? Thursday, 6 September 1984

  10:30 AM — Runway Show: Krizia Avant-garde designs; experimental themes

  1:00 PM — Informal lunch with fashion journalists from La Repubblica, Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung, The Face

  A reminder card had been slipped under the door to what was ostensibly Delphine’s hotel room. It included a handwritten note:

  "The presence of Delphine’s companion is requested.”

  Evening — Free

  Aric had asked to be freed from attending the show. Delphine knew that his absence would draw almost as much comment as his presence. But she smiled, leaned into him, and kissed his soft lips. They never felt rough or chapped, and she wondered if he was doing something—healing himself—to keep them like that.

  “You’ve earned a morning off. Stay in bed all day. Room service can bring your meals up.”

  He’d chuckled. “People will think I’m hungover.”

  She had just enough time to get to hair and makeup. She gnced at herself in the mirror one st time.

  “Let them think what they like.”

  He’d been much better—much more his normal self—in the morning. She’d been slightly hurt when he told her why. But his expnation made perfect sense to her, and the hurt faded quickly.

  “He saw me the same way she did. And his reaction was the opposite of hers. He treated me like a person instead of an object.”

  She knew what he was saying, and she understood why the words of a stranger had helped him as much as the words of another stranger had hurt. If she ever found the mysterious Manuel Rojas, she would thank him personally. But—

  “He’d have still fucked your brains out, given the opportunity.”

  That got a real ugh from him.

  “Sure. But for the right reasons.”

  They had a set of rules. Where their mouths could go, and where they couldn’t. Where their hands were allowed to roam, and what was off limits. Where other things could wander, and what was beyond the pale.

  She pulled him into a kiss. Her bare breasts rubbed against his chest, and it took less than fifteen seconds for her nipples to stand erect.

  “Are my reasons the right reasons?”

  “Your reasons are exactly my reasons,” he answered as his hand wandered down her spine. It was still within bounds as she started to shudder.

  “Good,” she gasped.

  One of the items Aric had brought with him—that had traveled from Surrey to Gsgow to Min—was his running shoes. He left the hotel barely ten minutes after Delphine.

  He started east, then turned north, threading through Brera almost without noticing as the rhythm of his footfalls took over. Cobblestones gave way to smoother pavement, and his mind began to loosen. He crossed into broader avenues and traffic increased. But his body was already responding to the familiar routine—the feeling of freedom. Out of touch. No demands. No tests. Nothing but the road in front of him.

  He knew his cares were not erased, that once he turned around they would again grow closer. But that was a problem for ter.

  For now, all he had to focus on was his stride—drop the foot, roll through the big toe. Bring it back up until the heel almost kicked the back of his thigh. Head up, chest out. Arms moving forward and back. Wrist to elbow.

  And then repeat.

  A man could get lost in that. The repetition. The sameness of each stride. He didn’t notice the city subtly changing character.

  Not until he hit Navigli, and the canals.

  It was like a new form of gravity pulling him forward. Long, straight lines of water bordered by gravel paths. His speed increased in anticipation as he felt the change in texture beneath his shoes.

  The canals reminded him of the snaking verdant waterway he had followed while flying from Gsgow to Surrey. He could see several groups of ducks moving slowly, drawing lines on the surface of the water as they went. He wondered if any of them were the same duck from Gsgow—and whether they would remember him if they were.

  The canals kept going, and once again his mind wandered. The air smelled different now—damp earth, vegetation, not stone. Farm walls appeared. Rusted gates.

  The canal bent. The path widened.

  Dogs barking somewhere in the distance pulled him out of his silent reverie. Ahead of him, a tower appeared. Like the canals, it drew him onward, and he picked up speed.

  Several minutes ter, he reached it. He slowed, then stopped, and looked around.

  Where am I?

  It was a religious structure. Aric would bet money on it. And only now, standing close, did it dawn on him how tall the tower was.

  That thing has to be two hundred feet tall.

  It was beautiful. He wondered if anyone would be offended if he stepped inside, given how he was dressed.

  Then he looked at his watch.

  Shit.

  He’d been running for over an hour.

  He should be back at the hotel and in the shower by now. He’d promised to accompany Delphine for the interview ter.

  Dammit.

  For a fraction of a second, he considered flying back—at least partway. But it was a stupid idea. He’d be seen. No question.

  He checked his watch again.

  He’d have to hoof it.

  He had time.

  Barely.

  Aric opened the door to Delphine’s suite and stopped dead in his tracks.

