Perhaps having scented death, a raven appeared on a branch outside the tent.
Georgiana looked up at it.
When they had been in Venice, she had never considered one thing. After all, seafaring vessels of that era already used propellers rather than relying on sails for power.
Bora would blow ships departing Italy toward the eastern shore of the Adriatic Sea rather than back toward Italy, making those vessels easy targets for pirates.
Just as she wanted to continue thinking, certain images surfaced in her mind.
From the bedroom window that had once belonged to a Spanish merchant, one could see Venice's Grand Canal. Through it, she had watched the sunrise and the sights of Venice at sunset.
She could also hear his gasping breaths, his black hair plastered against skin that was too pale, almost marble-like, after becoming drenched.
Behind him was an early Renaissance-style mural, very much like Botticelli's "Primavera," except that it depicted Zeus transforming into an eagle and snatching away Ganymede, the Trojan prince who was out hunting. As the giant eagle swooped down, the hunting dogs howled madly while his tutor and guards rushed over in terror, trying to stop it.
She truly did not understand why the owner had chosen that scene. If it was merely for pleasure, he could have chosen an image of Ganymede pouring wine for the gods on Olympus. That position had originally belonged to Hebe, Hera's daughter and the goddess of youth.
Then she thought again of Botticelli's "Primavera," and the god of the north wind in the painting. His cheeks were puffed out, as if he were about to blow a freezing gust at the Flora he pursued, preventing fragile flowers from blooming in winter.
Her gaze returned to the tent. Dark purple velvet hung at the entrance,