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Princess Amalia sat down on her chair and slowly rested her head on its back. She showed expression of relief - of course, as it was time that light was shed to the truth behind everything.

Apparently, the rumours about Austrian conspiracy against His Majesty Frederick II were born in the salon of a certain Madam von Rochzen in Berlin. It seems one of the guests, Austrian unsurprisingly, being drunk late in the night, shouted that the King would pay for stealing Silesia from Austria. Investigations showed that he used to govern the region but lost his position after Silesia became part of Prussia. The guests that evening most likely over-exaggerated the whole event but the impact was made - all of Berlin by next morning was talking about possible assassination of King Frederick II.

The poisoning of the Kings youngest sister Anna-Amalia at Baroness von Essens house was no part of any conspiracy either. In fact, it was a simple accident due to carelessness of one commoner. The royal investigation squad after questioning all the Baroness servants and Baroness herself found out that one of the newly recruited maids accidentally switched ingredients in the dreaded drink right before the event thinking she forgot to add sugar. Who adds salt and then accidentally pours vinegar into cranberry juice, Mesdames and Monsieurs? But surely the maid was too afraid to replace the juice, as there was no time to. After the Baroness was freed from house arrest and her name was cleared with Kings pardon, she fired the maid. The newspapers, closely controlled by the government, also ensured the Prussian citizens that there should be no fear for their King and that people involved in the incident, or better said, accident were completely innocent.

The King gave no clear comment on the matter but, in the least, he was seen enraged by all the fuss created from "mere" rumours. It is also known that he considered the rumours from the very beginning just a drunk man's bluff, which, indeed, turned out to be so in the end.

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P.S. Thank you everyone for following on this mini-story line "Austrian Conspiracy". I hope you enjoyed it and, perhaps, there will be more stories to tell of the Sanssouci Court to you all. Best wishes, Sanssouci Team.

Credits: Tjay007 as Princess Amalia,

SidonieLaborde and MariaAntonia Barenhaut as Madame von Rochzen's guests,

HHDoctorRaven as Baroness von Essen &

beautiful locations provided by Sanssouci Roleplay and built by tjay007.

Textures provided by HHDoctorRaven (purchased and/or made).

Photos taken by HHDoctorRaven.

1784, 23 August

I find that I am awake at an absurd hour, it being sometime later than midnight with many hours remaining before the sun will shine through my windows. I will most certainly regret this wakefulness tomorrow when I wish to be out among the people of Sorrentina, socializing, procuring a small gift for Susan's birthday which is coming soon, and posting a letter to Marseilles.

Being awake, one should put the time to good use. There are manuscripts to be edited, correspondences to be kept up. Just today I received a lengthy letter from our dear Dr. Johnson, who it seems is somewhat downtrodden. His letter was not in his usual tone and I begin to worry that he will soon be lost to us. I can only determine myself to remember at all times those wonderful conversations at Streatham Hall, those joyous jaunts to Brighton and Bath, the Dr. reciting Chaucer as no one but he is able. (Oh, I know Chaucer is not suitable literature for a young lady of good name, but I could not help but laugh along with the Dr. and the rest of our party.)

I should make productive use of this quiet time but find my mind distracted from the tasks that deserve, actually demand, my attention. I think of Henri -- yes, I have taken to referring to him by his Christian name, though only in the privacy of my own thoughts and on the sacred pages of this diary. I do hope all is as he told me it would be, that he is off with his regiment serving King and country and that we will soon see one another again, and of course I hope and pray that he is kept safe from harm until the time of our reunion.

Of course, I cannot help but worry that I am misguided in trusting such a man. Is it possible that I am blinded by love (for love I believe it is)? Could this be just another infatuation, a mere reverie of one so inexperienced as to be taken in by the pretty words of a pretty man?

NO! I don't believe that. My heart tells me his words can be trusted.

Of course, my heart said the same of George Cambridge and, in that case, my heart was wrong and led me into much suffering and folly. It is in fact what drove me away from my dear home and all my dear family. It would be comforting to believe that in my first 32 years on this Earth I have learned to tell the difference between truth and falsehood but I am realist enough to know that, when love is involved, clear vision is often clouded, if not completely obliterated.

The bell tolls now on the lovely gold clock that decorates a table in my room here at the Villa. If I were a sensible woman, I would close these pages and take to my bed, where I should will myself to sleep. Instead, I will walk in the quiet of the night. That is one of the joys of Rocca Sorrentina. Here, a lady can walk without fear at any hour of night or day. Perhaps taking in the sea air will act as a tonic for sleep. The good Dr. Greymoon is soon to open an apothecary in the village. Perhaps he will stock something to empty my mind of the distraction of Henri, who crowds all logical thoughts from my consciousness. Perhaps something to make a woman sleep even when visited by so many worries.

In the hours before sunrise, Fanny Looks to France.

1784, 23 August

I find that I am awake at an absurd hour, it being sometime later than midnight with many hours remaining before the sun will shine through my windows. I will most certainly regret this wakefulness tomorrow when I wish to be out among the people of Sorrentina, socializing, procuring a small gift for Susan's birthday which is coming soon, and posting a letter to Marseilles.

Being awake, one should put the time to good use. There are manuscripts to be edited, correspondences to be kept up. Just today I received a lengthy letter from our dear Dr. Johnson, who it seems is somewhat downtrodden. His letter was not in his usual tone and I begin to worry that he will soon be lost to us. I can only determine myself to remember at all times those wonderful conversations at Streatham Hall, those joyous jaunts to Brighton and Bath, the Dr. reciting Chaucer as no one but he is able. (Oh, I know Chaucer is not suitable literature for a young lady of good name, but I could not help but laugh along with the Dr. and the rest of our party.)

I should make productive use of this quiet time but find my mind distracted from the tasks that deserve, actually demand, my attention. I think of Henri -- yes, I have taken to referring to him by his Christian name, though only in the privacy of my own thoughts and on the sacred pages of this diary. I do hope all is as he told me it would be, that he is off with his regiment serving King and country and that we will soon see one another again, and of course I hope and pray that he is kept safe from harm until the time of our reunion.

Of course, I cannot help but worry that I am misguided in trusting such a man. Is it possible that I am blinded by love (for love I believe it is)? Could this be just another infatuation, a mere reverie of one so inexperienced as to be taken in by the pretty words of a pretty man?

NO! I don't believe that. My heart tells me his words can be trusted.

