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“…Pomona?”

She returned to the present with a jolt. “What?”

West was looking at her strangely. “I asked you when you might like to go.”

“Oh. Yes. Er... whenever it can be arranged. As soon as possible, I suppose." After all, she was so demoralized by the flamboyant beauty of Venice that progress on her book had slowed to a crawl. The sooner she found some crumbling stone and gloom, the better.

But a few days later, as their hired sailboat drew close to the island, she began to fear that she'd made another mistake. They docked at what was plainly a recently-built pier, bristling with modern cranes and winches and stacked with new wooden crates. Even worse, they were greeted by a company of soldiers standing at attention, and a military band playing The British Grenadiers on fifes and drums in honor of this visit from an English duke.

It grew more depressing from there. The island was flat and all but treeless. She saw not one rock outcropping—let alone a cliff or a cave. And the commanding officer who gave them an exhaustive tour explained that in fact, it was thought that very few plague victims were buried on the island, and that the old hospital had been razed some thirty or forty years before and replaced by the modern red brick buildings that now surrounded the immaculate parade ground.

She sensed no melancholia, no dread, no sorrow, no… anything. At the end of the tour, they had to sit on a reviewing stand, along with a group of dignitaries from the governor’s office who had joined them for the occasion, and watch troops march past in formation. The British Grenadiers was performed at least five or six more times. She shot a sideways glance at West, who appeared perfectly at ease. Somehow, even his linen jacket was uncreased.

After the review there was a very dull tea. A great many middle-aged men with chests full of medals bowed over her hand, and she did her best to make conversation with their wives. Her German came in handy. It turned out that two of the officers had fond memories of serving with Lady Theodosia’s husband the count, who had been killed leading a charge at Hanau.

“Well!” West was beaming with pride as they sailed away. “You charmed everyone! And you bore the disappointment of having no time to sketch remarkably well.”

She narrowed her eyes, but his expression seemed innocent. “It cannot matter.” She couldn’t believe how very… prosaic everything had been. All traces of the island's tragic medieval past had been swept away. And what was almost worse was that as she looked around as they sailed back over the turquoise waters toward the city, she saw no other islands that held castles—or cliffs, either.

West began to absently whistle The British Grenadiers.

“Can you please not? I… I have a headache.”

He stopped and studied her, frowning. “You are rather pale. Remember that sunstroke is dangerous. It is easy to underestimate the power of the sun here. If it happens again, tell me, and we will find some shade immediately.”

The other promising island was the property of an order of monks whose ancient monastery had stood there since the twelfth century.

As they sailed across the lagoon a few days after their visit to the Austrian garrison, she saw the narrow silhouettes of dark yew trees shimmering in the afternoon sea haze and her hopes rose. Yews were very somber trees, after all! She could almost sense the melancholy from here. And an ancient monastery was bound to have crypts and catacombs. Before she'd even thought of leaving London, she’d written a scene in which Violetta was trapped in a terrifying labyrinth of underground tunnels and caves filled with pyramids of grinning skulls. She needed a location in which to set this scene... and this island would be the very place.

And then they landed. The abbot, Monsignor Ferritti—an urbane churchman with impeccable Italian manners—welcomed them into his sunny office before showing them all over the island. And... all her hopes were dashed.

The island was sunbaked and spotless, with meticulously pruned rosemary hedges, lush kitchen gardens, the smell of baking bread drifting from the kitchens, and friendly orange cats sprawling on the well-swept pathways like miniature versions of the lion of Venice.

“Perhaps la duchessa has found an inspiration for her lovely artworks?” suggested Monsignor Ferritti.

As West looked on, smiling indulgently, she gritted her teeth and painted a sketch of the nearest vineyard. After all, it was far easier to make a few wavy lines of green paint than it was to try to reproduce the appearance of a building.

If Monsignor Ferritti was surprised by her lack of skill, he was far too tactful to let on. They had tea in a vine-covered loggia, he invited them to visit again whenever la duchessa wished to make more of her charming sketches, and insisted on giving them some bottles of the wine and liqueur that the monks were famous for making.

It simply didn’t make sense. She’d seen nothing that even came close to the scenery described in The Prisoner of San Severino. As their boat sailed away, she gazed back toward the mainland, where the distant white peaks of the Dolomite Alps gleamed in the afternoon sun. “We have seen very few… cliffs here,” she ventured.

“Cliffs?” West raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Cliffs. I read a book that referred to, er… steep rocky islands near Venice.”

He looked incredulous. “Not Norwood’s Guide, surely.”

“No. It was a—a different book.”

“Which book?”

She felt her face heating. She couldn’t very well tell him that it had been The Prisoner of San Severino. “That is not important.”

“No. It was a—a different book.”

“Which book?”

She felt her face heating. She couldn’t very well tell him that it had been The Prisoner of San Severino. “That is not important.”