Gift of Fire

grimly.
    “Mr. Yarwood is a friend of hers, Jonas,” Verity cut in. “He’s the one who contacted the journal editor who published your piece on Renaissance fencing techniques. The editor recommended you for this assignment.” She gave Jonas her most brilliant smile. “Funny how things work out, isn’t it? If you hadn’t published that piece, the Warwicks would never have learned about you, and we wouldn’t be on our way to Washington.”
    Jonas tapped the Hazelhurst diary thoughtfully. “Funny isn’t exactly the word for it.”

 
    Chapter Four
     
    “What an ugly pile of rock. No wonder Doug said it was called Hazelhurst’s Honor.” Verity’s disappointment was obvious. She stood in the stern of the small launch Doug Warwick was piloting and studied the grim island fortress ahead.
    Jonas grinned. “Well, it sure as hell doesn’t approach the architectural genius of Bramante or Brunelleschi.”
    “What style is it, then?”
    Jonas shrugged and surveyed the rugged structure dominating the cliff that rose from the cold waters of Puget Sound. It was a plain, solid-looking stone mass, two stories high. The rough, unattractive facade was studded with tiny windows and capped by a thick, bulky cornice that outlined the roof. “I’d say it’s late fifteenth century, probably Milanese, judging by the overall style. The architect will most likely remain anonymous forever.”
    “And deservedly so,” Verity retorted. “When the Warwicks talked about an Italian villa, I imagined something a little grander.” The noise of the launch engine kept her complaints from being overheard by their host, who was busy guiding the boat into a small cove.
    Jonas chuckled, amused by her dismay. “Not everything built during the Renaissance was an architectural marvel. Just ask anyone who was born and raised in Rome, or Milan, or Florence. The most important criterion for a Renaissance house was that it be able to withstand an armed assault. This sucker looks like it was built to do the job.”
    “I’ll say.” Verity shivered. “It’s going to be dark and gloomy inside.”
    “Well, it won’t be cheerful, that’s for sure, but it may not be too dark. It’s built around an enclosed courtyard. The rooms will all have much larger windows on the inside walls.”
    “Just as long as it has indoor plumbing.”
    “Don’t worry. Doug assured me that his uncle installed modern plumbing and wiring in the south wing. That’s the wing facing us. Hazelhurst didn’t fancy roughing it out here on an isolated island.”
    Verity noticed a cheerful note in his voice and smiled. “You’re really getting into this, aren’t you? I can’t believe it. I practically had to threaten you to take this job, and already you’re enjoying yourself. Admit it.”
    Jonas glanced at his duffel bag, which contained, among other things, Digby Hazelhurst’s diary. “Might turn out to be interesting after all.”
    “I knew it,” Verity said with satisfaction. “Jonas, I have the feeling this is going to be the beginning of a wonderful consulting career.”
    “We’ll see.”
    But Verity refused to be put off by his cautious attitude. She had seen him poring over Hazelhurst’s diary for the past two days. He had spent every free minute with it before they had left Sequence Springs, and he’d kept his nose buried in it during the flight from San Francisco to Seattle. He had also gone through several texts on Renaissance architecture. Jonas might not admit it yet, Verity thought, but he was fascinated by the project ahead of him.
    Doug Warwick had met them at the airport in Seattle. Laura had been right about him—he did own a BMW. They had driven north of the city to the ferry terminal that served the San Juan Islands. The ferry had taken them to one of the larger, more populated islands, and from there Doug had driven them to a marina where he kept a launch.
    “The island Uncle Digby built his villa on is too small and isolated to be serviced by the ferry system,” Warwick had explained as he’d helped his guests into the boat. “He came over to this island to do his shopping and pick up supplies.”
    “Does anyone else live on Hazelhurst’s island?” Verity had asked as she hobbled carefully into the boat, using Jonas’s arm for support. Her ankle was still sore.
    “Just Maggie Frampton, Uncle Digby’s housekeeper. I was sure she’d give her notice after my uncle died. His death really shook her up. I gather the two of