Of course, my heart said the same of George Cambridge and, in that case, my heart was wrong and led me into much suffering and folly. It is in fact what drove me away from my dear home and all my dear family. It would be comforting to believe that in my first 32 years on this Earth I have learned to tell the difference between truth and falsehood but I am realist enough to know that, when love is involved, clear vision is often clouded, if not completely obliterated.

The bell tolls now on the lovely gold clock that decorates a table in my room here at the Villa. If I were a sensible woman, I would close these pages and take to my bed, where I should will myself to sleep. Instead, I will walk in the quiet of the night. That is one of the joys of Rocca Sorrentina. Here, a lady can walk without fear at any hour of night or day. Perhaps taking in the sea air will act as a tonic for sleep. The good Dr. Greymoon is soon to open an apothecary in the village. Perhaps he will stock something to empty my mind of the distraction of Henri, who crowds all logical thoughts from my consciousness. Perhaps something to make a woman sleep even when visited by so many worries.

In the hours before sunrise, Fanny Looks to France.

17^th of August, 1784

Marseille, France

Lorsagne loved the human commotion of ports, and the Port of Marseille, Frances premiere military and merchant port with access to Frances inland waterways via the River Rhone was no exception.

Once she and her belongings reached shore and her feet were once again planted on solid land she handed off a letter to a young man eager for work instructing him to wait for a reply and showing him a small handful of coins that would be his once he returned. Counting the coins in her palm, the young man took off at a run; Lorsagne bargained he would return within the hour.

An hour standing on the docks in the heat of a late-summer Provence afternoon was bearable, so parasol in hand and surrounded by her small pile of chests accompanying her from Sorrentina, she watched as a great Spanish ship arriving from Cadiz disgorged the wealth of Spanish America: indigo from Guatemala, leather from Buenos Aires, copper from Peru and Mexico, wool, cocoa from Caracas, vanilla, gold, silver. A dozen barrels rolled off the ship as she watched, whisked away by scruffy porters who took their direction from burly lookouts. Smugglers, Lorsagne thought, and likely the wine was Spanish brought into France as contraband. As a vigneron in a place where the purity of wine was a reflection of both respect and pride in the soil that nourished the vines and brought forth new life with all its promise each year, Lorsagne could not help but hold the tainted Spanish wine in contempt. At the same time she understood the ease and the appeal of the deception; she told herself that if the making of wine held no profit, it would hold no interest for her.

Lorsagne was calculating the expenseand the potentialof the coming harvest when she saw the handsome calche approach. The youth she had sent to deliver her message was running along side the handsome two-seated open carriage with a falling hood. A pair of heavy muscled Arabians that pulled the vehicle came to a stop, standing nearly motionless with a seeming disdain for their surroundings. Magnificent creatures and they and the carriage drew stares of laborers, merchants and travelers alike. The armorial bearings on the carriage door confirmed the owners identity, and as she crossed the few steps to the waiting vehicle Lorsagne drew down her parasol, said a silent prayer of thanks for the breadth of her godfathers contacts, and handed the promised coins to the youth who had delivered her message.

The coachman arranged a small portable step to permit Lorsagne ease of access. Giving him her gloved hand she entered the low-riding vehicle easily, settling herself beside the carriages only other occupant. Her chests secured to the undercarriage, she and her companion left the dock, making their way through the ports crowded streets headed to the low hills surrounding the Bay of Marseille in the direction of a fortress and basilica built in the 13^th and 16^th centuries at the highest point of Marseille, a limestone peak known as "La Garde" rising to a height of more than 160 meters. The combined fort and basilica were visible from every point in Marseille. Standing proud, glowing in the reflected heat of terraced stone pathways and bathed in the hard brilliant sunlight of Provence the inhabitants of Marseille referred to the basilica as Notre Dame de la Garde: the good mother who watched over Frances gateway to the Mediterranean.

Like the Tarot reading for the newborn, Lorsagne took her destination as an omen. As she and her companion walked the length of the basilica to reach a small door towards the back, Lorsagne drew the hood of her traveling cloak over her head and entered the stone building unobserved.

17^th of August, 1784

Marseille, France

Lorsagne loved the human commotion of ports, and the Port of Marseille, Frances premiere military and merchant port with access to Frances inland waterways via the River Rhone was no exception.

Once she and her belongings reached shore and her feet were once again planted on solid land she handed off a letter to a young man eager for work instructing him to wait for a reply and showing him a small handful of coins that would be his once he returned. Counting the coins in her palm, the young man took off at a run; Lorsagne bargained he would return within the hour.

An hour standing on the docks in the heat of a late-summer Provence afternoon was bearable, so parasol in hand and surrounded by her small pile of chests accompanying her from Sorrentina, she watched as a great Spanish ship arriving from Cadiz disgorged the wealth of Spanish America: indigo from Guatemala, leather from Buenos Aires, copper from Peru and Mexico, wool, cocoa from Caracas, vanilla, gold, silver. A dozen barrels rolled off the ship as she watched, whisked away by scruffy porters who took their direction from burly lookouts. Smugglers, Lorsagne thought, and likely the wine was Spanish brought into France as contraband. As a vigneron in a place where the purity of wine was a reflection of both respect and pride in the soil that nourished the vines and brought forth new life with all its promise each year, Lorsagne could not help but hold the tainted Spanish wine in contempt. At the same time she understood the ease and the appeal of the deception; she told herself that if the making of wine held no profit, it would hold no interest for her.

Lorsagne was calculating the expenseand the potentialof the coming harvest when she saw the handsome calche approach. The youth she had sent to deliver her message was running along side the handsome two-seated open carriage with a falling hood. A pair of heavy muscled Arabians that pulled the vehicle came to a stop, standing nearly motionless with a seeming disdain for their surroundings. Magnificent creatures and they and the carriage drew stares of laborers, merchants and travelers alike. The armorial bearings on the carriage door confirmed the owners identity, and as she crossed the few steps to the waiting vehicle Lorsagne drew down her parasol, said a silent prayer of thanks for the breadth of her godfathers contacts, and handed the promised coins to the youth who had delivered her message.

The coachman arranged a small portable step to permit Lorsagne ease of access. Giving him her gloved hand she entered the low-riding vehicle easily, settling herself beside the carriages only other occupant. Her chests secured to the undercarriage, she and her companion left the dock, making their way through the ports crowded streets headed to the low hills surrounding the Bay of Marseille in the direction of a fortress and basilica built in the 13^th and 16^th centuries at the highest point of Marseille, a limestone peak known as "La Garde" rising to a height of more than 160 meters. The combined fort and basilica were visible from every point in Marseille. Standing proud, glowing in the reflected heat of terraced stone pathways and bathed in the hard brilliant sunlight of Provence the inhabitants of Marseille referred to the basilica as Notre Dame de la Garde: the good mother who watched over Frances gateway to the Mediterranean.

