The Diamond Ring. Primula Bond

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       CHAPTER ONE

      The silky blue and green strands of the feather ripple as if they’re still attached to something breathing. The sharp quill end pecks a dot of blood from Gustav’s finger. It’s been bent awkwardly to fit inside the envelope that has just been delivered, but as he shakes out the plume it unfurls to its full majestic length.

      ‘Peacock feathers symbolise bad luck. Everyone knows that. They’re beautiful, but deadly. A curse. So why is this package addressed to me?’ Gustav frowns at the feather, turning it this way and that. ‘A week ago this building was still being refurbished. Barely anyone knows the gallery’s open and in any case the business is in your name, not mine. So who just posted it through this door? Who knows I’m here?’

      The feather shimmers playfully, catching flashes of light from the dimness outside. Gustav’s questions hum and buzz as he examines it. The oval eye set in the middle is distinctly outlined, as if it belongs to an ancient Egyptian goddess immortalised on the wall of her tomb.

      The mellow atmosphere we have just been enjoying with our band of friends and clients to celebrate the unveiling of the Serenissima gallery has disappeared. The excitement of our engagement shelved. The pleasure of making up with my cousin Polly when she turned up unexpectedly is forgotten. The exquisite, planned, pleasure of making out with my handsome new fiancé in the window, watched by a clutch of voyeurs, has dissipated.

      I may still wear Gustav’s scent between my legs but the joy has evaporated like so many torn cobwebs. And it’s all down to Gustav’s brother. Pierre Levi.

      The last time I saw this feather it was pinned to a tricorn hat, and that tricorn hat was on Pierre’s head. It was part of the elaborate disguise he had carefully picked to attend the Valentine’s Day ball in Venice a month ago.

      I’m going to have to tell Gustav everything before Pierre does. Right down to the fact that in the mêlée of masked strangers Pierre convinced me that I was dancing with Gustav. And that’s why I walked so willingly into his arms.

      The peacock eye is the only fixed point on the wavering fronds. And it’s fixed on me.

      It’s late March. The Carnivale was only a few weeks ago. But like a fool I thought that was long enough to put such a potentially disastrous encounter behind me. I thought that with Pierre now ensconced and occupied far away in LA I could hide the sordid encounter still haunting me, the truth that Pierre and I share still whispering in my ear. The truth which could still drive me and Gustav apart.

      But now Pierre has sent this feather, this visual prompt, and yet again he’s timed it perfectly. Only an hour ago he was part of the jolly proceedings when he phoned the gallery, pretending to congratulate us on our engagement. But all he really wanted to do was remind me that far from being separated by time and space, the diamond ring glittering on my finger means that he and I are more inextricably linked than ever.

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