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

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and looked up at us, but did not offer us a seat. “You knew my Marzo?”

“Not so well as I would have liked, signora,” I said.

“You told me he was a friend,” the young man who answered the door said. “Did you know my brother or not?”

“I considered him a friend because he went out of his way to be kind to me.” It was not much, but I knew almost nothing about the man and had to be vague.

“Your name is Hargreaves,” Signora Spichio said. “Your husband must be the one who told us of Marzo’s accident. He was working to fix the roof of your house, yes?”

Now, at least, I knew Colin’s cover story. “Yes. What happened is terrible. If there is anything at all I can do to help you or your family, please let me know.”

The striking young girl narrowed her eyes. “Marzo and I were to be wed and nothing will ever bring back the happiness I have lost. He should never have been on that roof, but he would take any job, so desperate was he to save enough money that we could finally start our life together.”

“He wouldn’t have been desperate if you hadn’t put on airs and insisted on living in a home far above his means.” The dead man’s brother spat the words. “He belonged here, with his family, like a good son. But, no, Lena had to have a house of her own, even if it meant leaving Florence.”

“You always hated me, Ridolfo, but remember I know the reason why.” The girl’s voice was barely above a whisper but her venom unmistakable.

Ridolfo raised his hand and stepped toward her, stopping when the older woman next to his mother rose from the settee, balancing herself with a cane. “Enough!”

After that single word followed a stream of rapid-fire invective my Italian was insufficient to comprehend. I folded my hands in front of my waist and stared at the floor until she had finished. The subsequent silence lasted approximately thirty seconds and was broken simultaneously by Lena and Ridolfo, each screaming over the other.

Cécile leaned closer to me. “Perhaps we should leave them to their grief.”

Signora Spichio stood up and slapped her son, then Lena. This time, it seemed, they were well and truly silenced. Ridolfo slunk out of the room. Lena sank back onto the settee, buried her head in her hands, and shook as she wept without making a sound.

Signora Spichio took my arm and pulled me into the kitchen, just off the parlor. “Could you please take Lena home? She and Ridolfo … I cannot deal with them now. Her family lives across the river. She can tell you the way. There is nothing for her here anymore.”

“Of course. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to contact me at the Palazzo di Vieri.”

“I know the house. It is not somewhere I would ever go.” Her voice trembled.

“You can send a message and I will come to you here,” I said, wondering if I was imagining fear in her words.

“Now that Marzo is away from that place, nothing else bad will happen to us.”

Apparently, I was not imagining her fear. “Even so, I am here for you, signora. No mother should lose a child. I can only imagine your pain.”

“If you mean what you say, pray for me. That is the only thing that can save any of us.” She turned away and walked back to the other room, barking a command at Ridolfo, wherever he was, and then pulling Lena to her feet. “You will be at the funeral, but it is unlikely we will see each other again after that. I will remember what you did to and for my son, both the good and the bad. I thank you for the first. The second, I will never forgive.”

 Florence,

148012

I did not return to Santa Trinita for Mass the next day, nor the day after that. More than a week passed before I saw Father Cambio again for confession. I was upset, and at sixteen, that meant I wallowed, shamefully indulging myself. Soon, though, I grew bored, and turned back to Dante. It did not take long for the poet to distract me from my woes, which was not surprising, given how trivial they were compared to the trials faced by the damned in Inferno.

When I began reading, I immediately empathized with the inhabitants of limbo, who spent eternity unpunished but unhappy. The young see themselves in everything, and I was foolish enough to believe this first circle of hell very like my place on earth. My life was too comfortable to merit complaint, but I had no joy. I rushed through reading about the second circle, populated by those who had been ruined by lust. I could not muster up much interest in something wholly foreign to my world. Desire seemed so unworthy a sin. If I were to be damned, it would be for something serious, like murder or treason, not an ill-conceived romance.

The third circle punished gluttony, which I never before had contemplated, probably because my family’s wealth ensured that I never wanted for anything. I always had enough. As a result, it never occurred to me to take more than I needed, although as I thought about it, I realized that this was not a logical conclusion. All around me were examples of people who hoarded far more than they needed. Was not excess the goal of us Florentines, wrapped in our luxurious trappings? This observation made me uncomfortable, as did Dante’s description of the punishment suffered by gluttons.

Gluttony and abundance go hand and hand. The damned, mired in filthy muck, cry out in vain as an abundance of cold rain and icy hail ceaselessly fall on them. But that is not enough. Cerberus, the three-headed hound of classical mythology, attacks their flesh, the wounds