Like the Tarot reading for the newborn, Lorsagne took her destination as an omen. As she and her companion walked the length of the basilica to reach a small door towards the back, Lorsagne drew the hood of her traveling cloak over her head and entered the stone building unobserved.

So...my dear Professore, have things returned to normal?

Normal, my dear Conte, is something of a relative term when applied to life on our odd little island.

The Conte Foscari chuckled. I always suspected as much. And has my ward fully recovered?

The Professor cast his line out a short ways from the boat. Not entirely. It will take some time for her to regain her usual enthusiasm. But she is young and resilient. And now that she has had the fever, Dottore Greymoon tells me that she will not likely get the disease again. This may actually make her an even more effective operative for you, no?

The Conte nodded but did not answer with words. He knew that the Professore had not meant to make him uncomfortable, but the Conte Foscari did not particularly wish to reflect upon the fact that there were practical as well as personal reasons that he wanted Devi to recover fully. He was, in fact, very fond of her. But she was also incredibly useful to him. And it was quite true what the Professore had implied: Devi could now safely go many places that other operatives might find disagreeably unhealthy...all the same, he vaguely wished that Don Aldo had not left his understanding of that reality unspoken.

After a bit of silence, the Professore spoke again.

Have you have had word from Roma?

I have indeed had a pigeon from my man Luca in Roma. Luca is very good at finding things out, and his enquiries have turned up several interesting facts.

Ah. I see. This is why you wished to go fishing with me?

Well, I thought it was a pleasant afternoon, and fishing is very relaxing...just a couple of old friends out trying to snag something for dinner.

And the fact that no one can overhear us out here is entirely coincidental, added Don Aldo with a wry little smile.

The Conte shrugged. Indeed...it is an additional benefit that small boats out in the bay offer one a certain level of privacy.

So here we are, just a couple of old friends out in the middle of the harbor trying to catch some sea bass. And while we wait for the fish to cooperate, we can talk. May I ask what your good fellow Luca has learned so far?"

Quite a bit actually. Firstly it would seem that the unfortunate Maria Cecilia does indeed belong to the Antonnacci Family: she was the second daughter of a certain Pietro Antonnacci, a well respected and successful Goldsmith."

Ah. I assume the 'well-respected' part of the equation is problematic, yes? asked Don Aldo.

Indeed, repleid the Conte. For it would seem that they did indeed disown their daughter, but long before she got herself into a delicate condition. Maria's father had organized a very suitable marriage with a second son of a minor aristocratic family...but Maria would have none of it. The father threatened her with the convent, but she refused that solution and ran away...and then it would seem that she had fallen in with a bad crowd...a crowd who liked to take Maria with them, to...rather Hedonistic parties. As you saw, Maria had no trouble fitting in...she was most attractive and had enough manners and education to mingle successfully. So Antonnacci had already washed his hands of his wayward daughter, and she was staying with a young friend from yet another minor aristocratic family...

The Professore looked thoughtful. Well...this brings us to an interesting point. while she may well have known our friend Don Mercurio...in perhaps both senses of the word...there is, in fact,the possibility that he was not the actual father of the child?

The Conte nodded. As for Sior Mercury's part in this affair, I shall come to that presently. You see, my man Luca got some very detailed information from the household servants before he presented himself to Sior Antonnacci to break the sad news of Maria's death.

But he did eventually delver the sorry news, no?

Oh yes, answered the Conte. Luca broke the news of her death to Maria's father, who although moved to tears and regrets, felt it would be best if his daughter was buried here in Sorrentina...there would be too much to explain.....it would be easier to ay that she died of the fever, whilst traveling.

Fillipe Foscari noted that his friend's usually impassive, benevolent countenance face suddenly darkened. The Conte couldn't quite tell if it was surprise or anger, or perhaps both. He was not entirely used to seeing Don Aldo react to situations with anything other a calm and philosophical demeanor.

Does this surprise you? he asked.

Aldo Stern sighed and then shrugged. "She was their child. Only that. I suppose one can argue that the family's reputation is something that can still be salvaged. and that having the young woman resting close to her home and family is a moot point. The dead are dead...but gossip lives on.

Yes, replied the Conte. I am afraid this is the case. The other thing was that Sior Antonnacci had no idea his daughter was expecting a child...and...well, the Antonnaccis are ambitious to step up into higher social circles. The father has arranged very clever, advantageous marriages for his other daughters...he has three others to be married...and wants nothing to spoil their chances. So I am afraid, according to Luca, the grandfather showed no enthusiasm for his new granddaughter, and thought it splendid if she could be adopted, preferably with no connection to him.

As he finished this statement, Conte Fillipe Foscari found himself sighing a bit, a wave of sadness washing over him. He was a little surprised at himself. He was nobleman of an old house in the ancient Republic of Venezia. He understood the ways of the world and had witnessed the injustice and sorry outcomes of that reality almost daily. Perhaps he was just tired.

His friend, however, seemed to be showing signs of anger rather than world-weariness.

I have heard enough. So be it, Don Aldo said curtly. We shall put the woman Maria to her rest here, and ...if they wish to have no complications with regards to the infant, we shall deal with that as well. Our good Dottore Greymoon and his Donna Athena will make a good family for her. Perhaps a damned sight better family situation than that of this ambitious goldsmith who should have wished to take her.

Conte Felippe was not accustomed to hearing his old friend cursing. He answered quietly, Yes, my friend...I think the infant may have better chances at happiness with Dottore Greymoon than with a return to her mother's family.

The Professore nodded in agreement and gave his line another flick to try to attract something to take the bait. You know Dottore Greymoon is establishing an apothecary here and plans to practice his craft on Rocca? he asked.

I had heard this, said the Conte. A wonderful idea. I like the Dottore: he only bleeds and purges when necessary, and has a great knowledge of herbal treatments for various afflictions. It will be good to have him and his new family around on the island. Maybe Devi can hlep him out, when she has fully regained her strength....she is very knowledgeable about herbal medicines.

It would be helpful for her to have a task to focus her attention, agreed Don Aldo.

The Conte smiled. Well, Devi is a stubborn young woman, and given she is determined to wait for your man Achile to return, I concur that she should have some sort of gainful occupation.

The Professore smiled and looked at the Conte Foscari with an expression that seemed to reflect his usual philosophical, even-tempered mein. But then suddenly, it seemed that something crossed his mind and a flash of resentment burned in his eyes.

