The others laughed at his boldness; only one of the literati would have dared, at the count’s table, to identify the americani with the count’s motto.

The tension was broken as the count laughed and pointed to the tower. “Yes,” he said, “here I am, new wine in an old bottle.”

Tina admired his sophistication. She admired the whole evening and thought well of herself for being there.

The count then led the way into the tower. The elevator took them to a terrace off the battlements overlooking the sea. A bar was built into the natural rock formation and a servant was there to pour liqueurs from it.

“Oh, Count Rivolonovo, you are a perfect conjurer,” said the Frenchwoman in the burnoose. “You astound us with bars and music and lights in every rock and tree.” And indeed, there was hi-fi equipment, so that the terrace could be used for dancing.

“Are you having a good time?” Tina asked Jason as Sisi finally left him to see about getting Filippo set up for his playing.

“Aren’t you? You’ve been spending the whole evening with that Italian.” There was a raspy tone of displeasure in his voice and she saw that he had a tense look. It instantly infuriated Tina to think that he could be jealous in a circumstance like this, and that he had such a sense of possessiveness about her.

At the table she had been placed between the prefect and Baron Dall’Airone, and Ferruccio had been directly across from her, with Jason on the same side but separated by a few other guests so that they had not been together the whole evening. But it hadn’t been her doing—more like Sisi’s. Before she could think of anything appropriately sarcastic, Sisi was inviting them to sit down for Filippo’s songs.

People were grouping themselves on the low wall or in comfortable wicker chairs that looked out to sea or up to the mountain, where the dim outline of Christ was faintly visible in tenuous milkiness. Sisi led Jason to her group, and instead of following, Tina looked around for Ferruccio. He was right there, and with hand under elbow again, was guiding her to one side in the shadow of a huge umbrella pine that curved over the terrace.

Filippo played his astounding baroque instrument with its span like an eagle’s wings and two sets of cords. He sang about Staffa, Sant’Antonio, and even the lucky Signora Beatrice, who had had no less than Dante as a lover.