  It was a fair-sized suite—when occupied by only two people. It held six now—seven, including him, as he stood in the open doorway in running shorts, a tank top, and a pair of Nike running shoes.

  “I’m sorry I’m te. I lost track of the time.”

  One of the seven was the photographer Giulia Moreschi had arranged, and the man wasted no time getting to work. The rapid click-whirr of a 35mm SLR accompanied Aric’s apology.

  I wonder if we can arrange a swimsuit shoot? he wondered.

  Delphine smiled as she inspected his long, well-sculpted limbs—most of which were clearly visible in his skimpy attire. She was wearing a tailored burgundy bzer over a champagne silk blouse, paired with bck tailored trousers. Her feet were bare. Her hair was deliberately styled up, revealing a pair of gold hoop earrings. Her toenails were painted a deep oxblood, but her fingernails were clear-coated. She wore no lipstick.

  “I was worried we’d find you still in bed,” she said, though she secretly enjoyed the idea of all of them walking in on him—his naked torso on dispy after his warm body had called out for coolness.

  Aric started to slip off his shoes as the image in her mind found its way to him.

  Who’s the wicked one now? he sent back, which drew a wide smile from her.

  “No. I left a little after you did.”

  They were speaking Italian, and Alessandra Vitelli—the journalist from La Repubblica—recognized Aric’s accent immediately. The forty-year-old Roman prided herself on keeping a finger on the pulse of Italian fashion, but she’d never heard of a new face emerging from her home city.

  Not one that attractive anyway.

  The seventh person—or sixth, depending on how one counted—was the transtor for Martin Feldmann and Cra Whitcombe. Neither spoke Italian well enough to follow the conversation. And while Alessandra’s English was more than adequate for Cra, her German was practically nonexistent. Aric could hear the transtor murmuring quietly as he worked, tracking Delphine and Aric’s exchange.

  “Where did you go that was so distracting?” Delphine asked pyfully. “And who did you meet there?”

  They were a study in contrasts as she crossed the room toward him, a slight sway in her hips as if to remind him that she was all the distraction he needed.

  “North, mostly,” he said. “I followed some canals for a while. I ended up at a sort of church by the time I realized how te it was.”

  “A church?” she asked.

  That caught the photographer’s attention. He lowered his camera.

  “A church past some canals?” he asked. “What did it look like?”

  Aric had to think.

  “Big. Old. It had a tower—must’ve been two hundred feet tall. Octagonal walls at the base. I thought about going inside, but then I realized I was te.”

  “Fifty-six meters,” the man said calmly. “A bit over one hundred eighty feet.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how tall the tower is,” he repeated. “You found the Abbazia di Chiaravalle.”

  The transtor reyed this—first in German, then in English. Aric hoped the man was being paid double.

  “That’s ten miles from here,” the photographer continued. “You ran ten miles, then turned around and ran back?”

  Aric realized it might have been better to miss the meeting entirely. He’d been stupid. Again.

  He fell back on his st line of defense.

  “Well, I tried hailing a cab,” he said, “but they were all busy.”

  Delphine lowered her voice. “You ran twenty miles in—how long?”

  “A bit over two hours. I’m sorry. It just felt good to get away from everything for a while, and I lost track of time.”

  He saw the look on her face and amended quickly. He reached out, his hand still dusty and unwashed, stopping it inches from her perfectly composed face.

  “Almost everything.”

  She knew what he meant, but it was still good to hear him say it. She nodded toward the cavernous bathroom.

  “To the bath you go, my love. We can wait a few minutes longer.”

  He disappeared behind the door, and the sound of running water followed.

  The interview hadn’t even started. Not a single question had been asked. Yet all three journalists were already writing furiously.

  Nike shoes… American?

  Twenty miles… a bit over two hours.

  Current marathon world record?

  Italian distance runners? Rome? Nike?

  New Roman athlete/model’s mid twenties.

  Delphine had no idea what they were writing. It would be a lie to say she didn’t care—she cared very much. She cared as much as she loved the man who, at that moment, was sinking beneath the surface of the bathtub.

  They were there to write about her. But she wanted them to like him. As long as they didn’t write about him flying without an airpne—or healing the sick with a touch—she was content. Let them write about his run. It was the perfect distraction.

  “Why don’t we get started?” Delphine suggested smoothly. “It was me you came to interview, wasn’t it?”

