A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii by Kate Quinn, Ben Kane, Stephanie Dray, Michelle Moran, E. Knight, Sophie Perinot, Vicky Alvear Shecter

ignore,” I say.
    Father laughs. “Are you recovered from your scare last evening?” His face takes on a look of pride. “But then you did not seem scared, even with your nurse wailing and Sabinus despairing. Poor man …”
    But, whatever pity I felt for Sabinus last evening and whatever resolutions I formed this morning not to disdain him publicly, I am uninterested in him at this moment. Faustus will be leaving as night falls. When he returns, I will no longer live here.
    “It will take more than a little fire to scare me.” I tilt my chin up. “I am fire’s daughter, isn’t that what you always tell me?”
    “Fire’s and mine.” He holds out a hand to me and when I give him my right—being careful to keep my left behind me—he squeezes it. “I am proud of you. No man has a daughter like mine. As I love you, I tell you that no woman will have a husband like yours.”
    I turn my face away.
    “I know,” again he squeezes, “I know you cannot understand my choice right now. But you must trust that seven-and-thirty knows more of life than fifteen does. Must trust that, as I have always made certain that your mother and you have the best of everything, I have chosen as I have to secure a future for you that will see you well treated all the days of your life.”
    I think of Lady Diana with her confident swagger. I can feel her silver charm lying cool against my breast as I take a deep breath and turn to meet my father’s eyes. “Father, I trust you, but can you not also trust me? Sabinus is a fine man, but I have a better one already. I have you. Can I not remain unmarried?” This is not the time to bring up an alternate groom. “Who will check your figures if I go?”
    Father’s eyes are warm. He brings my hand up and presses it to his lips. “So that is what this is about. It is natural for a girl to be apprehensive about leaving her home. The crying and struggling a bride must do by tradition when her husband takes her away have roots in feelings that are, in the best cases, noble and true. Know this, Aemilia: you will always, always have me. Sabinus’ house is not far inside the Herculaneum Gate. You will be here nearly every day, or Mother and I will be with you.” He gives me a teasing smile. “Unless you and Sabinus do not intend to invite us to dine.”
    “But—”
    “No more, Aemilia.” Father shakes his head. “I am too tired.” Releasing my hand, he stands. “I am going to walk among my vines. Will you come?”
    Ordinarily, it is an activity I love—strolling with my father in the brilliant autumn sun—but I shake my head no. Watching him go, I think, Oh, Lady Diana, I certainly do not have your knack for managing fathers . I feel a tear tracking down my cheek and wipe it away fiercely. No doubt I will cry when I see Faustus, but I would not spoil the beauty he praises by going in search of him with a red nose and puffy eyes.
    He is sitting on the black and white tiles of the triclinium floor, carefully laying out his brushes on the cloth in which he will roll them. I am about to speak but he shakes his head to warn me. Two slaves are taking down the last of the scaffolding.
    “You do not work today?” The thought that he is leaving earlier than he must stings.
    “I am at a good stopping point, Lady.” He says the last word rather more loudly than the rest, to make certain the slaves hear it. “And I would not start a figure I cannot finish properly. Half-restored is worse than not restored at all.”
    More slaves arrive and begin loading their arms with the dismantled scaffolding. “Where do you store those?” he asks.
    “We have been instructed to put them in one of the outbuildings.”
    “Make sure they do not get damp,” Faustus admonishes. “I do not wish my delicate work made more difficult by being forced to stand on warped boards.”
    As the last of the ladened slaves disappears, Faustus rises and, tucking his roll of brushes beneath one arm, makes the complaint: