afternoon preparing baked fish for them, and arranged it with artistry on a large platter. It was decorated with winter vegetables, including potatoes baked and crisped so the edges were a delicate golden brown.

  They were all gathered, except Walker-Bailey.

  Everyone was uncomfortable.

  “Where the devil is the man?” Bretherton said under his breath to Charles. He looked at Isla, who had taken some care with her appearance, especially her hair, which was curled and dressed up on her head. She was wearing a soft muslin dress in a shade of pastel blue that was most flattering to her particular kind of beauty. His admiration was too plain for Charles to miss.

  “I’ve no idea,” Charles confessed. “I went up the mountain and I saw no sign of him there.”

  “One is tempted to hope that the damn fool fell into the sea,” Bretherton said bitterly. “But unless he were washed up on the shore, we would never know.” He colored a little uncomfortably at his own outspokenness. It was tactless, although possibly no one would be surprised.

  Quinn was also less than composed about it. He clearly saw no reason why he should not express his annoyance.

  “For heaven’s sake, what is the matter with the man?” he demanded of no one in particular. “Even if he forgot his watch, the sunset is plain enough! Any fool can tell roughly how long it is until sundown. He knows what time we eat!”

  “I think we should ignore it,” Finbar said wearily. He looked tired, and Charles felt a pang of concern for him. He was the oldest person here by several years. The fact that he walked considerable distances did not mean he felt no exhaustion, or that he did not require a certain degree of regularity in mealtimes.

  Candace was also dressed in a pale muslin, but of a much less sophisticated cut than Isla’s. She looked curiously at Finbar, then at Charles, but it was Isla she spoke to.

  “Mrs. Bailey, I don’t wish to be discourteous, but would you mind if we begin to eat while Stefano’s food is fresh and looking so delicious? I think it is a way of thanking him that he would appreciate. He goes to a lot of care to make our food exceptional.”

  Isla seemed to be relieved. “Yes, of course we should,” she agreed. “I’m sorry that my husband is late. It is most inconsiderate of him, but he seems to lose track of time. I do apologize, and I would feel far better about it if we all began to eat.”

  “You have no need to apologize,” Bretherton said quickly. “Nobody imagines it was within your control. But…thank you for making us feel at ease.” He did not look at her, as if he had meant to say something different and at the last moment changed his mind.

  Finbar sat at his usual place, and one by one everybody else took theirs, leaving one conspicuously empty seat for Walker-Bailey.

  Stefano came in, beaming with satisfaction, and offered them a choice of white wines with their fish.

  “And today I have a surprise for you,” he said happily. “The fish is very light. I think perhaps you would like a dessert, yes? I have a special dish here for you. A delicate pastry, with fruit and thick cream. You will like…I know this.”

  “Thank you,” Isla murmured.

  “You’re wonderful,” Candace said enthusiastically. “You always know exactly what we would like. I’m so hungry I need potatoes! And here they are. Do you know, Stefano, Mr. Latterly and I climbed all the way up to the caldera?”

  Stefano looked alarmed.

  “No, no!” she said hastily. “Just up to the top of the mountainside. I wanted to go over and look in. Maybe I would have seen the fire in the center of the earth, boiling rock—red-hot like blood. Do you think? But I didn’t, I promise.” She took some of the crispy potatoes. “Have you ever looked into it, Stefano? Please, tell me the truth. Is it boiling rock down there? Like the middle of the earth?”

  He looked at her with pleasure and a bright light of conspiracy in his eyes. “Yes, I did, once when I was young and very foolish…”

  “And…?” she asked breathlessly.

  “And it was crimson as blood,” he told her, ignoring everyone else at the table. “It throbbed, like a living heart…”

  Isla looked alarmed. Bretherton put his hand on her arm very gently, as if he hardly dared to do it. She did not move even an inch, nor did she look at him, but there was the very smallest smile on her lips.

  “Go on!” Candace burst out, urging Stefano to continue.

  He gave an exaggerated shrug. “It sent up a cloud of steam, very, very hot. I turned and ran for my life!” Then he burst into laughter till the tears ran down his cheeks.

  “You’re teasing me,” Candace protested.

  “No, I’m not,” he denied. “Once I was as young as you are, and just as curious.” Then suddenly he was serious. “But I knew the strength of the mountain. I have seen it throw fire and rock up into the air and seen the lava flow till all the grass and the bushes burn and the people gather up their children and run as fast as they can down to the sea.”

  “And you rebuild this house every time?” Quinn asked, a touch sarcastically.

  Stefano regarded him with disapproval, as if he had exhibited bad manners at the table, which indeed he had.

  “No, Signor Quinn. My great-grandfather took care where to build these houses in the first place. The lava does not come this way. Only sometimes hot rocks…on fire.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Finbar looked at him warmly. “I have no wish to feel the mountain’s displeasure. The fish is superb, Stefano. We are enjoying it very much. You are a master of this art.”

