“I’ve seen this gent around,” said Hudson over the rim of his mug. “Who is he?”

“Giancarlo Di Petri, Alicia Candoleri’s manager.”

“Who?”

“Manager to a great star of the opera!” Di Petri drew himself up to his full height, which was still diminutive. “Were you not at the performance that horrid night?”

“If it was an opera performance, I can believe it was horrid,” Hudson answered.

Di Petri gave Hudson a glare that would’ve wilted a stone rose. His attention turned back upon Matthew, his hand still clutched like a white leech to Matthew’s shoulder. “Please! Please! Tell me you’ve come to help us! Madam Candoleri has faded to a ghost and Rosabella is hardly stronger. We’ve all been tortured here by these classless men! When do we escape?”

“Yes, sorcerer,” Hudson said. “When do they escape?”

“Di Petri,” Matthew began, “listen … I can’t get you out right now. It’s not in my power.”

“But … before you left … you said—”

“I know what I said. At the moment and for the foreseeable future, I can’t do anything for you. I’m sorry. Now … maybe at some point I can talk the professor into—”

“No, you cannot,” Hudson interrupted. “Don’t even speak it, because it will not happen.” He looked up into the stricken face. “Sir, Matthew has just returned from a gruelling journey. He would help you if he could, and so would I. The truth is that neither of us can get anyone here out. This place may have only a wagon as a front gate, but it’s locked up tight. That’s all I can say.”

“Surely … surely there’s a way to—”

“No, there’s not,” Hudson said flatly. “Nice to meet you. Go away.” He picked up his mug and finished the ale off in two more swallows.

Matthew saw the pain and disappointment in Di Petri’s face. The man looked as if he were about to burst into tears. Matthew cursed himself for ever thinking he could get anyone out of here, and double-cursed himself for saying such a thing.

“All right,” Di Petri said quietly. “Capisco. Si. I understand.”

As the man began to slink away like a wounded dog, Matthew reached out and caught at a cuff. “Wait,” he said.

“Oh my God,” said Hudson.

“I have a question for you,” Matthew told Di Petri. “Do you know your wines?”

“My … vino?”

“Yes, vino. The Amarone wine. What region of Italy does it come from?”

“Amarone? It comes from the province of Verona. The Veneto region, near Venice. And you are asking, why?”

“Just a question,” Matthew said. He kept hold of Di Petri’s cuff. “If I can do anything for you, I’ll try. But I can’t promise, and don’t go telling Madam Candoleri or Rosabella about this. Understand?”