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

of what she said was decidedly odd, as if she’d constructed it deliberately to mislead me. On the surface, it was innocuous enough. What did it matter if I—or anyone—believed superstitions about the house? Yet my instinct told me there was some thread of truth in her story. The sources in the library confirmed that something had been hidden here, something I suspected Tessa did not want me to find. I would tread carefully, knowing I could play the game of misdirection just as well, if not better, than she.

 Florence,

148010

My mother was furious Nonno had taken me to the Palazzo Medici. “It is wholly inappropriate for her to dine in such circumstances.” She would never have dared say such things to my grandfather and spent the next morning railing at my father instead. “Yes, she should—must—associate with the finest families in Florence. But to do so when there are no other ladies present and at a gathering with individuals of dubious merit—”

“Now, now,” my father said. “No one would consider any of them less than meritorious. You would criticize Botticelli?”

“No, of course not.” She had been pacing, agitated, but now calmed down and sat across from my father at the dining table. The change in her attitude emboldened me to speak.

“Signore Botticelli sketched me,” I said. “He plans to use the drawing as a model for one of the Three Graces in a painting.”

“Did he?” Now she looked almost cheerful. “Who commissioned the painting?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But—”

Her countenance darkened. “Mina, you are woefully naïve. I doubt he has any plans for the drawing.”

“Leave the child be,” my father said. “No harm has been done.” He had a tendency to indulge my brothers and me, not to the point that we were spoiled but enough that my mother frequently felt the need to rein him in.

“Far better that she attend social functions that include eligible bachelors than one with a priest and a handful of married men,” she said.

“I understand your concerns, but for her to have such ready access to Lorenzo de’ Medici can never be a liability.”

“It is not she, but your father, who has the access.”

“Which should make the events of last night all the more palatable to you,” he said. “No one would suspect impropriety at any function he attended. His reputation is spotless. As, I may add, is Mina’s.”

My mother frowned. “She is at a vulnerable age.”

“I shall leave so you can speak about me more freely,” I said, knowing all too well where the conversation was heading. Marriage. “I mean to go to confession this morning and ought not tarry any longer.”

“Go, go,” my father said. “You might inquire if any of your brothers want to join you. There’s no question they would all benefit from the sacrament.”

Less concerned about my brothers’ immortal souls than I perhaps ought to have been, I scurried off with no intention of inviting them to accompany me. Alfia was an adequate chaperone and would never comment on the conversations Father Cambio and I had after I’d made my confession. My brothers, on the other hand, would tease me mercilessly and threaten to have Father send me to a convent, which is where they believed all women who spent too much time gabbing about religion belonged. It would never occur to them that we might be discussing something else.

Although, today, I had little heart for any sort of conversation. The look of contempt Lorenzo de’ Medici’s friend had given me when I was leaving the previous night was still troubling me. I could not get the image of his sneer out of my mind. He had no cause to dislike me; we’d never met. Yet somehow he’d managed to disturb some insecurity lurking deep inside me, leaving me less confident than normal. Father Cambio did not seem to notice, at least not while I made my confession. But as we started to take our usual turn around the nave of the church, my dispirited manner could not be denied.

“You are not yourself today, Mina,” he said. “Did the sacrament fail to soothe your soul?”

“I did not hold back anything, Father.”

“That’s not what I meant. Not all troubles are of a spiritual nature.” There was a reassuring kindness in his face I had not previously noticed. He was younger than my father, but older than my brothers, and I started to wonder what his own family was like. I’d never considered priests as men, just accepted them as vessels of the Church. “I do remember life before I was a priest.”

It was as if he could read my thoughts. I blushed, embarrassed. “I—I—”

“Give me your hand.” I did as he asked. He took it in his own, which was warm and soft, large. We had stopped walking and stood beneath a sculpture of the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus. “Our Lord understood the troubles of the ordinary man. Look only to his miracles to know that. He changed water to wine at a wedding, satisfying a very human desire. Now, tell me, what happened to take the light out of you?”

I told him about the dinner and about the man at the Medici’s door. “I don’t know why it hurt me so. He is nothing to me. I don’t even know his name.”

“You were coming from a gathering where you were a vital part of a stimulating intellectual exchange, where you were noticed and respected. But as you exited the house, you returned to the world you inhabit nearly all of the time, one where your mind is not appreciated, where your value lies in your physical appearance and reputation. You have reached the age where you will soon be married. This stranger represents the sort of person you will take as a husband. It is understandable that you would have doubts and fears about this. Will your parents find for you a man who wants more than someone to bear children and run his household? Will