Does this ambitious goldsmith require some payment from us before he will sign documents that will prevent him from making any claim to the little girl in the future? he asked in voice that held a slight edge of menace.

Conte Foscari shook his head. The goldsmith Antonnacci was more than happy to sign the necessary documents...which Luca just happened to have with him. In fact, he was more afraid that Sorrentina was making claims on him for the child's upkeep. I already have the signed documents in my study.

Don Aldo smiled a bit, seemingly reassured. Ah, of course, your good man Luca would have gone prepared, and got the matter settled before any second thoughts might occur to the goldsmith...still I am curious...did Luca have to pay the man some kind of honorarium to seal the bargain?

Luca did indeed go with the document I charged him to prepare, and indeed got the goldsmith to sign before he changed his mind...there was no mention of the goldsmith asking for any kind of payment...but as to whether Luca managed to get some kind of payment for himself from the Goldsmith for facilitating the arrangement...well....I cannot say. But he is a Roman after all...

Don Aldo laughed and resumed moving his pole and line in a pattern that he hoped would attract the attention of something tasty.

The Conte gave his own line a few desultory flicks and began to wonder if his hook was still baited or not. As he gazed out over the calm waters of the bay, he quietly commented, In this case, I think the little girl will do better as an adopted orphan than an unwanted illegitimate granddaughter...

The Professore made a small noise that indicated his agreement. After another pause, Don Aldo sighed and commented, Well, I am glad it is settled then: we can have the christening and Donna Lorsange can be the Godmother as she so ardently desires: the good Dottore and his lady may proceed with beginning their family; and we...as you say...will be back to what passes for normal on Sorrentina.

The Conte smiled. I shall be pleased to be godfather, if the Greymoons concur, he added. And I will stand by the trust I set up in my daughter's name for the education of the child."

"That is most kind of you, my friend."

"Miliegraze It is the least I can do in these unfortunatecircumstances."

"But what of Don Mercurio and his possible role in this?"

"Ah," the Conte continued, "as for our Sior Gandt and his involvement in this strange and sad affair -- Luca has managed to talk to the servants that were working at the particular party that both Sior Gandt and Maria attended. Now, the news concerning Sior Gandt is very interesting: as I said, Luca was able to interview several of the servants present. And Sior Gandt did indeed linger in Roma, to take advantage of various games of chance...it would seem that he had plenty of money to play with.....but his luck was mediocre, and he probably lost as much as he won. Mind you, there was a lot of revelry in the Palazzo where the party was held that evening...a very boisterous crowd....a lot of laudanum and opium smoking as well as good wine...and Maria Cecilia was there also, rather the worse for wear."

The Professore looked up from his fishing, extremely intent upon the Conte's report. Please go on, my friend.

The Conte nodded and resumed his narrative. The servants stated that they saw two gentlemen, well-known sons of great families, plying her with drink...one of the maids said she saw them pour something into the drink before they gave it to Maria, and that after a while Maria lost sensibility...the gentlemen carried her into a nearby room. The maid made it clear what their intentions were. Meanwhile, about this time, Sior Gandt was having a break from his gambling, and was wandering around the Palazzo. It would seem that the two gentlemen were in the process of taking advantage of Maria's insensibility when Sior Gandt happened into the room. At this point, according to one of the footmen Luca spoke to, a small fight ensued between Sior Gandt and the two aristocrats, which was prevented from going any further by the arrival of the said footman...after which Sior Gandt, helped the footman, carried the semi-conscious Maria to a coach. Sior Gandt went with Maria in the coach, presumably to see her safely to her friend's house. Luca then talked to the coachman, who didn't seem to think that anything untowards happened during the short coach ride, but did observe that by the time they had arrived, Maria had regained most of her senses...Sior Gandt gave Maria into the care of the house servants, and the Coachman took him back to the party, where apparently he carried on gambling.

Don Aldo had an odd little smile on his face. I see...and naturally, she drew an incorrect conclusion from the circumstances...yes?

Yes, answered the Conte. It would seem that it might have been that Maria only remembers being taken home, and not what happened at the party, and came to incorrect conclusions as to the identity of her child's father. This information is also interesting in that, if I recall correctly, during the course of the card reading that Merry Chase did for the infant, there was some indication that the father of the child was actually a person of some importance. Not that our dear Don Mercurio isn't important in his own unique way...but from the perspective of most of the world, even a minor Roman nobleman has a bit more degree of importance than a landless young Briton who is a part-time police informer and full-time gambler and n'er-do-well.

As I said, things back to their normal status for life on Rocca...slightly confused, slightly complicated...a festival of irony and never dull....and speaking of which, I have some other news for you.

Oh? Other news?

Don Aldo smiled rather broadly this time. Yes, indeed...and good news, actually. Perhaps Devi will not have to wait so long. I have had word from Achille that with Abu bin Malachi's help, he has located and secured the worldly remains of the noble lady who had been taken to North Africa.

Ahhhhh...interesting...so Achille is on his way home?

Well, they have arranged to have what was left of the lady cleaned up, as is appropriate. So the bones are packed and he will accompany them to the lady's home and her family in the Duchy of Tuscany, where he will present the remains and the evidence that these are indeed the bones of their loved one.

A sad mission for Achille, said the Conte. But Devi will be delighted, I am certain.

At this point, as Don Aldo pulled on his line, he seemed to feel something tugging at it. He gave a slight jerk to engage the hook and began to draw it in. Whatever he had caught did not seem to be putting up much of a fight.

As he held it up, Conte Fillipe Foscari drily commented, An interesting catch Professore...what do you propose to do with it?

Oh perhaps I shall have Merry make a stew of it," laughed Don Aldo. "Will you join me for dinner if I induce her to do so?'

I am correct, that is, in fact, a lady's shoe, is it not?

Indeed, my friend, it does seem so. From a rather large lady, unless I am very much mistaken.

The Conte peered at it more closely. There is something oddly familiar about it. And while immersion in the water of the bay does not seem to have improved it any, I am compelled to observe that its former owner does not seem to have been possessed of much in the way of good taste or fashion sense.

Well, at least we have something. Let us take our catch of the day and proceed home. I wonder what Merry will tossin the kettle with it to make something delectable of this.

So...my dear Professore, have things returned to normal?

Normal, my dear Conte, is something of a relative term when applied to life on our odd little island.

The Conte Foscari chuckled. I always suspected as much. And has my ward fully recovered?

