The muse came to him in the dark hours of the night, whispering him awake with clarity of vision that had him stumbling from his bed, yanking on his breeches, and reaching for his tools before he was properly awake. He did as he always did when the muse came and let the image flow from his mind to his fingers without question, without pausing to consider anything but the feel of the marble giving away under the sharp edge of the chisel.

In his dream, he’d seen the two figures that would hold up the mantelpiece. The caryatids would be rounded of face and limb, their outer arms cocked to add dimension. Neoclassical in design, bold in simplicity, they would wear elegantly draped togas, with jewels set into the leather of their sandals, and a smooth, shimmering whiteness on their arms, calves, and breasts. The toga, thin and revealing, would show more than it covered, baring one breast before hanging over their bodies, clinging to every curve.

It would be a masterpiece. He knew it even as he chiseled the rock, freeing the caryatids he could now see so clearly. He knew everything but their faces, although he was sure those would be revealed in time. For now, he would work the bodies, the limbs, the folds of the togas. So much to do.

And so he worked, and then worked some more. The marble gave way under his fingers, confirming that his design was exactly what it should be. Marble chips piled on the floor at the feet of the pillars as sweat beaded his brow, but he continued on. Dust clung to his skin, but he ignored it, pausing only to wipe the sheen from his forehead when his eyes began to sting.

When he finally stopped, the dark of night had slipped into the brightness of sunrise. He set his chisel and hammer aside, his arms and shoulders aching from his efforts, the hammer handle wet with sweat from his hands. Marco, too awake to return to bed, found a stool and pulled it in front of the figures, evaluating what he’d accomplished.

Shortly after the sun had cleared the horizon, Pietro appeared in the doorway, his white hair rumpled, one side of his face ceased to match his now-abandoned pillow. He scratched his ass as he approached. “The muse returned, did she?”

“She did.”

Pietro eyed the stone chips piled at the foot of the pillars. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Some.” Marco crossed his arms and looked at the stone with satisfaction. “I know everything but the faces. Those I could not see.”

“Well, you saw the rest of clearly enough, praise be.” Pietro ran a practiced eye over the shadowed outlines. “I can already see them peeking out through the stone. Two women, by the looks of it. I’m surprised; I thought you might make lions or even dragons.”

“Never.”

Pietro shrugged. “You must remain true to your vision.”

Marco nodded in agreement, moving so that he could examine the roughed in figures from various angles. This was the part he enjoyed the most, seeing the figures emerging from the stone. Right now, they were only clearly visible to him, but soon others would see what he already saw. The muse had done her work well, he decided. He wished he could share his vision, but it would be best to let the stone speak for itself.

What joy he found in his craft. Anyone could be taught to carve stone, to polish it until it shone. But it took hard work, a sometimes painful struggle, and a deep, abiding patience to find what was hidden in the stone.

“How long will it take you to finish?”

He thought of how much progress he’d made just last night. “A week, perhaps a day or two more. But then the marble must be polished until it shines.”

“I can help with that when the time comes. You are well on your way, my friend.” Pietro gave the sculpture another admiring look and then yawned, stretching his arms over his head and revealing his stomach. “I’m off to the kitchens to see what’s to be had for breakfast. Should I bring you something?”

“No. I want to rinse off this dust, and then sleep. I’ll eat later.”

“You’re not going to take another bath, are you? You had one just yesterday. In the lake, no less.” Pietro shook his head and said in a sour tone, “You’ll thin your skin until it can no longer protect your blood.”

“The Romans believed baths were healthy.”

Pietro snorted. “There are no more true Romans, as they all died from bathing too often.” With that sally, he yawned and shambled toward the stable door, but he stopped just inside. “Is it safe if I leave? I don’t wish to return to find you holding the lady of the house yet again.”

“I will not see her again,” Marco said shortly.

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Last time, I had not so rudely dismissed her. She will not speak to me now, nor do I blame her.” He’d been brutal, but he’d had to, for his own sake as well as hers.

But if he closed his eyes right now, he would still see her hurt expression.

Pietro shook his head. “You are a stubborn fool. But I suppose I must trust you.”

“Go to the kitchen before Cook decides to give your breakfast to a handsome footman who is not such a horrible pain in the morning.”

The stonemason grinned. “No footman can replace me. But still, I’m hungry, so I’ll go.”

“Good. When you do, take that moonstone with you and deliver it to the butler. Tell him it was brought to us by mistake.”

Pietro grimaced.

Marco lifted a brow. “You don’t like Simmons?”

“He thinks I spend too much time in the kitchens. Cook laughs at him, but I think he has an interest there and is jealous.”

“It’s more likely he hates seeing his winter stores depleted by an outsider, for you eat more than any two people I know. Now go, and don’t hurry back. I’ve a wish to see my pillow before the half hour is done and you always make so much noise I cannot sleep.”

Grinning, Pietro took the moonstone and left.

Marco shoved the stool aside and crossed the room to examine his work more closely. Every time he looked, he noticed new details – the soft curve of the thighs, the fullness of the breasts, the places where folds had been roughed in. Slowly, the forms were appearing, and they were even better than he’d hoped.

