It was nearly midnight when they left Harry’s Bar and walked hand in hand back to their hotel beside the Grand Canal, a half-moon lighting their way, sparkling off the water. The night was warm, the air soft. They were both on the tipsy side, and it felt wonderful. There were very few people out this late and it was quiet, except for the gentle splashing of the water against the pylons. They’d forgotten their burned hands, their bruises, even forgotten the horror on that island in the Devil’s Triangle, Louisa’s new name for it.
Nicholas pulled her to a stop.
She cocked her head up at him as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled the thumb drive with Jason Kohath’s formula off his key ring. “You made me think about this some more. Who knows if Jason’s ideas, his formulas, his instructions, wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands? The world is rife with greedy, immoral people. It could easily happen.” He drew a deep breath. “So what do you think?”
Mike never looked away from his face. “Throw it as far as you can into the canal.”
He did. The thumb drive didn’t make a sound, simply slid beneath the surface of the dark water. They both hoped it would sit in the bottom silt until someday the city itself finally collapsed on top of it.
They stood quietly. Then, “Listen, Mike.”
Mike cocked her head. “What?”
Nicholas said, “I think I heard Louisa singing the aria from Madame Butterfly.”
EPILOGUE
Somewhere Near Greece
May 2, 2040
The catch was good today. The hold of Christos’s boat was full of red mullet. His young son Alexio was resting on the pile of nets in the prow of the boat. Unlike his brother, Alexio wasn’t afraid of the Guardian.
Before Christos steered the boat another mile into the bay below the promontory of their little island, he slowed his boat to look to the sheer granite cliffs, as he always did. His day never ended without seeing her, without saying his short prayer: Please keep my family safe and keep safe what you watch over, my lady.
There had been many changes in the world since Christos was a boy, but the Guardian had never changed. She was always there, every night, silhouetted against the sunset, her hand to her forehead, shading her eyes as she looked out to sea. He wondered what she did, this woman, this amazing being, who was woven into the very fabric of his life. Like young Alexio, Christos had fished with his own father, and they’d seen her daily. Though the Guardian was far away, he could tell that in all these years she had never changed—her long white gown blowing gently against her legs, her golden hair braided in thick plaits atop her head, her skin smooth and white. He remembered her from his youngest years, remembered his father saying:
I remember when she first appeared, Christos, and it was magic. I felt her goodness and I knew she was here to watch over us. I knew she was holy. She is holy. I knew she would never leave us.
It was Christos, at five years old, who had waved madly at her from his father’s boat, now his boat, and he remembered so clearly how she had looked down at him, how she had nodded, recognizing the small boy, and he’d felt such warmth and deep sense of wonder and happiness. And he’d whispered, Guardian.
Over the years, he’d listened to many stories about her, who she was, what she was, and what she was guarding, for all knew there was something that kept her there, year after year, decade after decade, but he’d never said anything. And no one spoke of her, no one tried to climb those cliffs to reach her.
Christos bowed to her as he always did, and knew that she saw him, recognized him, blessed him. As a child, he’d felt warmth and wonder. Now he felt a deep sense of reverence, and awe. He looked to the prow of the boat to see Alexio waving at her. And she nodded at his small son.