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

able to help me find a way to save the essence of Florence.

Because we had been so close for so long and then our friendship had ended abruptly before his wedding, most people assumed we had been lovers. I heard the gossip, and knew that Maddalena herself believed this. She’d made a show of saying that I would never be welcome in her house, so calling unannounced did not seem a good strategy. Instead, I sent Cristofano a note, asking him to meet me somewhere we could speak privately, wherever he wanted.

He did not reply for four days. I had started to despair. At last, a message came. He would meet me in the Duomo tomorrow at noon, near Michelino’s painting of Dante. His words were impersonal, businesslike. It wounded me, even though I had no right to expect anything else.

Nervous and on edge, I went early, arriving a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. He was already standing in front of the painting when I arrived. I stood back and watched him, remembering the day we had met, how I had observed, when we returned from the disastrous hunt, that he was not handsome. I realized now how wrong I’d been. His beauty came not from his features but from his manner, his intelligence, his confidence, his wit. I remained there, staring at him from a distance, until the church’s bells struck noon. He heard my footsteps as I approached and turned around.

“I did not expect to hear from you again, Signora Portinari,” he said. He was looking at me, but showed no sign of seeing me, not in any way that mattered. “It’s funny, in all the years of our friendship, I never gave your name much consideration, but after that day on your roof, when everything changed, it occurred to me that you share a surname with Dante’s Beatrice. I should have anticipated unrequited love.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling tears welling in my eyes. “I—”

He shook his head. “Don’t apologize, signora. None of that matters anymore. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Why did you want to see me?”

I told him about the Bands of Hope, about their seizing things from my house, about the fears I had, and asked for his help.

“I can’t help you,” he said. “First, it’s too dangerous. Second, it’s wholly inappropriate. Renewing our acquaintance would hurt my wife.”

Our acquaintance? How could he be so dismissive of the friendship we had shared? I knew I deserved his scorn, but I had hoped that some ember of kindness remained. I was wrong.

“I should not have written to you,” I said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed your domestic tranquility. Forgive me.”

I turned away and walked across the nave, thinking he would follow. He did not. When I looked back, he was gone. I sank to my knees and wept. How different it would be if I had married him. Together, we could have worked against Savonarola and saved countless treasures. Instead, I had ruined my own happiness and left art and books to be wantonly destroyed.

“Signora, don’t cry.”

Someone was standing above me, his voice soft.

“Please leave me alone,” I said.

“I would be remiss to do so.”

He crouched beside me, and I saw he wore the robes of a Dominican, Savonarola’s order. This made me cry harder. Had he heard what I’d told Cristofano? Was I about to be dragged off to a prison?

“I understand why you are upset.”

He had heard. I was doomed.

“I was speaking without thinking,” I said. “I—”

“No more, not here.” He helped me to my feet and led me to a narrow staircase, the one the workers who built the cathedral’s dome had used during its construction, saying nothing further until he’d closed the door behind us. “No one comes here. It is a safe place. I heard your words and share your fears. I know better than most how dangerous Savonarola is. I came to Florence as a young man, drawn to her community of scholars. Not all friars believe God wants us to destroy art.”

I still didn’t trust him. “I’m angry at losing jewelry that had sentimental value. My mother gave it to me and a Band of Hope took it. I overreacted.”

“This isn’t about jewelry,” he said. “We both know that. I believe you know Sandro Botticelli?”

His question caught me off guard. “I do. What has that to do with anything?”

“Savonarola has all but convinced him to destroy his paintings that have pagan themes.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Have you seen him recently? He’s like most of the rest of Florence: scared. He’ll do whatever the friar tells him to.”

“I will never believe that.”

“Will your beliefs on the subject matter in the slightest when he starts burning his paintings?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Friar Baldo Cipriano.”

“I’m scared of what Savonarola is doing to this city,” I said.

“As am I. I belong to a group of like-minded individuals. Together, we are trying to save as much as possible from the friar’s bonfires. We gather what we can and hide it in a place that is safe.”

“Do you have much?”

“Not so much as we would like,” he said. “People are not eager to part with their possessions. Not because they fear they won’t eventually be returned, but because they’re afraid of what they will suffer if they are exposed.”

“So how do you convince them?”

“We don’t.”

“Then how do you…” I stared at him. “You steal?”

“There is no other way. We can discuss the morality of the issue at some other time. A lady like you has better access to the homes of the wealthy than we do. Will you help us?”

“I can’t steal—”

“You won’t need to. We’re quite capable of handling that ourselves. What we can’t do, however, is ascertain where the best pieces—and the most vulnerable—are kept. Who owns what? Where is it displayed? Are there books as well? Ancient sculpture? Cameos? Other objects that should be kept from flames? All we’d want from you is information, information you can gain from