  Stefano smiled, accepting the compliment, and went back to the kitchen.

  “Do you think he’s right?” Isla asked no one in particular.

  “Of course he is,” Bretherton said quickly. “If his great-grandfather built this place, then there is every reason to believe him, and none at all to doubt.”

  “It probably won’t erupt at all while we are here, anyway,” Candace said in the silence that followed. She sounded rather disappointed.

  The fish had been removed and the surprise dessert served when Walker-Bailey finally staggered in. He was filthy: his clothes were torn and stained with earth, dust, and what looked like blood. His hat was gone, his hair caked with dirt and sweat, and he was limping. He was clearly in a vile temper.

  “Didn’t wait for me, I see!” he snarled. “Could have been dead, for all any of you cared!” He looked at Isla as he said it.

  She pushed her chair back and stood.

  Candace turned to Bailey, her eyes wide. Without appearing to be aware of it, she reached out her hand and put it on Finbar’s wrist gently.

  “You appear to be hurt, Mr. Bailey,” she said calmly. “Did you fall down coming home in the dark?” She spoke with much concern, but her choice of words suggested it was his own fault.

  Charles winced. He could see in Bailey’s face the way he had read the remark.

  “You’re hurt!” Isla said anxiously, before he could respond. “We must clean your wounds and bandage them in case they become infected. Stefano will put something by for you to eat later.” She moved toward him nervously.

  Bailey waved his hand to keep her away, as if her ministrations irritated him. He glared at Candace.

  “No, I did not fall over on my way home in the dark, young woman. I was attacked. Just as the sun was setting. Someone tried to kill me!” He stopped, allowing the horror and amazement to soak into the room.

  “Kill you?” Finbar said in amazement. It was not possible to tell from his voice whether he believed Bailey or not.

  “They didn’t do a very good job of it,” Candace whispered to Charles.

  Charles tried to look stern and, knowing he’d failed, put his napkin up to his mouth. Please heaven Bailey did not look at him!

  “That’s terrible.” Candace tried to sound sympathetic.

  “Have you any idea who it was?” Finbar asked him.

  “No idea at all,” Bailey said bitterly. “It could have been any of you!”

  Isla looked dreadfully pale. “That’s an awful thing to say!” she protested. “Why on earth would you think it was any of us?”

  “Because we know him,” Candace replied. Then realizing how that sounded, she colored bright pink with annoyance at herself and embarrassment.

  Bailey glared at her, but he was too furious to speak immediately.

  Charles tried to rescue the situation. “Were you robbed, Mr. Bailey?” He thought it more likely that the man had fallen but was too ashamed to admit it.

  “Your watch, perhaps?” Quinn asked, his face perfectly composed. If there was a shred of sarcasm in him, he did not reveal it.

  Bailey chose to ignore him.

  “They did not need to half kill me simply to pick my pocket!” he snapped, but at all of them except Quinn, toward whom he kept his back turned.

  “You are quite right,” Charles said soberly. “It looks as if you were unpleasantly injured, and it could have been much worse. Maybe you were stronger than they assumed?”

  “Much,” Bailey agreed. “Many people have made that mistake.” He glanced over toward Bretherton. “People tend to imagine that because they are taller, they are also stronger.”

  “Was he taller?” Charles asked, and then wondered why he was doing so. He was the latest arrival, the last in command, so to speak. But no one else seemed to be overly concerned. Either they did not know what to say or—on the other hand—they did not really want to know who was responsible. Or worse than that, perhaps they already knew. Was that possible? Could one of the people sitting here at this charming dinner table have crept up on Bailey in the dark and struck him down so that he was injured in the fall, his clothes torn and his legs bleeding?

  If he had fallen some time ago, higher up the mountain, barely at dusk, then it was possible. They had all been alone, except for him and Candace.

  Bailey looked around at them all, considering them one by one. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “He had the advantage of surprise. I was deep in thought and did not hear him on the soft ground. He struck suddenly, and very hard.” He appeared somewhat mollified that at least someone was listening to him.

  “A very vicious attack,” Finbar said, more to himself than to Bailey. “How unpleasant for you. And you are certain you have no idea who it was?”

  “Didn’t I already say that?” Bailey demanded. “And spare me your false sympathy. I know far too much about you and your pretenses. I think you’d be pleased if you were certain I could never tell any of your friends, even accidentally.”

  Finbar looked straight at him. “You don’t do much by accident, Bailey, except perhaps fall over.”

  Bailey’s face was scarlet. “You won’t get out of it that easily…”

  Candace could take it no longer. She stood up abruptly. “You have no right to say that, Mr. Bailey. Uncle Roger isn’t the only person here who doesn’t like you. But we are civilized people and we don’t go around attacking one another. If we did, you wouldn’t have had to wait so long!” Her face gave away that she knew perfectly well she was breaking every rule of good manners, and didn’t care. No one attacked one of her own and got away with it.