The Professor cast his line out a short ways from the boat. Not entirely. It will take some time for her to regain her usual enthusiasm. But she is young and resilient. And now that she has had the fever, Dottore Greymoon tells me that she will not likely get the disease again. This may actually make her an even more effective operative for you, no?

The Conte nodded but did not answer with words. He knew that the Professore had not meant to make him uncomfortable, but the Conte Foscari did not particularly wish to reflect upon the fact that there were practical as well as personal reasons that he wanted Devi to recover fully. He was, in fact, very fond of her. But she was also incredibly useful to him. And it was quite true what the Professore had implied: Devi could now safely go many places that other operatives might find disagreeably unhealthy...all the same, he vaguely wished that Don Aldo had not left his understanding of that reality unspoken.

After a bit of silence, the Professore spoke again.

Have you have had word from Roma?

I have indeed had a pigeon from my man Luca in Roma. Luca is very good at finding things out, and his enquiries have turned up several interesting facts.

Ah. I see. This is why you wished to go fishing with me?

Well, I thought it was a pleasant afternoon, and fishing is very relaxing...just a couple of old friends out trying to snag something for dinner.

And the fact that no one can overhear us out here is entirely coincidental, added Don Aldo with a wry little smile.

The Conte shrugged. Indeed...it is an additional benefit that small boats out in the bay offer one a certain level of privacy.

So here we are, just a couple of old friends out in the middle of the harbor trying to catch some sea bass. And while we wait for the fish to cooperate, we can talk. May I ask what your good fellow Luca has learned so far?"

Quite a bit actually. Firstly it would seem that the unfortunate Maria Cecilia does indeed belong to the Antonnacci Family: she was the second daughter of a certain Pietro Antonnacci, a well respected and successful Goldsmith."

Ah. I assume the 'well-respected' part of the equation is problematic, yes? asked Don Aldo.

Indeed, repleid the Conte. For it would seem that they did indeed disown their daughter, but long before she got herself into a delicate condition. Maria's father had organized a very suitable marriage with a second son of a minor aristocratic family...but Maria would have none of it. The father threatened her with the convent, but she refused that solution and ran away...and then it would seem that she had fallen in with a bad crowd...a crowd who liked to take Maria with them, to...rather Hedonistic parties. As you saw, Maria had no trouble fitting in...she was most attractive and had enough manners and education to mingle successfully. So Antonnacci had already washed his hands of his wayward daughter, and she was staying with a young friend from yet another minor aristocratic family...

The Professore looked thoughtful. Well...this brings us to an interesting point. while she may well have known our friend Don Mercurio...in perhaps both senses of the word...there is, in fact,the possibility that he was not the actual father of the child?

The Conte nodded. As for Sior Mercury's part in this affair, I shall come to that presently. You see, my man Luca got some very detailed information from the household servants before he presented himself to Sior Antonnacci to break the sad news of Maria's death.

But he did eventually delver the sorry news, no?

Oh yes, answered the Conte. Luca broke the news of her death to Maria's father, who although moved to tears and regrets, felt it would be best if his daughter was buried here in Sorrentina...there would be too much to explain.....it would be easier to ay that she died of the fever, whilst traveling.

Fillipe Foscari noted that his friend's usually impassive, benevolent countenance face suddenly darkened. The Conte couldn't quite tell if it was surprise or anger, or perhaps both. He was not entirely used to seeing Don Aldo react to situations with anything other a calm and philosophical demeanor.

Does this surprise you? he asked.

Aldo Stern sighed and then shrugged. "She was their child. Only that. I suppose one can argue that the family's reputation is something that can still be salvaged. and that having the young woman resting close to her home and family is a moot point. The dead are dead...but gossip lives on.

Yes, replied the Conte. I am afraid this is the case. The other thing was that Sior Antonnacci had no idea his daughter was expecting a child...and...well, the Antonnaccis are ambitious to step up into higher social circles. The father has arranged very clever, advantageous marriages for his other daughters...he has three others to be married...and wants nothing to spoil their chances. So I am afraid, according to Luca, the grandfather showed no enthusiasm for his new granddaughter, and thought it splendid if she could be adopted, preferably with no connection to him.

As he finished this statement, Conte Fillipe Foscari found himself sighing a bit, a wave of sadness washing over him. He was a little surprised at himself. He was nobleman of an old house in the ancient Republic of Venezia. He understood the ways of the world and had witnessed the injustice and sorry outcomes of that reality almost daily. Perhaps he was just tired.

His friend, however, seemed to be showing signs of anger rather than world-weariness.

I have heard enough. So be it, Don Aldo said curtly. We shall put the woman Maria to her rest here, and ...if they wish to have no complications with regards to the infant, we shall deal with that as well. Our good Dottore Greymoon and his Donna Athena will make a good family for her. Perhaps a damned sight better family situation than that of this ambitious goldsmith who should have wished to take her.

Conte Felippe was not accustomed to hearing his old friend cursing. He answered quietly, Yes, my friend...I think the infant may have better chances at happiness with Dottore Greymoon than with a return to her mother's family.

The Professore nodded in agreement and gave his line another flick to try to attract something to take the bait. You know Dottore Greymoon is establishing an apothecary here and plans to practice his craft on Rocca? he asked.

I had heard this, said the Conte. A wonderful idea. I like the Dottore: he only bleeds and purges when necessary, and has a great knowledge of herbal treatments for various afflictions. It will be good to have him and his new family around on the island. Maybe Devi can hlep him out, when she has fully regained her strength....she is very knowledgeable about herbal medicines.

It would be helpful for her to have a task to focus her attention, agreed Don Aldo.

The Conte smiled. Well, Devi is a stubborn young woman, and given she is determined to wait for your man Achile to return, I concur that she should have some sort of gainful occupation.

The Professore smiled and looked at the Conte Foscari with an expression that seemed to reflect his usual philosophical, even-tempered mein. But then suddenly, it seemed that something crossed his mind and a flash of resentment burned in his eyes.

Does this ambitious goldsmith require some payment from us before he will sign documents that will prevent him from making any claim to the little girl in the future? he asked in voice that held a slight edge of menace.

Conte Foscari shook his head. The goldsmith Antonnacci was more than happy to sign the necessary documents...which Luca just happened to have with him. In fact, he was more afraid that Sorrentina was making claims on him for the child's upkeep. I already have the signed documents in my study.

Don Aldo smiled a bit, seemingly reassured. Ah, of course, your good man Luca would have gone prepared, and got the matter settled before any second thoughts might occur to the goldsmith...still I am curious...did Luca have to pay the man some kind of honorarium to seal the bargain?

