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

umbrella. Then I slipped out of the house, dismayed, shocked, and more than a little angry at what I’d overheard the staff saying.

I was still upset when I reached the Mercato Nuovo, so took a moment to collect myself. Standing in front of the market’s famous fountain—Il Porcellino, a wild boar sculpted in bronze—I rubbed his snout and dropped a coin from his mouth to the grate below, ensuring my return to Florence. That done, and my mood slightly improved, I snapped closed my umbrella and stepped into the sixteenth-century covered loggia. I made my way through the stalls slowly, playing the curious shopper, examining the goods offered and buying more than strictly necessary, all the while conversing with the merchants in Italian, gently probing to see who among them had known Marzo.

I was careful not to arouse any suspicion, inquiring in general terms about the man who had died in the tragic accident at a house nearby. All of the merchants had heard about Marzo’s death. It was the main topic of gossip, at least according to an elderly couple selling flowers.

“The city is generally quiet,” the man said. “This brings some excitement.”

“Do not judge my husband for sounding cavalier,” his wife said. “We take no pleasure in Marzo’s death, but that he would die in an accident was no surprise. He was always careless.”

“You knew him?” I asked.

“Sì, signora,” the man said. “Not well, but he bought flowers from us for his sweetheart, every Tuesday, to bring them to her at noon, right after he left us. I don’t know why Tuesdays, but it was a kind gesture.”

“You think he was kind,” his wife said. “I think he was always apologizing. There was never joy in his eyes when we saw him. And he never chose the flowers himself, always left it to me to decide what he should buy.”

“Young men are not as sentimental as you women would like,” the man said. “He bought her flowers every week. Can’t you be satisfied with that? Why does he have to do more?”

“Now he’ll do nothing and the poor girl will be all alone.”

“Are you acquainted with her?” I asked. They were not. “You mentioned that he was careless. What made you believe that?”

The man shook his head, but his wife answered. “He was clumsy. I can’t count the number of times he knocked over displays.”

“It happened often?” I asked.

“Often enough that we girded ourselves when we saw him approaching,” the man said. “Not that we held it against him. As I said, he was a kind man.”

“Would you say he did it every other time or every third time?”

“There was no regularity to it, signora,” he said. “He was clumsy, that’s all. Maybe he should have paid better attention, maybe he couldn’t help it. Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Three people had lined up behind me, waiting to buy flowers, so I didn’t linger. I purchased a bouquet of bright red blossoms and thanked the couple before moving on. I learned nothing new until I reached a booth where three young women proffered a variety of woolen goods. Before I could gently segue from complimenting what they had on offer to inquiring about Marzo, the tallest of the girls, who introduced herself as Vittoria, addressed the subject directly.

“I hear you are asking about Marzo,” she said. “Did you know him?”

“A little,” I replied. “Did you?”

“More than I would have liked, but at the same time, not as much as I would have liked.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

The other two girls started shouting at her, speaking too rapidly for me to follow. She barked at them, then turned back to me. “My sisters never liked him. They aggravate me, but their instincts about him were right. He was trouble. Mind you, I did not know he was engaged to be married when we met.”

“You had a relationship with him?”

She shrugged. “Of sorts. He liked to flirt. So do I. I saw no harm in it. He asked if he could call on me, and I said yes. Why not? We would go for walks near my parents’ house, but nothing really happened between us. He was funny and kind, handsome enough, but he never wanted anything more than those walks.”

Not all flirtations develop into things more serious, but the way she told the story revealed something that went beyond ordinary romantic disappointment. Her tone and the furtive way she kept glancing back to see if her sisters were listening struck me as odd.

“That sort of thing happens often enough,” I said.

“It does,” Vittoria said. “He gave every appearance of enjoying the time we spent together, but now I think he was using me to get to someone else.”

“To make his fiancée jealous?”

“No. To murder our neighbor.”

 Lake Garda,

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I can recall almost nothing about the weeks that followed Salvi’s birth. I passed them in a haze of sorrow and regret. After a month, Fabbiana stopped indulging my moods and insisted that I return to making lace and taking walks with her. Gradually, the signs that I had carried a child faded from my body, and although I could feel I was different, no observer would have noticed. As spring turned to summer, my hostess started planning my marriage.

I only met Agnolo once before our betrothal. Before she introduced me to him, Fabbiana offered assurances that he was a good man, who would never suspect me of having lost my virtue, let alone that I had given birth to an illegitimate child. I wondered how that could be true, but was in no position to question her. And what did it matter? If he would have me, how could I object? If later he discovered my secret, I would still be his wife.

“He is an excellent choice for many reasons,” Fabbiana said, as we waited for him to be brought to the loggia, where we were sitting. “At thirty-three, he is the right age to marry.