The Malice of Fortune Read Online Free PDF Page B

in the sun. Yet knowing your grandfather as well as I did, I observed a certain subtlety of his expression, from which I drew the faintest cause for hope.I had seen this same doubt twitch across his face when he raised the golden chalice full of Christ’s blood on Easter morning in San Pietro; as often as he had sold God’s forgiveness, His Holiness could not be certain he would ever receive it, at any price. He could taste the stink of Hell on his own tongue.
    And in the same fashion, he was not entirely certain of my guilt. If I could connect the condottieri to a faceless woman who was murdered while carrying Juan’s amulet in her charm bag, I might yet prove to him my innocence.
    “Very well, Your Holiness,” I whispered. “We have an understanding. I will establish myself in Imola and wait there for your instruction.”

    There is one final thing you should know about that night: Everything your grandfather told you was a lie, except for the Tenerife being our precious Ermes’s brother. I am all but certain that Ermes and the little dog His Holiness gave you came from the same litter, born two months before your father was murdered.

II
    Fortune is fickle by her very nature. As a dear friend once observed, that malignant bitch knows that she cannot drop us to our ruin unless she first lifts us up. So it was that I returned to my violated house in Trastevere that very night to prepare for my journey to Imola, only to find Camilla there, quite alive. She had already delivered the body of dear, brave Obadiah to our little community of Jews and paid for his services and burial; she had given Ermes his rest in the herb garden behind our house. I found her with a bucket of water and lye, preparing to clean a great patch of blood from the mattress upon which I had last seen her. Before we could even embrace and keen like Trojan women for our lost little boy, our sad eyes met and she told me, “It is not my blood, Madonna.” I did not inquire further. Like your mama, our beloved Camilla came from nothing, and that has made her a most resourceful woman.

    Before Camilla and I took our leave of Rome, I was able to sell most of my medallions and cameos, thus obtaining the means to purchase those necessities the Holy See would not provide, as well as redeeming some of my best dresses from the pawnbrokers. Within three days of my forced visit to the Vatican, Camilla and I stood in the little garden behind our run-down house, preparing to mount the mules that waited out front, laden with our traveling chests. In our five years in that little house, the two of us had labored so much to make this gardenas lovely as it was useful, planting our cabbages, garlic, lettuces, and all our herbs and flowers; grooming the fig, pear, and lemon trees; building paths and a pergola.
    A gentle rain provided almost a lens, through which our foliage glowed beryl and emerald. Yet this shower occasioned a foreboding—if we did not have reason enough to fear our journey—because even as we watched, snowflakes began to flutter down within it.
    “This will be the coldest winter,” Camilla said mournfully, having warm Neapolitan blood. “All the birds have gone already.”
    I knew how much she and our Giovanni loved to go out into the garden with Ermes, to watch the antics of the swifts and wrens, and sometimes chase them. I folded her in my arms. “I have a little hope,” I said. “The pope has left me that thread, and I will cling to it. I believe if I can discover the truth about Juan’s murder, I can bring our precious little boy home. That is my faith, my darling. We will come back here. All of us. The sun will shine again.”
    “I am remembering it,” Camilla said, looking around with wonder, as if seeing our garden for the first time. And then she smiled at me, with the remarkable innocence she has kept throughout the most dreadful times. “If you remember something well enough, you are sure to come back and see it again.”

    I