white blossoms into her golden hair. But the luminous petals make her look even emptier, and now that I’ve torn them from their natural places, they have started to die too. What did I think? That framing her face with flowers would bring her back to life? Her body is a broken instrument and it’s never going to sing again.
I kiss her chilly forehead. There’s a stack of wood by the sooty grate, and I build a fire. I stand beside the coffin, gazing at her waxy face.
“Beatrice, remember when I got stuck at the top of the cypress tree in the courtyard? I jumped and you caughtme. You rolled us over and you tickled me and we laughed so hard that tears fell from our eyes.” I hold her limp hand in my own and laugh at the memory of it, amazed that my body is still able to produce such a sound.
And that is when I see something strange. My disconcertment condenses into fright, like warm breath meeting the cold of a windowpane. There is a pale mark on her finger, in the place where her ring of sisterhood should be.
A coldness rushes through me. I look at my own ring of twisted gold and Beatrice’s handwriting seems to appear in front of my eyes: I wear our ring of sisterhood. I’ll never take it off.…
Faustina pads across the hallway holding out a plate of peaches on a silver tray. She tells me I must eat and scolds me for being thin.
“Faustina. Where is Beatrice’s ring?”
She sets the tray down on a low table beside the door and moves closer to me. “What ring, love?”
“The ring she always wore. You know? Exactly the same as this one.” I hold my hand up in front of my face like a fan. “Did she have it on the day she died? Was she wearing it?”
“Darling, I can’t remember. There was so much happening, I—”
“Someone must have taken it,” I say.
Faustina takes my arm and leads me away from Beatrice. Her movements are slow and weary. “There’s nothing we can do about any of this now, little one. Please try not to get so upset. It’s not going to bring her back to us.”
But my head is thumping, and I feel something new inside me getting swollen and sore like a boil. Who took my sister’s ring?
Faustina picks up the tray of peaches and she ushers me back up the stairs. “Come, child. Eat. For me.”
The peach tastes bitter. I spit it out into my hand.
“S tellina, stellina, bella stellina!”
Beatrice’s voice wafts into my bedroom. It brings our old song floating on the morning. I throw the covers off my bed and pad over to my door, along the corridor and up the stairs towards that hopeful and happy sound. For some reason she’s in the servants’ quarters, on the upper floors of the palazzo.
She’s come back to me. All is not lost!
The voice becomes clearer and clearer. My loneliness for her starts to peel away as my bare feet rush across the cold marble. The first of the upper chambers is locked. I slap my hand against the door with a growl, then run to the next room. The handle turns. I burst inside to find Faustina folding sheets. Her gentle old face is startled.
“Sweetheart!” she says. “What on earth are you doing?”
But I turn and rush from the room. I’ll find her. I know she’s here somewhere waiting for me. The song gets louder. I stumble as I race back to the landing and up the final setof stairs—the highest in the palazzo. At the top is a small chamber that used to be my mother’s sewing room.
This is where the sound is coming from. I open the door.
It’s Bianca.
As she sings, she stitches the seam of a red velvet dress, expensive and luscious, embroidered on its breast with a lattice of jewels. It’s so rich and deep in color and its beads and stones are so dazzling that the sight of it shatters my desperate fantasy. Beatrice isn’t singing; Beatrice is dead.
I slide to the floor, panting for breath.
Bianca jumps up. “Signorina! I didn’t realize …” She rummages among the baskets of fabric and thread and pulls out a handkerchief, its
I kiss her chilly forehead. There’s a stack of wood by the sooty grate, and I build a fire. I stand beside the coffin, gazing at her waxy face.
“Beatrice, remember when I got stuck at the top of the cypress tree in the courtyard? I jumped and you caughtme. You rolled us over and you tickled me and we laughed so hard that tears fell from our eyes.” I hold her limp hand in my own and laugh at the memory of it, amazed that my body is still able to produce such a sound.
And that is when I see something strange. My disconcertment condenses into fright, like warm breath meeting the cold of a windowpane. There is a pale mark on her finger, in the place where her ring of sisterhood should be.
A coldness rushes through me. I look at my own ring of twisted gold and Beatrice’s handwriting seems to appear in front of my eyes: I wear our ring of sisterhood. I’ll never take it off.…
Faustina pads across the hallway holding out a plate of peaches on a silver tray. She tells me I must eat and scolds me for being thin.
“Faustina. Where is Beatrice’s ring?”
She sets the tray down on a low table beside the door and moves closer to me. “What ring, love?”
“The ring she always wore. You know? Exactly the same as this one.” I hold my hand up in front of my face like a fan. “Did she have it on the day she died? Was she wearing it?”
“Darling, I can’t remember. There was so much happening, I—”
“Someone must have taken it,” I say.
Faustina takes my arm and leads me away from Beatrice. Her movements are slow and weary. “There’s nothing we can do about any of this now, little one. Please try not to get so upset. It’s not going to bring her back to us.”
But my head is thumping, and I feel something new inside me getting swollen and sore like a boil. Who took my sister’s ring?
Faustina picks up the tray of peaches and she ushers me back up the stairs. “Come, child. Eat. For me.”
The peach tastes bitter. I spit it out into my hand.
“S tellina, stellina, bella stellina!”
Beatrice’s voice wafts into my bedroom. It brings our old song floating on the morning. I throw the covers off my bed and pad over to my door, along the corridor and up the stairs towards that hopeful and happy sound. For some reason she’s in the servants’ quarters, on the upper floors of the palazzo.
She’s come back to me. All is not lost!
The voice becomes clearer and clearer. My loneliness for her starts to peel away as my bare feet rush across the cold marble. The first of the upper chambers is locked. I slap my hand against the door with a growl, then run to the next room. The handle turns. I burst inside to find Faustina folding sheets. Her gentle old face is startled.
“Sweetheart!” she says. “What on earth are you doing?”
But I turn and rush from the room. I’ll find her. I know she’s here somewhere waiting for me. The song gets louder. I stumble as I race back to the landing and up the final setof stairs—the highest in the palazzo. At the top is a small chamber that used to be my mother’s sewing room.
This is where the sound is coming from. I open the door.
It’s Bianca.
As she sings, she stitches the seam of a red velvet dress, expensive and luscious, embroidered on its breast with a lattice of jewels. It’s so rich and deep in color and its beads and stones are so dazzling that the sight of it shatters my desperate fantasy. Beatrice isn’t singing; Beatrice is dead.
I slide to the floor, panting for breath.
Bianca jumps up. “Signorina! I didn’t realize …” She rummages among the baskets of fabric and thread and pulls out a handkerchief, its
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