“I don’t care what Mustafa said,” Varian snapped. “The whole town’s drunk. A mob of drunken men could take it into their heads to do anything. You’ll stay here with Petro and make sure he keeps away from the raki bottle. I’ve got problems enough without worrying about you.”
“But, sir, I promise I—”
“You’ll stay here, Percival.”
“But you need Petro to—”
“There’s bound to be someone who knows Greek or Italian. At the least, the priest must know Latin. I’ll manage.”
“They’re not Papists, sir, not in the south. They’re—”
“Damnation. Will you hold your tongue for once and just do as you’re told? I warn you, Percival, if you so much as think of stirring from this spot, I’ll give you the birching I should have done weeks ago.”
Percival hastily sank back down upon the stone he’d been sitting on. “Yes, sir,” he said meekly.
Varian threw one warning look at Petro, then quickly mounted and followed Agimi down the hillside.
***
Donika squeezed Esme’s hand. “No, you cannot go so soon,” she said. “You promised you would sing to me, gypsy girl.”
Esme looked at Qeriba.
“Well, what harm?” the old woman said. “Sing to the bride and bring her good luck. The bride’s wishes come first. Later, the whims of an old woman.”
Esme smiled faintly. A substantial meal had radically improved Qeriba’s temper. When she’d done eating, she’d even patted Esme’s hand. “The air cools at last,” she’d said. “A good wind comes. Can you feel it?”
Esme felt no breeze, even now. Though the sun was slowly sinking toward the sea, the garden still seemed stifling. She wasn’t sure this was entirely on account of her thick clothing. Perhaps the feeling was inside her. She felt suffocated by Donika’s glowing happiness. That was ill-natured and selfish, Esme chided herself.
She returned Donika’s hand squeeze and said, “I shall give you my best love song. A plaintive melody, but the end is a happy one.”
She sank down on the cobblestones at the bride’s feet, arranged her heavy skirts elegantly about her, accepted the lutelike giftelia from another girl, and began to sing.
This was truly a mournful melody, a story of a peasant girl wooed and abandoned by a rich man’s son. By the second verse, she saw tears in more than one pair of feminine eyes. Even Donika’s were misting, but she smiled, and those tears seemed radiant beams of joy.
It wasn’t until the third verse—when the peasant girl plucked a poppy from the spot where her lover had first embraced her—that Esme sensed something amiss. Her audience seemed entirely captivated by her performance; several women were weeping openly. Whatever was wrong, they were too taken up with the sad song to notice.
Esme’s glance darted to Qeriba. The old woman’s attention was not fixed upon her granddaughter but upon the house, and her narrowed eyes glinted.
Then Esme realized what it was. The men’s noise had subsided. No shouts, no boisterous singing, only a buzz of voices. Her flesh chilled. She glanced behind her. Nobody. Nothing. Only the too-subdued house.
The chill had seeped inside her now, and a cold feeling seized her belly. Her tongue stumbled over the next line of the song, then failed her entirely as raw panic engulfed her. She leapt up, dropping her instrument, heedless of everything but the need to escape. She was dimly aware of the women moving about her, of shrill voices sharp with anxiety and questions. Esme heeded none of it. She was already hurrying toward the path, all her being fixed on the gate beyond.
Varian had heard her. He was sure he’d heard her voice. He hurried out to the garden…and found himself facing a wall of women.
“Where is she?” he demanded in Albanian.
Silence.
His glance darted over the terraces and stopped at the narrow gate. He’d no sooner begun heading for the path that led to it than the feminine wall surged into motion, blocking his way. He looked behind him. The men had followed him out of the house. Now they stood, unmoving, another wall of sullen faces. Agimi tried to struggle through, but two of the men caught him and held him back. No one would hinder the English lord; no one would be allowed to help him, either.
Swearing under his breath, Varian turned back to the women. There must be fifty at least, and more were streaming into the garden. They wouldn’t let him by, that much was obvious. His predicament was equally plain. They stood packed close together, so that to get through, he must touch them. If even his coat sleeve brushed against any of them, the men would be upon him in an instant. Most were the worse for drink and could easily forget that he was English, a guest in their country. They had not been particularly hospitable to begin with. Esme must have made him out a monster—the Devil incarnate, no doubt. It didn’t matter. He was not about to retreat.
