Page 54 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
Looking through the change in fashions and the transformation of the years, she recognized Lorenzo first—though this version of the man looked more carefree than the conte she’d known. Lucrezia might have been any Italian girl—neither woman nor child—but the mouth was hers; even here, so young, there was mischief in its curl.
The third was a less familiar face, but she recalled it, nonetheless.
Serpico—the half-brother.
Italian for snake, like those intertwined on the di Cavour coat of arms.
He’d been part of the story all along, his destiny woven with the great family from the moment his mother had come to the attention of the old conte.
Was Lucrezia right?
Had he survived the fire and followed them all this way?
Or was this no more than coincidence? Could the photograph be Lucrezia’s, stuffed in her pocket with her jewels, or retrieved later from the safe? If so, she might have dropped it, or the picture could have been taken from her room.
With shaking hands, she replaced it in the box and closed the lid, pushing all far into the corner—as if that might allow the act to be undone.
But, of course, some things could never be so.
The room seemed suddenly less a sanctuary than a dark place of hiding—and she’d stayed too long. Her realm was above, where there was air and light; rain too, and obscuring mist, but always the promise of sun.
She didn’t belong here.
With that thought came the awareness of shadows shifting.
‘Is someone there? Mr. Lopez?’
There was no answer, but Cecile’s pulse thudded.
She was not alone.
