The Dark Heart of Florence Tasha Alexander (novels for beginners .TXT) 📖

note behind the arm of the mourning woman sculpted draping herself over the tomb. I mention this only as an observation, having had no intention of communicating with Lena in such a fashion.

Cécile turned away from the monument before I did. “The girl was clearly upset after she and Ridolfo argued,” she said. “Her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying. Yet now she acts as if she is unaffected.”

“I hardly know what to make of her,” I said. “She’s grieving, that much is evident. Why, then, this bizarre suggestion to pretend to rekindle her old romance with Ridolfo?”

“Maybe she does believe he murdered Marzo.”

“All the more reason to keep away from him. I’ve no idea what she’s playing at, but if it is true that Ridolfo knew Marzo was dead before Colin informed the family, there’s something odd going on. We know the fall didn’t kill him. Colin let as much slip when we found the body.”

“If Ridolfo is as lazy as Lena claims, she’s right that he wouldn’t have dragged his brother’s body to the top of a roof,” Cécile said.

“I agree. But maybe he knows the actual cause of Marzo’s death.” I wanted to hear from Colin how Ridolfo had reacted upon hearing about the accident. Had he seemed surprised? If so, was it due to the news itself or to the story being presented, a story he knew to be false?

“What now?”

“Now, Cécile, we play tourist, so that we can convince Darius we’re doing nothing else. I want to see Giotto’s frescoes of the life of St. Francis.”

“I thought you were going to leave flowers on Machiavelli’s tomb.”

“I would if I had any,” I said. “As it is, Niccolò will have to make do with only my prayers.”

When we returned to the palazzo late in the afternoon, the gentlemen were waiting for us in the Sala dei Pappagalli. After finishing our exploration of Santa Croce, we had meandered through the shops in the piazza, where I bought a dozen wooden trays—sezzatini—carefully painted and decorated with gilt in the manner traditional to Florence since the fourteenth century. Colin’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline when I made a show of opening the parcels. He was not used to me being so enthusiastic about shopping.

“Each one is a unique design,” I said. “A husband and wife run the shop and do the painting themselves. It’s too marvelous. Just the sort of thing the Medici might have had in their own palazzo. I do hope you don’t think twelve is too many, darling, but I couldn’t resist.”

“Not too many at all,” Colin said. I might be laying it on too thick. He looked as if he were having trouble keeping from laughing. Fortunately, Darius did not know me well enough to recognize my purchases as out of character.

“What about you, Cécile?” Darius asked. “Did you manage to resist the siren call of Florentine trays?”

“I did, monsieur. Much as I would like to discuss the details of our day, I’m afraid I must retreat to dress for dinner. I’ve invited a guest to join us.” She excused herself and went upstairs. I wanted desperately to talk to Colin privately, but wasn’t sure this was the right time to give him a longing look. Surely that would be better when Darius wouldn’t be left alone. In the end, I didn’t need to decide. Tessa came into the room with a telegram for Colin, who, upon opening it and reading, told me he needed a moment alone with his colleague and stood up to leave the room.

“Don’t go,” I said. “I haven’t had a chance to work on my graffiti project today. This is the perfect opportunity.”

I had noticed writing on the wall in the second floor dining room that morning at breakfast, so, after collecting my notebook and pencil from our bedroom, I copied and translated it. The year 1494 appeared twice, and there was a message about charity or alms being dispensed. Another fragment mentioned someone being scourged. There were other dates, parts of phrases, and several names. Just above the floor on a small wall near the door leading to the neighboring studiolo, I spotted a sentence written in Latin, the handwriting a match for that I’d found on the first floor landing:

quo magis in dubiis hominem spectare periclis / convenit adversisque in rebus noscere qui sit; / nam verae voces tum demum pectore ab imo / eliciuntur et eripitur persona manet res.

Watch a man in times of adversity to discover what kind of man he is; for then at last words of truth are drawn from the depths of his heart, and the mask is torn off.

I wondered if this, like the Latin sentence I’d seen on the landing, was from Lucretius, and regretted not yet having a copy of De Rerum Natura in my possession. I copied the remaining graffiti in the room, sketched a diagram to indicate where it was located, and then rang for Tessa to help me dress for dinner. By the time I returned downstairs, Cécile was already in the Sale Madornale with Signore Tazzera.

“Colin will join us shortly,” I said. “He had just arrived to change when I was leaving our room.” The timing, unfortunately, had meant we’d had little time to speak privately. I’d asked him what happened to his face—the bruise looked even worse now—and he gave me the same story Darius had about too much drink and would-be thieves seizing on this vulnerability. There had to be more to it, but nothing he would admit.

Signore Tazzera poured a glass of prosecco for me, from the supply he’d sent Cécile. “Your friend is very kind to pretend to like my gift,” he said. “I know she would prefer champagne.”

I accepted the beverage and thanked him. “I think your prosecco is delightful, but then I—unlike either Cécile or my husband, who brings whisky wherever he goes—enjoy indulging in local delicacies when I travel. Which is why we shall have limoncello