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

in the cathedral. Now we would be divided again, this time into the Piagnoni and the Arrabbiati, the former Savonarola’s supporters, the latter those who rejected him.

We had all read Dante, memorized his words. He had illuminated the punishments of hell. Who, then, would choose damnation, if following Savonarola could lead to salvation? Never before in the history of Florence had the fate of our mortal souls been brought into political discussion. What more powerful motivator could any leader have?

Florence had led the world in the rediscovery of ancient ideas. These ideas had, in turn, ignited a golden age, when artists and poets, architects and men of science showed us the limitless possibilities of human achievement. Brunelleschi built his dome, insisting it could be done even before he knew how. Botticelli brought pagan mythology to life, inextricably connecting it to contemporary Florence. Petrarch taught us how to reconcile ancient ideas with Christian beliefs.

None of it could have happened without men like my grandfather, who rescued from monastic libraries the manuscripts full of the ideas that had sparked it all. He had warned me such ideas could come under threat. Savonarola had catalyzed his worries, and the friar was far more powerful now than he’d been then. What would Nonno do, when the humanist values of Florence looked more fragile than I would have ever thought possible? I had promised him I would save his books, but had always understood this meant more than just preserving paper and ink. The ideas were what mattered.

And so, I embarked upon a project, a project that must be kept quiet. First, I hired a printer to make copies of the most important books in grandfather’s collections, the books he had named as such on a list: Cicero’s letters, the works of Aristotle, Lucretius’s De Rerum Natura, and more. The books, however, would only be the start. There was much, much more to be done.

 Florence,

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Cécile and I went to the Russian consulate the next morning, finalizing our strategy en route, so that by the time the consul agreed to see us, we were more than ready for him. My friend took the lead.

“Monsieur, one of your countryman has done a dear friend of mine a great service,” she said. “Her fiancé was killed in a terrible accident, and she would have collapsed outside the church following his funeral had not a Russian gentleman offered his carriage to take her home.”

“I would expect nothing less from a Russian,” the consul said. “We are a noble people.”

“The trouble is,” Cécile continued, “she now finds herself in a rather embarrassing situation. She doesn’t know the gentleman’s name, and hence, is unable to write to thank him for his kind service. We were hoping that you might be able to point us in the right direction. Do you keep a list of Russians in Florence? I always register with the French consulate when I travel.”

“We do, but I’m afraid I can’t give it out.”

“Of course not,” I said. “We completely understand the need for discretion. Would it be possible, however, for you to take a look at it and let us know the names of any likely candidates for our anonymous Samaritan? It would be someone in a position to have a carriage.”

“Or someone who had happened to hire one that day,” the consul said. “I’m afraid what you ask is impossible. The information I have is not all that detailed, just names and where each individual is staying while here.”

“Oh, but that’s quite enough, sir,” I said. “We know the date of the funeral, and we know the gentleman was staying in a house, not a hotel. Surely that narrows it down.”

“It would, to some degree,” he admitted.

“Please, monsieur, I beg you to help our poor friend. Having suffered so devastating a loss, thanking this gentleman would allow her the comfort that comes from social niceties,” Cécile said. “It seems a small thing, I know, but to her, it will mean much more. It will give her something positive to act upon, and that is what she needs more than anything right now.”

“I will see what I can do. Tell me the date of the funeral and then come back in an hour. That will give me time to check if anyone registered matches your criteria. I cannot tell you where, precisely, they are staying, but the names will give you something, at least.”

“We are indebted to you,” she said. “Я очень благодарен.”

His eyes lit up. “You speak Russian?”

“Not much,” Cécile said. “The Princess Mariya Alekseyevna Bolkonskaya is a dear friend. She’s taught me a bit.”

An enormous grin split his face. “You are a friend of Masha’s? Why did you not tell me that first? Of course I will help you. Together, we will find the gentleman you seek.”

When we returned as instructed, the consul greeted us at the door himself and gave us a list that included six names and complete addresses. “If I can offer any further help, do let me know,” he said. “I am at your service.” He kissed Cécile’s hand, nodded at me, and waved as we set off.

“Mentioning Masha was a stroke of genius,” I said. “You timed it perfectly.”

“I knew waiting until we’d finished the meeting would lead to the most desirous outcome,” Cécile said. “It made him feel guilty for not having been more helpful from the beginning, which is why he overcompensated by providing the addresses. I’m finding that I have quite an affinity for this sort of work. Perhaps I should speak to Monsieur Hargreaves about having the Palace hire me.”

“You’d be bored in three days flat.”

We stopped in a café, where we plotted the locations of each of the six houses on my map. Aside from one in the Oltrarno near the Palazzo Pitti, they were all in the city’s historic center, not far from the Duomo. Proceeding with caution was essential. It was quite likely that the man whom we sought had killed Lena, Marzo,