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

grandfather had died in the night. Again, we grieved together. Again, we raised a glass.

“I knew he could not live forever, but at the same time, I never truly believed he would die,” I said.

“That’s because the little girl he adored is still somewhere inside you. She would have considered him invincible.”

“You’re insightful, Signore Corsini—”

“You must stop addressing me so formally. We’ve known each other for more than a year and spend so much time together my mother is convinced I plan to marry you. My father, on the other hand, is convinced you’re my mistress. Surely that means you can call me Cristofano.”

“She thinks you plan to marry me?” My jaw went slack with horror.

He laughed. “You’re not offended at the suggestion you’re my mistress, only that someone suspects you’ll become my wife.”

“I’ll never be either to any man. You know that.”

“I do, Mina.”

Our eyes met. It was the first time he’d addressed me by my Christian name. He’d always followed my lead, never wanting more than I, content to adopt the formality I’d imposed on our friendship.

“That comforts me greatly, Cristofano.” His name felt awkward on my lips.

He looked away from me and changed the subject. “Where is Bia today? I expected her to race to greet me when I arrived.”

“Her nurse took her to see the lions in the Piazza della Signoria. She was very upset when I told her about Nonno.”

“He doted on her.”

“He had already started to teach her Latin,” I said. “I’m sorry she won’t have the pleasure of learning more from him.”

“As am I. He was a good man. Did she go willingly to see the lions?”

I smiled. “You know her too well. She protested, insisting that, at eleven, she is too old to find consolation in such distractions. I told her she could watch them being fed and all her objections faded in an instant.”

“I suspected as much.”

“You’re good to her.”

“She makes it easy.”

Bia loved Signore Corsini fiercely. It was a different love than she’d had for her father, more guarded and more possessive. When he’d first met her, he brought a chess set as a gift and taught her how to play, even though everyone else told her she was too young. She appreciated the attention, and from that day, considered him hers.

“Not many men would bother with her.”

“You wouldn’t tolerate me coming around if I didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t tolerate you coming around if I thought you were using her to impress me.”

He took my hands. “Happy though I always am to banter with you, I’m not doing much to console you. The loss of Signore Portinari is a blow to all of Florence, but for you it is not just intellectual. I know what he meant to you. Is there anything I can do to ease your pain?”

“Having you here is more than enough,” I said. “He’s left me his library. I knew he planned to. We spoke about it long ago. He trusted me to keep it safe. It seemed such an odd thing to me at the time, but Savonarola had started preaching here again, and his fire and brimstone never made a favorable impression on Nonno.”

“Nor me,” Cristofano said. “He’s only grown more powerful since Lorenzo’s death.”

“He’s saying that we’re approaching the end of times, that we’re facing tribulations of epic proportion.”

“More terrifying than his prophecies is the reaction of the citizens of our city. Many of them are starting to believe him.”

“Lorenzo has not been dead long,” I said. “Piero is mourning his father at the same time he’s learning to rule. Periods of transition are always unsettling. Once Piero proves he’s capable—”

“Lorenzo did what he could to prepare him, but it may be that Piero is not capable.” He frowned. “I have great concerns about what he will do to Florence. But we are not meant to be discussing politics, not today of all days. Instead we should read aloud from Lucretius. He was your grandfather’s favorite, and his ideas are potently applicable in the present circumstances.”

“Nonno always regretted that it was Poggio, not him, who discovered the manuscript,” I said. “Did you know he copied it out himself, so that he’d have it, even before Poggio managed to acquire a personal copy of his own?”

“I did not.”

“I don’t think there’s anything I will ever treasure more than that volume of Lucretius, written in his own hand. What a gift to be given.”

“You don’t have it here, do you?” he asked.

“No.”

“Bring me your own copy, then. I will read to you.”

I did as he asked and listened as he read:

Denique si vocem rerum natura repente

mittat et hoc alicui nostrum sic increpet ipsa:

“quid tibi tanto operest, mortalis, quod nimis aegris

luctibus indulges? quid mortem congemis ac fles?

nam si grata fuit tibi vita ante acta priorque

et non omnia pertusum congesta quasi in vas

commoda perfluxere atque ingrata interiere;

cur non ut plenus vitae conviva recedis

aequo animoque capis securam, stulte, quietem?”

Once more, if Nature

Should of a sudden send a voice abroad,

And her own self inveigh against us so:

“Mortal, what hast thou of such grave concern

That thou indulgest in too sickly plaints?

Why this bemoaning and beweeping death?

For if thy life aforetime and behind

To thee was grateful, and not all thy good

Was heaped as in sieve to flow away

And perish unavailingly, why not,

Even like a banqueter, depart the halls,

Laden with life? why not with mind content

Take now, thou fool, thy unafflicted rest?”

He closed the book. “There is some comfort in that, I hope.”

“How can I feel regret to know that he rests now, forever without pain or want or need?”

“Seek solace in the poet’s words, but they don’t mean that you’re not allowed to be sad, Mina. I know how much you will miss him.”

When I went to bed that night, I could not sleep. I cried and cried, consumed with loss. I was thinking about my grandfather, but then my thoughts turned to Salvi. He would be eleven now, and I would not recognize him if I saw him. Was he still in