  A soft, pale stone cotton shirt worn open at the colr. Tailored charcoal ft-front wool trousers. Dark brown leather loafers. An unstructured navy bzer. His hair was still damp. The faint scent of Eau Sauvage drifted from him.

  Delphine looked at the face of Alessandra Vitelli as she gazed at Aric and smiled.

  I know exactly how you feel.

  Aric sat beside Delphine. A pair of armchairs had been positioned in front of a couch that was not quite wide enough for three people. The journalists sat knee to knee. The couch had been pulled away from the wall, and the transtor and photographer—who Delphine was certain were reted—stood behind and worked.

  The questions—in either English or Italian—paused briefly as Aric reappeared, transformed, from the same door he had disappeared through fifteen minutes earlier. He smiled meekly at the renewed attention as he sat. Delphine reached out and took his hand.

  He avoided eye contact. He looked only at Delphine as she spoke, intent on every word. Her face in profile was perfection, and he marveled at it.

  The photographer saw the looks he gave her—the looks they gave each other.

  It was supposed to be a story about Dr. Delphine Moreau. World-renowned fashion model. Doctorate in physics from the école Normale Supérieure in Paris. Author of several publications on dimensional reduction in quantum gravity.

  But the two of them together—their connection—made it just as easily a love story for the ages.

  They asked Delphine about her childhood. About being discovered. About her studies. About her decision to focus on science rather than fashion. About several past retionships with prominent men.

  Which led to Martin Feldmann’s next question, directed not at Delphine, but at Aric.

  “Diese Frage ist an den Herrn gerichtet. Wie haben Sie sich kennengelernt? War es die Wissenschaft oder die Mode, die Sie zusammengebracht hat?” This question is for the gentleman. How did the two of you meet? Was it science or fashion that brought you together?

  It occurred to Aric afterward that he should have waited for the transtion. But in the moment, it was his heart rather than his head that answered.

  He looked at Delphine and spoke.

  “Es war Gott, der uns zusammengebracht hat. Oder das Schicksal, wenn Sie so wollen. Als h?tte mich jeder Schritt, den ich bis dahin in meinem Leben gemacht hatte, dorthin geführt, wo ich hingeh?rte. Ich war verloren. Und sie hat mich gefunden.” It was God who brought us together. Or fate, if you prefer. As though every step I had taken in my life until then had led me to where I belonged. I was lost. And she found me.

  The transtor hesitated, caught off guard by Aric’s perfect German. Martin Feldmann didn’t need the transtion.

  Delphine did.

  When the words reached her in English, they were too much. She leaned forward so her tears would fall straight down onto the expensive carpet—preserving her makeup, if not her dignity.

  “I’m sorry,” Aric said softly, switching to French. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Alessandra Vitelli was beside them in an instant, handing Delphine a tissue.

  “Tu dis de si belles choses quand tu ne réfléchis pas,” Delphine said gently as she dabbed her eyes. You say such beautiful things when you don’t think.

  In the background, a shutter whirred.

  Aric smiled faintly. “Thinking is overrated, in my opinion.”

  Delphine choked out a ugh as she applied the tissue gently.

  Cra Whitcombe waited until Delphine had composed herself before speaking.

  “As far as I can tell, this is your first appearance, Mr. Stel—and everything’s coming off the middle of the bat for you, if you take my meaning.”

  If Aric hadn’t just made the same mistake moments earlier, he might have answered immediately—with disastrous consequences. One word of English and he’d be exposed as American.

  This time, he waited.

  The transtion came in French.

  He answered in kind, smiling.

  “I do take your meaning. A friend is teaching me the finer points of cricket. But this isn’t my first anything. I’m not here to appear. I’m here to be with Delphine.”

  “But you’ve made quite a spsh in Min this week.”

  He tilted his head, shrugged slightly.

  “A rock makes quite a spsh when you drop it into a ke,” he said. “It’s still just a rock.”

  A perfect diamond makes quite a spsh too, Delphine, Cra, and Alessandra all thought simultaneously.

  “If there are no more questions,” Delphine said, rising smoothly to her feet, “I believe someone just ran twenty miles on an empty stomach and must be starving by now.”

  In her stilettos and natural height, she towered over the room.

  The photographer had nearly exhausted his film. He used what remained capturing images of the man and woman who looked as though God Himself had crafted them to be companions for one another.

  Giulia Moreschi would study those images ter and realize exactly what she was holding.

  I am a goddamn genius, she thought, recalling the note she had written requesting Rico Stel’s presence.