Free A Day of Fire: A Novel of Pompeii by Kate Quinn, Ben Kane, Stephanie Dray, Michelle Moran, E. Knight, Sophie Perinot, Vicky Alvear Shecter

wives’ eyes regard them? You have a secret streak of romance in that practical soul, Sabinus! For that reason alone, your bride is lucky to have you.”
    Romantic? He had never thought himself so. Watching Aemilia grow up, knowing long before she did that Lepidus intended her for him, Sabinus had thought of himself as tending his future property. But perhaps he had been falling in love. This was a painful and slightly embarrassing thought. He shuffled his feet beneath the table and cleared his throat. “I am not romantic. I am a man more interested in engineering than poetry.”
    “And you wish to engineer a happy marriage, don’t you? If I may be so bold, I recommend you worry less about the arrows of Cupid. Your wife-to-be is surely a high-born girl. There is nothing, therefore, to fear in terms of her virtue.”
    “Isn’t there? What if he has kissed her?” Sabinus had no solid evidence of such a thing, but he’d seen it in his mind’s eye for weeks. “What if Cupid’s arrow has struck her, and when she sees me she thinks of him?” This came dangerously close to what he’d been doing himself a short time before—imagining Aemilia while reveling in Capella.
    The rosy girl leaned forward and took the very unusual liberty of pressing a small kiss at the corner of his mouth. “So what if he has kissed her?” she asked, as if to remind him that he had done more, much more, than kiss her before they came down to share a drink. With her blue eyes sparkling merrily, Capella added, “And if she sees you and thinks of love and desire, is that not to your benefit? It is a trick I have used many times myself …”
    It ought to have enraged him, this coupling of Aemilia’s name and Capella’s work. But, surprisingly, it failed to raise his ire. Still, he felt foolish. Capella was right about one thing, even if her reasons were not his own. As a man, he ought not to worry so much what his betrothed, or his wife for that matter, was thinking. He shrugged and hoped the gesture was convincing. “Whatever her attraction to the boy, she will be mine in a matter of days. And perhaps you are right, perhaps it does not matter what is in her head so long as I am the one in her bed.”
    “I suppose I won’t see you here so much then?” Capella asked, as if she might genuinely regret it. “Because if she is yours, then you are also hers, or at least that is what we worshippers of Isis believe.”
    Isis? A cult for women. He had no desire to be rude, particularly as Isis worshippers had supported him in the election, but he was still feeling less the man than he would have liked. “I am no woman’s property. So you will most assuredly see me.” He had the sense that his tone lacked conviction. He’d never been a particularly good liar.
    And Capella was not fooled for a moment. With an indulgent look, she asked, “Then why are we sharing a farewell cup of wine?”
    Before he could answer or feign another unconcerned shrug, his eyes were drawn to the wine in his cup—little ripples disturbed its surface. A tremor! He noticed that Capella’s eyes were on the cup as well. “You see it,” he said with wonder.
    She startled, glancing up at him with wide eyes. “And you see it, too? The vision in the cup. Of the fire and darkness?”
    “Vision? No. I see waves as upon the sea, only smaller. Results of tremors too slight to be felt by the body. Smaller by far than those that have been scaring horses and breaking bits of statuary these last weeks. I fear they presage an earthquake of such force, such power, that Nero’s quake will be forgotten in its shadow.” He paused. He was relieved that someone other than himself paid attention to the intensifying tremors and associated them with destruction. But he did not like the idea of a prophetic vision. “Tell me what you see,” he said, leaning across the table.
    Drawing her brows together, the girl lost some of her color. She bit her lip, as if wary to tell him more, but