It was easier when they were there, because they reminded him of what sort of man Uncle Giorgio must be to have used them so, as if they existed entirely for his own purposes, and nothing else mattered. A man like that might well have used and destroyed his own brother with his family, and the crew of the Bonaventura, without a thought, simply because it suited him. It didn’t prove he had—it just made it more likely—and more likely too that he was planning to use Alfredo in the same kind of way. It was going to happen next Monday as part of the Second Great Work.
How could he avoid taking part in that work? Run away? Where? Who would dare help him hide from the Master of the Mountain? How could he be sure his uncle didn’t have the power to find him, wherever he hid? And then he would have betrayed part of his own secret knowledge—and his one hope lay in his uncle’s not suspecting how much he knew. Kill himself, then? If the worst came to the worst, perhaps, but how? If he could find a cliff somewhere to throw himself over…
No. There must be a better way, if only he could think of it.
On the Tuesday morning Annetta came to his room early and laid out his church clothes for him. After breakfast he sang the chant again for Uncle Giorgio, who this time muttered a few words almost as soon as he’d begun. There were no interruptions from the Angels. Then they rode down the hill to the town. Uncle Giorgio stopped at a large, newish house opposite the church, where they were evidently expected, for a groom from the inn was waiting for them and led the mules away. Uncle Giorgio was raising his cane to rap on the door when it was opened by a wheezing old man in black, wearing a tatty wig, who showed them through a musty hallway, opened a door and announced, or rather muttered, “Signor Giorgio di Sala with the young gentleman, sir,” then stood aside for them and slipped away.
Just as they went into the room Uncle Giorgio gripped Alfredo’s shoulder and leaned heavily on it. He tottered forward.
A man rose from behind a table and started to greet them, but checked himself, stared for a moment and rushed round, pulled out a chair and helped Uncle Giorgio to settle into it, then went back to his place. He was younger than Alfredo would have expected, but stout and with heavy, dark features. His manner, like the priest’s last Sunday, was both fawning and wary.
“Signor di Sala,” he said. “I am much honored. You are …you are not well?”
“I have been stronger,” said Uncle Giorgio dismissively. “You received my note?”
“Indeed, indeed. And this is the young gentleman who is now to be your heir?”
“My nephew, Alfredo,” said Uncle Giorgio. “His parents died tragically a month ago, and he is now in my care. The last, for the moment, of our line. Alfredo, this is my friend Signor Pozzarelli, who looks after the legal side of our affairs. You will have much to do with him in time to come.”
“Indeed, indeed. I am gratified to meet you, Signor Alfredo,” said Signor Pozzarelli as they shook hands. “But let us hope it will be many years before that is the case.”
“We are in God’s hands, Signor Pozzarelli,” said Uncle Giorgio. “And as you see I have not been well. The journey to fetch my nephew taxed my strength, and I was near to death by the time I returned. I am not yet fully recovered, and the malady could strike again at any time. We must put my earthly affairs in order without delay.”
“Your earthly…?” Signor Pozzarelli began, and stopped himself. “Er…hum…a little wine in honor of the occasion? Now, let me see, let me see…”
He rang a silver handbell, then fussed with papers on his table, recovering his composure. Uncle Giorgio watched him, smiling thinly. Alfredo was puzzled. He had a feeling Uncle Giorgio was teasing the attorney, but why was he pretending to be ill and mouthing these pious phrases about his own death if in a few day’s time he was going to start living forever? And what had Signor Pozzarelli been going to say when he stopped himself?
A servant woman came in with a tray—glasses, a wine flask and a jug. Signor Pozzarelli poured two glasses of wine and glanced at Uncle Giorgio.
“A little for my nephew—as you say, in honor of the occasion,” said Uncle Giorgio, still with that teasing note, so the attorney poured a few sips for Alfredo and filled the larger glasses from the jug with what turned out to be lime water, cool and fresh. The wine was dark and sweet—the best in the attorney’s cellar, Alfredo guessed.
Signor Pozzarelli drew a chair to the table for Alfredo, picked up a double sheet of parchment and cleared his throat.
“The terms, as you suggested, are the same as for the last will—nineteen years ago, I see—save of course for the beneficiary. The list of your properties has been kept up to date, as you know, and can simply be transferred to the new will. And there is the matter of a guardian still to be settled. Last time my father had the honor…”
“Your respected father is now almost as old as I am, and we must look to the future. I suggest that this time it should be yourself, if you will be so kind as to take up the burden of my nephew’s earthly affairs. All else of course is in eternal hands, those hands which finally take care of all things, both earthly and beyond.”
“Of course, of course,” agreed Signor Pozzarelli hastily. “I shall be much honored by the task.”
This time Alfredo got it. Beneath Uncle Giorgio’s teasing tone there was something else, a note of threat, quiet but confident. And beneath the attorney’s gabbled reply there was awareness of that threat, and fear of it. And Uncle Giorgio hadn’t said the obvious “earthly and heavenly,” but used the strange phrase “earthly and beyond.” He was talking not of the justice of God, but of the powers of the Master of the Mountain, which his nephew would inherit. No attorney in his right mind would be tempted to swindle even a child who possessed those powers.
Signor Pozzarelli wrote briefly on the document, then read it through in a solemn voice. Though it was quite short, it was mostly incomprehensible. The only thing that was clear to Alfredo was that just three people were named in it, Uncle Giorgio, who was making the will; Signor Pozzarelli, who was to be guardian; and Alfredo himself, who was getting everything. There was nothing for Annetta, nothing to take care of poor Toni, Uncle Giorgio’s own son. Of course Alfredo would look after them, but how could anyone be certain of that? If only for form’s sake surely…But no. Uncle Giorgio didn’t think like that.
When he’d finished reading, Signor Pozzarelli rang his bell again, and the clerk and a gardener came to witness Uncle Giorgio’s signature. The gardener was unable to write his name, so signed with a thumbprint. Uncle Giorgio gave each of them a silver coin and rose as they left. Alfredo realized that Signor Pozzarelli was looking expectantly at him. Alfredo pulled himself together.
“I must…must thank my uncle for his great generosity,” he stammered. “I, er, will try to prove worthy of my inheritance and…and our name.”
“I have no doubt that that will prove to be the case,” said Uncle Giorgio, still with the same odd tone, as if the words had an extra meaning that only he knew. He signed to Alfredo, who helped him stand and then took some of his weight while Signor Pozzarelli showed them out of the house with obvious relief, bowing his farewells several times more than was necessary.
Uncle Giorgio seemed to recover as soon as the door closed.
“Lawyers are capable of infinite delay,” he remarked. “There is no harm in persuading one that the case may be urgent.”