Chapter Forty-Two Ginevra

On an ordinary night, Ginevra found sleep uncooperative—but on the Orient Express, with the culmination of long-spun plans in sight, sleep was wholly elusive. Ginevra exited the Venice Suite, began to roam the corridors. It was a bit risky; she could run into any of the four, but she thought not. The Fab Four, as she’d begun calling them to herself, in almost singsong glee, imagining at each moment of their trip where they’d be, eating what delectable bites, in what sublime settings, on her perfect itinerary. She smiled. They’d be sleeping now, and at this point, Ginevra supposed, even if she saw them, even Rory or Max, she could proffer an excuse. Say all would be clear tomorrow.

Or, actually—today! In Positano.

So Ginevra swished down the hall in her floor-length plum silk robe with feather trim on the sleeves, feeling almost—nearly—strangely—happy. Almost, as close as she’d ever felt, to beautiful.

It had to be said: The robe was absurd attire. But if you couldn’t jaunt around the Orient Express in a feathered silk robe, then where, really, could you? One should suck out the marrow, delight when it was possible to do so. Because life could be tragic and crushing, so why not wear a ridiculous robe when you were able, if it gave you small pleasure?

Before she’d left her suite, Ginevra had given herself a rare, thorough appraisal in the bathroom mirror. And for once, she hadn’t hated what she’d seen. Maybe it was the end of this journey in sight—the tantalizing jewels that tomorrow held, the culmination of her long, fraught plans.

Or maybe it was simply that, at last, Ginevra had achieved the peace and equanimity of Sophia Loren that she’d long desired. In a recent interview, Sophia had talked of, inexplicably, how she’d never actually liked her looks. But the part Ginevra could relate to—strive to relate to, at least—was that when Sophia looked in the mirror, she no longer saw her negative aspects, only her good ones. Because—It’s about what you do with your life, isn’t it?

Easy to say you no longer saw negative in the mirror when you were Sophia Loren, staring at your stunning self, wasn’t it?

But still, Ginevra found wisdom and even solace in the quote. Because somehow, staring into her own eyes, Ginevra could see her goodness, her striving. She could have given up long ago, folded her hand. Maybe she had in some ways, but she hadn’t fully. Here she was, still fighting, still loving, or trying to, after everything.

And now—finally—Rory and Max were as far as a stone’s throw, and the potential of joy, of real, true, unadulterated joy, was nearly as close as her next breath.

Yes, Ginevra was positively blooming, full of little seedlings about to sprout into a veritable garden, when she passed the Istanbul Suite. Ever since she’d boarded the train in Rome, rendezvoused with Gabriele, settled into her prebooked Venice Suite, the specter of the Istanbul Suite had loomed in her mind. She hadn’t dared stroll past it, not in daylight, at least.

Her whole self was still one great smile when she grasped that something was awry.

The door was ajar.

She stopped a bit past the door, mystified. Then she heard it—cries. Feral cries.

Her heart stilled in her chest. She turned back, made for the door, her chest twitching with something cold and unfamiliar… yet also familiar.…

After all, Ginevra Ex had an instinct for tragedy. She cracked open the door, feeling as though she were opening her own coffin. Preparing to slip inside.

She gasped at the scene: wind gusting through an open window, and two hysterical women cradling one motionless man. His eyes were closed, but his head looked strange. It took Ginevra a moment to decipher why. His dark hair was matted, all wet and crimson.

“No,” she croaked, and felt herself crumple to the floor.