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the castle put an end to the flames. The precious art in the Great Hall and the books in the library had been saved. As best we could, using old plastic coverings for furniture, we patched up all the blown-out windows. Most of the paintings and a number of the sculptures had been moved to the kitchen. Although I’d seen a few being carried off through the storm, presumably to the safety of nearby villas. The pouring rain would extinguish any last hot ashes. Tudor’s valet, wearing a yellow rain slicker, was detailed to keep watch for any flare-ups.

 
    The rest of us repaired to Apritzi House. From the Port Atrium, Apritzi House was the nearest shelter. Apritzi House was five old homes clustered at the bottom of the cliff that guarded the harbor. To get to the most exclusive villas, you took a gently sloping road that hugged the cliff face both east and west. For Apritzi House they had taken the separate homes and renovated the interiors to make them one elegant palace for the permanent employees to live. It reminded me of someone’s great aunt’s house in which you dare not touch anything set out but whose antique-filled attic was a treasure trove of secret delights. It also held several conference rooms, a small store for essentials, a gift shop with trendy overpriced clothes and assorted astronomically priced gewgaws, and a series of elegant dorm rooms for the daily help. With its central location it allowed for the staff to move quickly to the highland above where most of the guests stayed.
    We met in the immense living room, one entire wall of which was a flat-screen television. The rest of the furniture, including the smallest knickknacks, predated the French revolution. Candles had been lit and more were being brought in by the minute. We were all soaked. We smelled wet and sweaty. Several people were shivering. The staff headed for their own rooms. Scott and I each got an elegant shirt and a pair of designer jeans from the gift shop. Many of the visitors rushed back to their villas, but a number stayed. Scott and I changed in a washroom. I toweled myself as vigorously as I could, trying to force the warmth back into my veins.
    None of us was a doctor. We gave as much medical attention as we knew how and as the limited supply of medicine on the island permitted. The medicine consisted of little more than aspirin and peroxide. Mostly we spent the time cleaning wounds and distributing bandages. I thought some of the untreated cuts might leave scars. There was nothing to be done about this. Scott’s head wound seeped at irregular intervals. He needed stitches. His arms were red but not blistered.
    The most seriously injured person was Dimitri Thasos, the last one pulled from the tower. He was made as comfortable as possible. His chest continued to rise and fall. He came in and out of consciousness. Up close his burns looked ghastly.
    I asked Pietro if he knew why Thasos had entered the tower. The elderly retainer said, “When the rest of us got there, several embers had blown in on the east side before the fire was under control. They caught on one of the tapestries. He pulled it down and put the flames out with his body. His torso, hands, and arms got the worst of the burns. He probably saved a great deal of precious art. He was found unconscious near the tower doors to the outside.”
    Scott bled through his first bandage in about ten minutes. He must have been losing a great deal of blood this whole time. I applied pressure to the wound and then let up. After about another ten minutes or so, the blood was no longer flowing, but the oozing hadn’t completely stopped. I tied a cloth around his head and tried to secure it in place with several pieces of tape.
    After seeing to medical needs, we clustered around Darrin Oser, the resort manager. The scene was lit by flashlights and candles. The latter provided an eerie warmth. The air in the room was cool but not cold.
    For the moment among us, romance had been