The Devil flashed his most disarming smile. “So much beauty in one place,” he said softly. “It takes my breath away.”
A few of the younger women stirred uneasily, as he’d hoped. Women didn’t need to understand his language. They responded to his tone and his eyes. Whatever they’d believed a moment before, they were confused now. The dark-eyed bride, who stood in the forefront of her army, looked puzzled and anxious. Beside her, a tiny old woman clad entirely in black muttered something. The comment elicited a few giggles. Also, a few irritated responses.
Varian focused on the old lady. “You understand English?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Pat.” A little.
Thank heaven. “Please tell them then that never have I beheld so beautiful a bride, a blooming rose in a bouquet of beauty. The men cannot move because they’re struck helpless by this sight. They wonder how I dare approach so near, for surely so much sweetness will kill me.”
The old woman gravely translated this for the company. Their uneasiness increased. He heard several nervous giggles.
“I dare because my heart is gone,” Varian went on coaxingly. “A little bird has taken it and flown from me. I heard her singing a moment ago. Or did I merely dream this? If she were near, such sweet flowers would not keep me from her. They could not be so unkind.”
Tears were trickling down the bride’s face even before the old woman had finished translating. The bride looked enquiringly at the crone. The latter shrugged, then waved her bony hand impatiently. The bride stepped aside, and the others with her.
“Go, Varian Shenjt Gjergj,” said the old woman.
Varian swept her a bow. “Faleminderit,” he said. God help me, he thought. Clearly, no one else would.
He strode rapidly toward the gate.
He didn’t know where he was going, or that Esme had gone this way. But the garden walls were high, and this appeared to be the only speedy exit from the place.
Beyond the gate, he discovered a vast orchard rising on the hillside—and not a living soul in sight. He stared despairingly about him. “Esme!” he called. Only the wind answered, brisker than before, coming from the southwest. He could search the orchard or go the other way, west, to the bay. He glanced at the waning sun and headed for the stonier part of the hill, the side facing the water.
After stumbling about blindly for a while, he found at last a well-worn path. As he left the orchard behind, the way grew rockier and narrower, coiling tortuously about the brown marble of the hillside. Hours seemed to pass while he felt he
traveled in circles and got no nearer the bay. He reminded himself the ways were always like this in Albania: roundabout and agonizingly slow as they detoured round the unforgiving terrain. Which meant that Esme could go no faster than he...if this was the way she had gone. It must be. He could not consider the alternative.
At long last, when he felt certain he’d circled the entire mountain, Varian struggled through the thorns and grasping vines of some unfamiliar vegetation to find the view open at last. Below him sprawled the bay of Santi Quaranta: Forty Saints. He hastened down the slope and across the rough road to the beach. To his right, a mole jutted out into the harbor. Like a great arm bent at the elbow, the stone breakwater held a cluster of small boats in its embrace. West, where the sun dipped treacherously near the horizon, he discerned the dark mass of Corfu rising in the midnight blue of the Ionian Sea.
He took all this in at a glance, along with the disquieting awareness that he had about half an hour—an hour at most—to find Esme before night fell. His feet, meanwhile, carried him on, down to the boat rest, while he scanned the vessels for signs of life.
The tiny harbor within a harbor lay ghostly still. He heard only the waves lapping and the faint creak of wood. He must be the only soul in Saranda who wasn’t at the wedding. Except for Esme, wherever she was. Not here, he thought, as despair washed over him. Nothing stirred here.
“Esme!” he shouted. He ran along the breakwater. “Esme!”
The boats—fishing vessels, most of them—gave him no answer. They lay mute, huddled together within the great stone arm. Sullen reddish glints danced upon mast and deck, the only light in the deepening shadows. The boats appeared empty, and he told himself he’d erred grievously to come this way. Then he answered that she was small and might lay hidden under a blanket or behind a heap of ropes and nets. The sun was low, and most of the boats rested in the breakwater’s shade. He couldn’t be certain until he searched…every last, dratted one of them.