Luca did indeed go with the document I charged him to prepare, and indeed got the goldsmith to sign before he changed his mind...there was no mention of the goldsmith asking for any kind of payment...but as to whether Luca managed to get some kind of payment for himself from the Goldsmith for facilitating the arrangement...well....I cannot say. But he is a Roman after all...

Don Aldo laughed and resumed moving his pole and line in a pattern that he hoped would attract the attention of something tasty.

The Conte gave his own line a few desultory flicks and began to wonder if his hook was still baited or not. As he gazed out over the calm waters of the bay, he quietly commented, In this case, I think the little girl will do better as an adopted orphan than an unwanted illegitimate granddaughter...

The Professore made a small noise that indicated his agreement. After another pause, Don Aldo sighed and commented, Well, I am glad it is settled then: we can have the christening and Donna Lorsange can be the Godmother as she so ardently desires: the good Dottore and his lady may proceed with beginning their family; and we...as you say...will be back to what passes for normal on Sorrentina.

The Conte smiled. I shall be pleased to be godfather, if the Greymoons concur, he added. And I will stand by the trust I set up in my daughter's name for the education of the child."

"That is most kind of you, my friend."

"Miliegraze It is the least I can do in these unfortunatecircumstances."

"But what of Don Mercurio and his possible role in this?"

"Ah," the Conte continued, "as for our Sior Gandt and his involvement in this strange and sad affair -- Luca has managed to talk to the servants that were working at the particular party that both Sior Gandt and Maria attended. Now, the news concerning Sior Gandt is very interesting: as I said, Luca was able to interview several of the servants present. And Sior Gandt did indeed linger in Roma, to take advantage of various games of chance...it would seem that he had plenty of money to play with.....but his luck was mediocre, and he probably lost as much as he won. Mind you, there was a lot of revelry in the Palazzo where the party was held that evening...a very boisterous crowd....a lot of laudanum and opium smoking as well as good wine...and Maria Cecilia was there also, rather the worse for wear."

The Professore looked up from his fishing, extremely intent upon the Conte's report. Please go on, my friend.

The Conte nodded and resumed his narrative. The servants stated that they saw two gentlemen, well-known sons of great families, plying her with drink...one of the maids said she saw them pour something into the drink before they gave it to Maria, and that after a while Maria lost sensibility...the gentlemen carried her into a nearby room. The maid made it clear what their intentions were. Meanwhile, about this time, Sior Gandt was having a break from his gambling, and was wandering around the Palazzo. It would seem that the two gentlemen were in the process of taking advantage of Maria's insensibility when Sior Gandt happened into the room. At this point, according to one of the footmen Luca spoke to, a small fight ensued between Sior Gandt and the two aristocrats, which was prevented from going any further by the arrival of the said footman...after which Sior Gandt, helped the footman, carried the semi-conscious Maria to a coach. Sior Gandt went with Maria in the coach, presumably to see her safely to her friend's house. Luca then talked to the coachman, who didn't seem to think that anything untowards happened during the short coach ride, but did observe that by the time they had arrived, Maria had regained most of her senses...Sior Gandt gave Maria into the care of the house servants, and the Coachman took him back to the party, where apparently he carried on gambling.

Don Aldo had an odd little smile on his face. I see...and naturally, she drew an incorrect conclusion from the circumstances...yes?

Yes, answered the Conte. It would seem that it might have been that Maria only remembers being taken home, and not what happened at the party, and came to incorrect conclusions as to the identity of her child's father. This information is also interesting in that, if I recall correctly, during the course of the card reading that Merry Chase did for the infant, there was some indication that the father of the child was actually a person of some importance. Not that our dear Don Mercurio isn't important in his own unique way...but from the perspective of most of the world, even a minor Roman nobleman has a bit more degree of importance than a landless young Briton who is a part-time police informer and full-time gambler and n'er-do-well.

As I said, things back to their normal status for life on Rocca...slightly confused, slightly complicated...a festival of irony and never dull....and speaking of which, I have some other news for you.

Oh? Other news?

Don Aldo smiled rather broadly this time. Yes, indeed...and good news, actually. Perhaps Devi will not have to wait so long. I have had word from Achille that with Abu bin Malachi's help, he has located and secured the worldly remains of the noble lady who had been taken to North Africa.

Ahhhhh...interesting...so Achille is on his way home?

Well, they have arranged to have what was left of the lady cleaned up, as is appropriate. So the bones are packed and he will accompany them to the lady's home and her family in the Duchy of Tuscany, where he will present the remains and the evidence that these are indeed the bones of their loved one.

A sad mission for Achille, said the Conte. But Devi will be delighted, I am certain.

At this point, as Don Aldo pulled on his line, he seemed to feel something tugging at it. He gave a slight jerk to engage the hook and began to draw it in. Whatever he had caught did not seem to be putting up much of a fight.

As he held it up, Conte Fillipe Foscari drily commented, An interesting catch Professore...what do you propose to do with it?

Oh perhaps I shall have Merry make a stew of it," laughed Don Aldo. "Will you join me for dinner if I induce her to do so?'

I am correct, that is, in fact, a lady's shoe, is it not?

Indeed, my friend, it does seem so. From a rather large lady, unless I am very much mistaken.

The Conte peered at it more closely. There is something oddly familiar about it. And while immersion in the water of the bay does not seem to have improved it any, I am compelled to observe that its former owner does not seem to have been possessed of much in the way of good taste or fashion sense.

Well, at least we have something. Let us take our catch of the day and proceed home. I wonder what Merry will tossin the kettle with it to make something delectable of this.

1784, 16 August

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

Dearest Hetty,

I know I should have written immediately upon my return from Marseilles, where I saw father, who was in surprisingly good spirits for one who might be somewhat humbled by circumstances. (I always forget until I see him in society that he is not just our Papa but also a charming man of the world.)

I'd have written immediately upon my arrival here but was distracted by the marvelous gift of a harpsichord from my dear friend, Lorsagne. You remember me mentioning her, don't you? Unfortunately, the woman herself was not present here upon my return. She has set upon a journey of her own. I know she needs to check on family and business holdings in France. I suspect she may also have set out to acquire a gift for the newest resident of this small island.

Have I mentioned the new babe birthed recently by a young woman who succumbed sadly to the fever for which we were all quarantined? You may recall that I wrote of the woman and the mysterious circumstances of her arrival here the very day the fever forced us all into our homes. I am told she was of Rome and that the father of her child has not stepped forward to claim the babe, though it is painfully clear who the father is. (I will never understand a man who chooses his own convenience over the needs of his own child.) My understanding is that a local physician and his wife have stepped forward to raise the child as their ward. I believe Losagne is to be the godmother.

