House of Clouds:

House of Clouds Kristin Gleeson Published by An Tig Beag Press Text Copyright 2023 © Kristin Gleeson All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Cover design by JD Smith Designs LISTEN TO THE MUSIC CONNECTED TO THE BOOKS Go to www.krisgleeson.com/music Receive a FREE novelette prequel, A Treasure Beyond Worth, and Along the Far Shores (writing historical fiction as Kristin Gleeson) When you sign up for my mailing list www.krisgleeson.com Contents Prologue Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 The Song- House of Clouds The Song- Navigation The Song- Rossetti Girl The Song- Midnight Acknowledgments Author’s Note Prologue Rome The filmy white curtain billowed out behind her like a sail, full breasted, head to the wind. It was her sail, her ship, setting her on a different course, at least for a few days, taking her away from this room, this apartment, this city. Below her and across the myriad tiled roofs, Rome was waking up, the sun just starting to cast canted light onto the piazza, finding the gaps in the old marble and granite buildings. At one end of the piazza, Maria entered, moving along the dusty cobbles, making her way to the weathered slate-blue door on the far side of the piazza, to prepare her employer’s breakfast and get the children ready for school. Signora Benedetti, broom in hand, exited from another door, this one more a mottled green, a closed awning of red stripes above it that when unfurled, read “Benedetti’s” in faded black cursive. The signora paused a moment, leaning on the broom before taking it up vigorously to sweep the small paved area in front of the little café at the end of the piazza. It was a familiar sight, a daily one, except Sundays, of course. The light, the colors, the people. It was Rome. Her Rome. She felt him before she heard him, his bare footsteps silent across the tiled floor as he came to stand behind her. He pushed her dark auburn hair aside and kissed her neck. The kiss was soft, sensuous, with a hint of persuasion behind it. “Come back to bed, Katerina,” he said softly in Italian. He brushed his fingers along her shoulders, the persuasion stronger now. She turned to face him. “Giancarlo, you know I can’t. I have a flight to catch.” “In Italian,” he said, a hint of admonishment in his tone. “Come back to bed, there’s still time.” She sighed. She’d been too tired to speak in Italian, for once. Last night had been another late night. What charity had his mother chosen for the gala’s profits this time? She brushed the question aside. It didn’t matter. The faces were the same. He kissed her now, his hands reaching under the flimsy negligee he’d only just bought her, tracing his fingers along her hip. “Come,” he said. “I won’t see One The handle was the same worn brass, so scuffed and scratched by the countless fingers and palms that had grabbed and pulled at it over the years, there was no reflection to be had. Nothing to check herself in, to give herself a last-minute once-over before she entered, suddenly self-conscious in her Valentino suit, silk blouse, Ferragamo pumps, and sleekly pulled-back hair. Giancarlo had picked out the outfit for her, certain it would make the right impact on the New York City gallery owner. And now, she was afraid of the impact it would make here, in Somerton Lake. Two worlds colliding. Kate grasped the handle and entered O’Connor’s pub. It was too late to change. The music filtered to her as she made her way from the small foyer to the open room. Along the side opposite the door was the bar, a worn, dark mahogany- and-brass affair. Stools were pulled up to it like familiar friends clamoring for gossip, their surfaces worn smooth by people sliding on and off them over the years. The taps behind the bar showed the usual names, but also a variety of craft beers, something new to her. Above the optics hung the photos of long-ago Ireland and some faded shamrocks left from an ancient St. Patrick’s Day. They were still there then. The Guinness mirror was foxed and mottled at the edges, as if it, like a few of the regulars she noted present, had taken too much alcohol over the years, and its once-clear view was now rheumy and blurred. The wood floor was worn nearly bare of any protective coating through multitudes of shoes and boots treading its boards in all weathers. No change there. The tables, filled with enough people that made it a good crowd for a Thursday night, were as she remembered. High ones in the center, with matching chairs and lower ones over to the side, by the frosted windows that faced the street. All this she took in during the initial few seconds, her primary thought to find her father, who was always here on a Thursday night. Until it wasn’t. Until the music penetrated the intention. The voice. His voice. Her eyes found the small stage area at the far end of