“A concert grand, a Steinway. If I had this room, I’d never leave.” Maria began walking toward the keyboard. She reached out, but Giulia grabbed the back of her smock.
Just then a sharp movement piqued Serafina’s curiosity. Looking out at the park and the hills beyond, she saw a man gallop into view. He dismounted, limped over to the head gardener. They exchanged a few words and the gardener walked toward the house, wiping his hands on his apron. While the man in black led his horse to the stable, Serafina stood at the window, wondering where she’d seen him. Of course, in town with Betta the other day, helping her into the carriage. He had the same hobbled gait, the same cobra eyes.
Serafina quit the room with a backward glance and saw Maria perched on the edge of her chair. With a forefinger pointed toward the chandelier, she was counting candles.
• • •
Elisabetta directed Serafina to a parlor on the other side of the house.
“Let’s sit here. The light from that window will let me have a good look at you,” Serafina said. “I don’t like the color of your skin, Elisabetta, and I see dark circles underneath the eyes. Are you resting, eating abundant meat, cheese, pasta, drinking goat’s milk, or are you watching your figure and trying to do too much work?” From the corner of her eye Serafina saw Madama Mercurio nodding her head. “Ah, too much work, I thought so. This is true, Madama, no?” she asked.
“Between lady’s maids right now, so Agata has taken on that duty as well as remaining my housekeeper, so she has her hands full. But in my condition, I feel lucky to have such a dear by my side.”
A competent, self-effacing servant, Serafina could tell, not the least bit arrogant. She liked the woman.
“Lately I’ve had certain obligations-more entertaining, more engagements, Tigro and I. I have, perhaps, overdone? Yes, you’re right; I need to slow down.”
“Make an appearance, excuse yourself, retire by ten. For the sake of the unborn, tell him. He’ll understand. I’ll say something to him myself before I leave. Agata will make certain that you do as I suggest.” Serafina glanced at Madama Mercurio who smiled.
She continued. “May we talk with your cook? There may be some essential foods that you’re forgetting to eat. Rest at least once a day, twice, if you’ll be entertaining that evening. And I brought you this.” Serafina reached down and opened her bag, pulling out several bottles. “The juice of medicinal herbs in a special mix, Mama’s secret recipes. Two spoonfuls a day from each bottle. Simple. Perhaps have a talk with your physician. Who knows? He might have a good idea, men sometimes do. But don’t worry, all will be well if you follow my advice and Agata watches over you. I want to see you again the week before Christmas. Should we arrange it now? Say, Tuesday the 18th?”
Elisabetta teared up. “Serafina, I knew you’d make everything right. I thought, maybe I’m too old-”
“Too old? Nonsense! If Giorgio were alive, we’d be working at it morning, noon and night. Plenty of time for you to have another child. Not to worry. I see color returning to your cheeks already. Crying and laughing? Like the clouds and sun today.” She took Elisabetta’s pulse, patted her hand. “Heart strong like an ox.”
Elisabetta kissed her on both cheeks. Arm in arm, the three women walked down to the kitchen to speak with cook, who was preparing afternoon tea and laying out Renata’s pastries.
If Serafina had this kitchen, she might even take a turn planning menus. But no, she must remain focused on solving these murders. She must ignore this great domed room with kitchen hearth and spit, the double-oven newly blackened; covet not the cook’s staff of six, the tiled walls and floor, the gleaming copper hanging from a central rack, the porcelain, the stemware, the silver.
A crash of chords. The crystal vibrated in response. Music filled the house. The kitchen staff looked up. Serafina cringed. “Brahms,” she said, and turned to Elisabetta. “Maria’s agog over him. Perhaps because he’s young? I’ll go up and stop her.”
Elisabetta touched her shoulder. “Please don’t. Let’s go upstairs and enjoy it.”
Maria was beginning the second movement when Serafina and Elisabetta walked in, followed by Madama Mercurio and two maids carrying in the tea service. The servants set down the trays and stood at the edge of the room.
Serafina motioned to Giulia who walked over to Maria, said something in her ear. Maria stopped. The audience groaned.
“What talent, Maria, my dear. Your mother told me, but I had no idea,” Elisabetta said. Maria pushed up her spectacles and looked solemn.
The door opened and a voice boomed. “What happened to the piano? Such playing.”
Maria faced Don Tigro.
“Continue, please,” he said.
She looked at Serafina who nodded.
As Maria played, Elisabetta whispered something to Madama Mercurio who tiptoed out of the room. In a few minutes the housekeeper returned, followed by the other servants. They lined the walls-downstairs maids, kitchen staff, footmen, gardeners in their blue aprons clutching straw hats. The group was silent for the rest of the performance.
Don Tigro showed his teeth and clapped. The rest followed. When they stopped, he spoke. “How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“Well. Thank you for the gift of Brahms. He fills my house today in a way I thought impossible. Third piano sonata, I believe?”
“In F-minor.”
He nodded. “Written one year before this Steinway was made. I want to hear more from you very soon. One day you’ll play your piano all over the world. And to think we have a prodigy in Oltramari.” He lifted his head, closed his eyes. “Tea, my Betta?”
Elisabetta poured and two maids passed out cups of tea, offering platters of sweets, orange, and almond sauces.
“Delicious pastries. My compliments to cook.”
“Renata made them,” Elisabetta said. “She was Monzù Alonzo’s pastry chef last summer at Prince Zazzo’s.”
“Hit of the party. The marzipan centerpiece, memorable. I salute you, Signurina.” He turned to Serafina. “Your children are healthy and talented. You’re lucky. After you’ve finished, I’ll see you in my office. Agata will show the way.” He walked over to his wife, said something in her ear, straightened his vest, and walked out.
Serafina took a bite of pastry, sipped her tea, considered. Her melancholy had vanished. In its place, fire.
Serafina and the Don
Two men dressed in ill-fitting suits stood outside Don Tigro’s office. They carried rifles pointed at the ceiling. Agata knocked and Nello opened the door. They entered.
Heavy with furniture, his office, not at all like Elisabetta’s favorite room. Three of the walls held books bound in tooled leather. Serafina ran a finger along one shelf. Felt for dust and found none. A footman began lighting gas lamps in wall sconces, oil lamps on desk and tables.
In a far corner, two young men slouched in velvet chairs around a table. They were expensively suited, reading the newspaper, drinking caffè from china cups.
She walked over to them. “You must be Elisabetta’s children.”
They stood.
“Nineteen years ago, I delivered you, my first set of twins.”
They smiled, shifted from side to side, looked bored.
Nello, who caught up with her, introduced them. “Yes, these are the sons of Don Tigro. Franco, with black hair, Vito, red like his father.”
The two young men bowed. Vito stared at her hair. Franco gave her a lopsided smile.
“Your mother has told me about your studies. Bravi.” She turned and walked toward the desk, not waiting for their reply.
Windows lined the outside wall. Through them Serafina glimpsed laborers packing up their tools for the day, wheeling carts out of sight. Afternoon light splashed orange onto violet hills, a winter sunset. In the sky, hawks circled high above the land. Serafina thought of the fox arcing through the fields, swift and sure, breathtaking, deadly. One day he might be carrion.