Of course, none of that explains why I have been so slow in sending word to you that I am back in Italy and doing well, nor does it tell you what you want to know about M. Lt. Badeau. I'll get to describing that encounter shortly.

The reason I have been slow in writing is that I am quiet profoundly exhausted. The journey was tiring, that is sure, and the weeks of quarantine preceding my trip were less thanrestful. But neither of those are what have caused the current depletion of my energies. I have been kept up nights by the noisy, vocal, recreations of someone in a neighboring room here in the villa. I have not met everyone who is a guest here, but I have heard this one quite exuberantly called Davy. I try not to imagine what might have so pleased the young woman who cried out his name. Repeatedly. In the middle of the night. I just wish she would whisper it instead so that I can get some sleep. On the other hand, this unknown Davy and his women (yes, there are several) might give me ideas for my next novel. Perhaps Mr. Dodsley would be more interested in that than he was in Evelina! I know, you must think me awful for having any of these thoughts. Please forgive your lonely sister her poor behavior.

The other situation that is weighing on my mind and causing me a bit of dis-ease is that I came across a young woman on the boat from Marseilles. She is of India and seeking employment. She has begged to be my lady's maid. You know how I feel about servants and are also aware that there is not money to spare. But this young woman touched me so. She is bright and wants to better her English. I worry that one such as her might be thrown to the wolves, so to speak -- possibly the very same wolf that wrecked that poor girl from Rome I wrote of above. I would hate to see another young woman destroyed for want of opportunity. I am considering my options and will be sure to let you know what I decide.

Now to say what I can of my encounter with M. Lt. Badeau, Henri. He was in Marseilles, as his letter said he would be, staying at a small hotel with some of his comrades in arms. Of course, I did not tell father I was meeting a gentleman when I made excuse for my absence on the afternoon of 10 August. Nonetheless, Father found out. Henri and I were walking in the park when father passed us on his way to see M. Jean Charles about a violin. It was a bit tense, but, charmer that Father can be, he greeted us as if he had expected to see me there on the arm of a handsome soldier.

Henri was, of course, unaware that Father might not approve of our meeting so there was no discomfit on his side. That fell all to me and I fear I was as jittery as a startled colt. Henri took my nerves to mean I had changed my mind about him. Of course, I assured him I have not, but he seemed somewhat skeptical.

We spent just a few hours together, during which time we walked and talked, stopping once in a lovely little cafe for bread and wine, chocolates and fine French cheese. He spoke of the adventures he has while doing his work and of the poverty and unrest he sees in many parts of France, including Marseilles. He also spoke of his young sisters and an older brother who runs the family business, a winery not far from where we sat. In fact, the wine we drank was from L'Vignoble D'Badeau. I will admit to you that I cannot tell a good wine from swill, but I assure you I praised it to Henri as if it were wine blessed by God himself.

He walked me back to M. Champney's home, so that I could spend one last evening with father before heading back to Italy and my writing. At the door of M. Champney's, Henri kissed my hand in the manor of all well-raised frenchmen. Am I completely wonton for admitting that I wish he had aimed a bit higher?

I do hope you will write soon. I would like to know your opinion of my encounter with Henri Badeau. Do you think my nervousness at seeing father will have put him off?

And, of course, please let me know what our dear step-mother has been up to of late. I was so glad she did not come to France with Papa, but worried that it might be your life she was disrupting in his absence.

Now I am off for a walk along the harbor, where I will see that this letter goes out on the next boat headed north. Then, it will be time for some tea and a bit of writing. I miss you, dear Hetty.

Ever Your Friend and Sister,

Fanny

1784, 16 August

Rocca Sorrentina, Italy

Dearest Hetty,

I know I should have written immediately upon my return from Marseilles, where I saw father, who was in surprisingly good spirits for one who might be somewhat humbled by circumstances. (I always forget until I see him in society that he is not just our Papa but also a charming man of the world.)

I'd have written immediately upon my arrival here but was distracted by the marvelous gift of a harpsichord from my dear friend, Lorsagne. You remember me mentioning her, don't you? Unfortunately, the woman herself was not present here upon my return. She has set upon a journey of her own. I know she needs to check on family and business holdings in France. I suspect she may also have set out to acquire a gift for the newest resident of this small island.

Have I mentioned the new babe birthed recently by a young woman who succumbed sadly to the fever for which we were all quarantined? You may recall that I wrote of the woman and the mysterious circumstances of her arrival here the very day the fever forced us all into our homes. I am told she was of Rome and that the father of her child has not stepped forward to claim the babe, though it is painfully clear who the father is. (I will never understand a man who chooses his own convenience over the needs of his own child.) My understanding is that a local physician and his wife have stepped forward to raise the child as their ward. I believe Losagne is to be the godmother.

Of course, none of that explains why I have been so slow in sending word to you that I am back in Italy and doing well, nor does it tell you what you want to know about M. Lt. Badeau. I'll get to describing that encounter shortly.

The reason I have been slow in writing is that I am quiet profoundly exhausted. The journey was tiring, that is sure, and the weeks of quarantine preceding my trip were less thanrestful. But neither of those are what have caused the current depletion of my energies. I have been kept up nights by the noisy, vocal, recreations of someone in a neighboring room here in the villa. I have not met everyone who is a guest here, but I have heard this one quite exuberantly called Davy. I try not to imagine what might have so pleased the young woman who cried out his name. Repeatedly. In the middle of the night. I just wish she would whisper it instead so that I can get some sleep. On the other hand, this unknown Davy and his women (yes, there are several) might give me ideas for my next novel. Perhaps Mr. Dodsley would be more interested in that than he was in Evelina! I know, you must think me awful for having any of these thoughts. Please forgive your lonely sister her poor behavior.

The other situation that is weighing on my mind and causing me a bit of dis-ease is that I came across a young woman on the boat from Marseilles. She is of India and seeking employment. She has begged to be my lady's maid. You know how I feel about servants and are also aware that there is not money to spare. But this young woman touched me so. She is bright and wants to better her English. I worry that one such as her might be thrown to the wolves, so to speak -- possibly the very same wolf that wrecked that poor girl from Rome I wrote of above. I would hate to see another young woman destroyed for want of opportunity. I am considering my options and will be sure to let you know what I decide.