He traced his fingers along the line of a shoulder, and realized the two figures had the same width. He stepped back and compared them, surprised to find them identical in every measurement. When he’d dreamed about the figures, he’d thought them sisters. But now he realized that they were representations of the same woman, but in different poses. She was magnificent, this creature. In his minds’ eye, he could see the turn of her ankle, the delicate hollows that lay along her collarbone, the roundness of her arms, and the length of her curvaceous thigh. When men see you, they will fall in love.

He thought about working some more, but knew he was too tired and might make a mistake. So instead, he found a clean rag and went out into the sunshine. He slapped the dust from his hair, shirt, and breeches with the rag. Shimmering and white, the marble dust swirled in the air and then disappeared, the distinctive scent mixing with that of fresh hay and morning dew.

When he finished, he tossed the rag back into his workshop and pulled his shirt over his head, and then strode behind the stables to the well. He tossed the shirt over a nearby shrub, and cranked up a pail of fresh, icy water. He poured the bucket over his head, gasping at the cold water. It took several more buckets, but finally the water ran clear, the dust and sweat washed away. He used one last bucket of water to rinse his shirt.

When he finished, he replaced the bucket on the hook, wrung out his shirt, and slung it over his shoulder. Then, he headed back to the workshop, cold and wet, the thought of sleep beckoning. Despite his refreshing bath, his eyes blurred with tiredness, his shoulders and arms aching with fatigue.

As he turned the corner of the building, he stopped. Charlotte was in the center of the stable yard, perched on her horse, her high crowned hat shadowing her eyes as she bent down to say something to one of the grooms. The poor man stood near a mounting block he’d obviously brought for Charlotte’ use, and he leaned forward, his manner ridiculously eager.

Marco tried not to scowl at the groom but failed. Truly, he couldn’t fault the poor man. Charlotte looked especially beautiful today. Her hand rested gracefully on the pommel, her heart-shaped face softened by her smiles. She was indeed a goddess, Marco decided, too tired to stop himself. She was Diana of the hunt, and he wished he could carve a statue of her right then and there.

She said farewell to the groom, and then turned Angelica toward the fence surrounding the stable yard. With a gentle motion, she set the horse to a canter straight toward the fence, her skirts streaming alongside the horse’s flanks.

Marco took a step forward. Good God, she’d going to jump that damned fence! What in the hell is she thinking? Not only was she riding a brute of a house, but she was riding side saddle, which he’d never trusted.

Before his horrified gaze, the horse sped up as they approached the fence.

Heart pounding, Marco held his breath, his hands clenched at his sides, but he needn’t have worried. With the ease of long practice, she gathered the horse beneath her and together they sailed over the fence, landing smoothly on the other side. Without a break in stride, they continued on, cantering easily toward the trail that circled the lake.

Marco exchanged a shocked look with the groom who still stood in the middle of the stable yard. “Does she normally do that?” Marco demanded

“She used to, but she hasn’t since her sister’s accident.” The groom’s gloomy expression took on a hint of sadness. “A lovely girl, was Miss Caroline. Although it’s anyone’s guess what she was doing riding a horse she barely knew, and in the dark, too.”

“So that’s what happened.”

“The horse threw her, and she hit her head. She was never comfortable around horses.” He shook his head. “I never thought her one to ride off alone, especially after dark.”

“Where was she going?”

“Aye, that’s the question, isn’t it? No one knows. If you ask me, it’s Balesboro Wood as did her in.” The groom gestured glumly toward the woods. “There are evil spirits lurking there. Pixies, and more. I’d not ride there alone, myself, and I’m a darn sight bigger and stronger than Miss Caroline ever was.”

“I don’t trust those woods, either. I know my way around trails, but those were impossibly difficult to follow.”

“’Tis the pixies. They find it funny to lead people astray, evil creatures.” Davis gave Marco a measuring look and thrust out a hand. “I’m Davis.”

Marco shook the man’s hand. “I’m di Rossi.”

Davis grinned, revealing a missing tooth. “I know who you are. We all do.”

“There are no secrets in the servants’ quarters, are there?”

“None. Well, I guess I’d better take this mounting block back inside. If you need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you. I will do that.”

Marco watched as Davis disappeared back into the stables before he turned back to where Charlotte was just turning Angelica from the lake path into the golden fields beyond. So that is what happened to your sister. He couldn’t imagine how horrible that must have been, to have lost a sister at such a young age, and in such a way. If Davis was to be believed, there was still a mystery attached to the death, too. That would make it all the harder to accept.

He waited until she was out of sight, and then returned to his workshop, glad Davis hadn’t reappeared to witness Marco staring after Charlotte like a lovesick fool. Once he reached his workshop, he threw his wet shirt over a bench, found a towel and dried his hair. With each tousle of the towel, his energy seeped away, his fatigue returned.

He had to sleep. He gave the pillars a final look, and then went into his room where he stripped out of his wet breeches and fell into bed, falling instantly into a dark, dreamless sleep.