The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

his head. “This sort of observation, Mina, is precisely what worries me about you.”

“I meant no disrespect.”

“You must learn to speak only after giving due consideration to what you plan to say. Unguarded words often prove dangerous.”

Now it was my turn to frown. I understood his advice, but must I adopt a manner dictated by restraint? I found very little to admire in caution. I wanted to live with abandon, not to become circumspect and wary. New ideas all but defined Florence in those days, and I had no intention of ignoring any of them, so hungry was I for learning. “I shall do my best.”

“It would behoove you to take my warnings more seriously. You don’t want to face the difficulties posed by finding oneself on a perilous path. Let me guide you, Mina.”

His face had settled into such a grave expression that I could not help but laugh. And then, as the sound echoed through the church, I saw something in his eyes—buried deep but there—that told me he understood, despite his misgivings. Could it be there was a man there, somewhere, hidden beneath his cassock?

 Florence,

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“It’s Lucretius,” Colin said. “From his only work, “De Rerum Natura—On the Nature of Things—a poetic explanation of Epicurean philosophy and physics. Written in hexameter. If I recall correctly, the passage has to do with the idea that objects cannot be created from nothing. The first beginnings of things cannot be distinguished by the eye. You will not be able to see the material that makes them up, but it existed long before the things in question. He also believed that there is no afterlife, and hence, no need to fear death.”

We had dined late, not sitting down until after Colin and Mr. Benton-Smith had removed—to where, I had no idea—Signore Spichio’s body from the courtyard. The subject was entirely avoided at the table, not out of respect for decorum but because Cécile and I were meant to take no part in any discussion of the man’s death. Apparently, they hoped this would persuade us to pretend that nothing unusual had happened; and for the moment, at least, I was content to let the conversation drift from Botticelli to Lorenzo the Magnificent to Michelangelo.

When we’d finished eating, Colin produced a bottle of port brought from our cellar in London and passed it around the table. I saw it for what it was: an apology for cutting me out of his investigation. It was well played, a nod to his acceptance of my habit of drinking a beverage reserved by polite society for men alone, a reminder that he considered me an equal. The fortified wine took the edge off my irritation, just as he knew it would. A box of fine cigars provided additional balm.

“Dangerous ideas,” Mr. Benton-Smith said, puffing as he lit one for himself, only after first having assisted me with my own. “How is the church to control its flock without the threat of hell?”

“Or the promise of heaven,” I said. “I’ve not read Lucretius. Tomorrow, Cécile, we will look for a bookshop.”

“You’re unlikely to find it here in English. I can have Hatchards send it if you’d like.” My husband’s tone was congenial, his deep voice full of warmth. I appreciated the effort, even as I resented its cause. No amount of kindness could make me forget about Signore Spichio’s murder.

“That would be lovely, Colin, thank you,” I said. “I’m not sure how much time I’ll have for it, as I’ve decided to embark on a new project. I found the Lucretius quotation among graffiti on the landing walls. Further exploration revealed more writing in the kitchen, the lavatories, and other spots in the house. I want to record all of it and translate it into English.”

“What a marvelous idea, Lady Emily,” Mr. Benton-Smith said.

“You need not be so formal,” I said. “Please call me by my Christian name.”

“Only if you address me as Darius.”

“With pleasure. Dare I hope you’re named for the Persian king?”

“My father dabbled in archaeology as a young man. He was particularly keen on Persia and spent time at the site of Persepolis. Which is a terribly roundabout way of saying, yes, I’m named for Darius the Great. Not an entirely happy situation. Whenever I was caught doing something naughty, dear old Pater was wont to remind me that the name means he who holds firm to good. Quite the burden for a young boy.”

“At least he didn’t call you Xerxes,” I said. “It would be even harder to live up to being a ruler of heroes, in this day and age.”

“Your husband did not exaggerate when he lauded your knowledge of history. I’m impressed, Emily.”

“You needn’t bother with flattery. It doesn’t ease the sting of knowing nothing about the murdered corpse in the courtyard.”

Darius glanced across the table to Colin, who shrugged. “She’s not easily put off.”

“No, I’m not,” I said, “but I promise I shan’t give either of you a hard time. I do understand the need for discretion and that the decision to keep your work to yourselves is not yours alone to make. Forgive me if I reacted badly. Seeing the body was a shock. It’s not my first brush with violent death, but I never quite manage to take it in stride.”

“As you shouldn’t,” Darius said. “I’m well aware of the laudable role you’ve played in bringing murderers to justice. Lose the horror at seeing a body and you lose a piece of your humanity, a piece I consider essential to solving a crime. If one does not care, one cannot succeed.”

“What a morbid topic,” Cécile said. “If Kallista and I are to have no part of your investigation, would it be too much to beg that you not torment us with reminders of it?”

“It would be best if we refrained from mentioning poor Signore Spichio,” I said. “It’s all I can do to resist digging in and looking for clues. If that’s forbidden, I shall have to try