Now to say what I can of my encounter with M. Lt. Badeau, Henri. He was in Marseilles, as his letter said he would be, staying at a small hotel with some of his comrades in arms. Of course, I did not tell father I was meeting a gentleman when I made excuse for my absence on the afternoon of 10 August. Nonetheless, Father found out. Henri and I were walking in the park when father passed us on his way to see M. Jean Charles about a violin. It was a bit tense, but, charmer that Father can be, he greeted us as if he had expected to see me there on the arm of a handsome soldier.

Henri was, of course, unaware that Father might not approve of our meeting so there was no discomfit on his side. That fell all to me and I fear I was as jittery as a startled colt. Henri took my nerves to mean I had changed my mind about him. Of course, I assured him I have not, but he seemed somewhat skeptical.

We spent just a few hours together, during which time we walked and talked, stopping once in a lovely little cafe for bread and wine, chocolates and fine French cheese. He spoke of the adventures he has while doing his work and of the poverty and unrest he sees in many parts of France, including Marseilles. He also spoke of his young sisters and an older brother who runs the family business, a winery not far from where we sat. In fact, the wine we drank was from L'Vignoble D'Badeau. I will admit to you that I cannot tell a good wine from swill, but I assure you I praised it to Henri as if it were wine blessed by God himself.

He walked me back to M. Champney's home, so that I could spend one last evening with father before heading back to Italy and my writing. At the door of M. Champney's, Henri kissed my hand in the manor of all well-raised frenchmen. Am I completely wonton for admitting that I wish he had aimed a bit higher?

I do hope you will write soon. I would like to know your opinion of my encounter with Henri Badeau. Do you think my nervousness at seeing father will have put him off?

And, of course, please let me know what our dear step-mother has been up to of late. I was so glad she did not come to France with Papa, but worried that it might be your life she was disrupting in his absence.

Now I am off for a walk along the harbor, where I will see that this letter goes out on the next boat headed north. Then, it will be time for some tea and a bit of writing. I miss you, dear Hetty.

Ever Your Friend and Sister,

Fanny

August, 1784

From the time Lorsagne made the decision to book passage for Marseilles, her maid Perrette had less than twelve hours to pack everything her mistress would need for the journey. The two-masted Minerva would cast off from Sorrentina at dawn, and the young woman who had served Lorsagne for the past several years worked through the night to pack de Sades belongings and to secure the additional supplies her mistress would need to make the sea-voyage with as little discomfort as possible.

Lorsagnes books, several letter cases, and her brass-handled writing box fitted with seals and sealing-wax, notepaper, nibs and a pen-shaft were packed first. Next, travel clothing and articles of toilette were chosen. The bulk of Lorsagnes wardrobe would be kept on the island in anticipation of Lorsagnes return. While Perrette sorted through wigs, gowns, cloaks, slippers, hats, corsets and chemises, Lorsagne tended to her jewelry and other items of a personal nature she did not wish the maid to handle. Sending Perrette to the baker to await the first loaves of fresh bread, Lorsagne packed her jewelry in soft flannel pouches secured with fine silk cording which she then secured around her waist so the bags would be hidden by her skirt.

By the time Lorsagne finished dressing, Perette returned with food to sustain Lorsagne during the four-day voyage from Sorrentina to the busy port of Marseilles. Freshly baked flatbread was laid atop lidded baskets packed with sweet butter, local cheese, cured mutton, almonds, fat lemons, figs, and local stone fruits whose ripe scent would help mask the fetid odors of the ships small cabin. Lorsagne laughed at the mounds of food, telling Perette she would grow fat and that it would be the girls fault.

All was ready, and Perette summoned two young male servants to load a waiting cart with her mistresss belonging and take them to the docks where strong-backed sailors would convey them to the waiting ship and use stout rope to firmly secure all of Lorsagnes belongings in the tiny cabin Lorsagne had been able to book.

Lorsagne and Perette accompanied the porters, with Lorsagne carrying a small package Signora McBain had delivered to her rooms moments before she took her leave. Lorsagne held the package to her chest tightly, inhaling the rich fragrance of the Signoras prized coffee beans freshly roasted and ground fine to permit her the luxury of fresh coffee to revive the bodyand to mask the taste of the ration of brackish water that Lorsagne would be allotted on her trip. Perette carried two small casks of brandy as additional assurance that Lorsagne would be able to use a share of her allotment of fresh water for hygiene instead of being forced to drink water stored in wooden casks and often fouled by slime.

In the several minutes it took the small party to reach the docks, Perette and the two porters chatted in the way of young people, their soft laughter breaking the silence of the early hour. Lorsagne was quiet, listening to her own thoughts and memories of Sorrentina and the cry of sea birds taking flight as the sky began to lighten.

Perette would stay in Sorrentina; Lorsagne would travel faster alone and she wanted the keen-eyed serving girl to keep an eye on her possessionsand her interestsin her absence. As they made their farewells, Lorsagne slipped a heavy envelope into Perettes hands instructing her not to break the seal and extract the contents unless Lorsagne failed to return within three months time. When the girl attempted to query Lorsagne about the letters contents, she was rebuked with uncharacteristic harshness. Downcast and puzzled, Perette slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket and watched as Lorsagne boarded the skiff that would carry her from the dock to the waiting vessel.

Within minutes, Lorsagnes form was swallowed by the early-morning fog and Perette made her way back to her mistresss rooms still stinging from her chastisement, wondering if the letter was a portent of dangers of which she had no knowledge, and resigned that while fair-minded and generous, her mistress would remain as much of a mystery as the implacable small plaster icons of the saints to whom she prayed when she sought favors and forgiveness.

+++

By the second day at sea, the effects of waters made rough by late-summer heat and strong crosswinds left Lorsagne with little appetite. She kept to her cabin and wrote letters by the hour. Possessed of a fine hand, a keen eye for observing her surroundings and sufficient wit to render her impressionsand her aimswith ease and clarity, Lorsagne enjoyed a wide-ranging and effective correspondence with persons useful to her interests. The developments in Sorrentina would call on all of Losagnes contacts, and Lorsagne used her time at sea to begin the process of securing a place in the world for her godchild. She wrote with few interruptions, and although Perette had managed to secure 30 sheets of parchment, the supply was exhausted by the third day.

By the fourth day, Lorsagnes supply of fresh food was also depleted, and as the ship anchored some several hundred feet from the docks of Marseilles, Lorsagne was impatient to disembark, make arrangements for delivery of her correspondence, and secure a coach and four for the long overland journey home. She had one detour to make before she would reach The Haven: the Bastille. It was not a stop she wished to make, but Lorsagne feared the repercussions should she fail to present herself as requested in the letter she had received days before leaving Sorrentina.