Juliet

VIII.I

WHEN ALESSANDRO FINALLY FINISHED his story, we were lying side by side on the wild thyme, holding hands.

“I still remember that day,” he added, “when we heard about the car accident. I was only thirteen, but I understood how terrible it was. And I thought of the little girl-you-who was supposed to be Giulietta. Of course, I always knew I was Romeo, but I had never thought much about Giulietta before. Now I started thinking about her, and I realized that it was a very strange thing to be Romeo, when there is no Giulietta in the world. Strange and lonely.”

“Oh, come now!” I rolled up on one elbow, poking at his gravity with a nodding violet. “I’m sure there has been no scarcity of women willing to keep you company.”

He grinned and brushed the violet away. “I thought you were dead! What could I do?”

I sighed and shook my head. “So much for the engraving on Romeo’s ring, Faithful through the centuries.”

“Hey!” Alessandro rolled us both over and looked down at me with a frown. “Romeo gave the ring to Giulietta, remember-?”

“Wise of him.”

“All right-” He looked into my eyes, not happy about the path of our conversation. “So tell me, Giulietta from America… have you been faithful through the centuries?”

He was half joking, but it was no joke to me. Instead of answering, I met his stare with resolution and asked him straight out, “Why did you break into my hotel room?”

Although he was already braced for the worst, I could not have shocked him more. Groaning, he rolled over and clutched his face, not even trying to pretend there had been a mistake. “Porca vacca!”

“I’m assuming,” I said, staying where I was, squinting at the sky, “you have a really good explanation. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

He groaned again. “I do. But I can’t tell you.”

“I’m sorry?” I sat up abruptly. “You trashed my room, but you won’t tell me why?”

“What? No!” Alessandro sat up, too. “I didn’t do that! It was already like that-I thought you had messed it up yourself!” Seeing my expression, he threw up his arms. “Look, it’s true. That night, after we argued and you left the restaurant, I went over to your hotel to-I don’t know. But when I arrived, I saw you climb down from your balcony and sneak off-”

“No way!” I exclaimed. “Why on earth would I do that?”

“Okay, so, it wasn’t you,” said Alessandro, very uncomfortable with the subject, “but it was a woman. Who looked like you. And she was the one who trashed your room. When I went in, your balcony door was already open, and the whole place was a mess. I hope you believe me.”

I clutched my head. “How do you expect me to believe you when you won’t even tell me why you did it?”

“I’m sorry.” He reached out to pull a twig of thyme from my hair. “I wish I could. But it is not my story to tell. Hopefully, you will hear it soon.”

“From whom? Or is that a secret, too?”

“I’m afraid so.” He dared to smile. “But I hope you believe me when I say that I had good intentions.”

I shook my head, upset with myself for being so easy. “I must be insane.”

His smile broadened. “Is that English for yes?”

I got up, brushing off my skirt with brisk strokes, still a little angry. “I don’t know why I let you get away with this-”

“Come here-” He took my hand and pulled me back down. “You know me. You know I could never hurt you.”

“Wrong,” I said, turning my head away. “You are Romeo. You are the one who can really, really hurt me.”

But when he pulled me into his arms, I did not resist. It was as if a barrier inside me was collapsing-it had been collapsing all afternoon-leaving me soft and pliable, barely able to think beyond the moment.

“Do you really believe in curses?” I whispered, nested in his embrace.

“I believe in blessings,” he replied, against my temple, “I believe that for every curse, there is a blessing.”

“Do you know where the cencio is?”

I felt his arms tighten. “I wish I did. I want it back just as much as you do.”

I looked up at him, trying to figure out if he was lying. “Why?”

“Because”-he met my suspicious stare with convincing calm-“wherever it is, it is meaningless without you.”

WHEN WE FINALLY strolled back to the car, our shadows were stretched out before us on the path, and there was a touch of evening in the air. Just as I began wondering if perhaps we were running late for Eva Maria’s party, Alessandro’s phone rang, and he let me put the glasses and the empty bottle back in the trunk, while he wandered away from the car, trying to explain our mysterious delay to his godmother.

Looking around for a safe place to put the glasses, I noticed a wooden wine case in the far corner of the trunk with the label Castello Salimbeni printed on the side. When I lifted the lid to peek inside, I saw that there were no wine bottles in the box, just wood shavings, and I suspected this was how Alessandro had transported the glasses and the Prosecco. Just to make sure that I could safely stick the glasses back in the box, I dug my hand into the wood shavings and rummaged around a bit. As I did so, I felt something hard against my fingertips, and when I pulled it out, I saw that it was an old box, about the size of a cigar case.

As I stood there, holding the box, I was suddenly back in the Bottini with Janice the day before, watching Alessandro take a similar box out of a safe in the tufa wall. Unable to resist the temptation, I pulled the lid off the box with the trembling urgency of the trespasser; it never even occurred to me that I already knew its contents. Only when I ran my fingers over it-the golden signet ring cushioned in blue velvet-did the truth come crashing down from above, pulverizing all my romantic musings for a second or two.

Because of the shock of discovering that we were, in fact, driving around with an object that had-directly or indirectly-killed a heck of a lot of people, I had barely managed to stuff everything back in the wine case before Alessandro stood next to me, the phone closed in his hand.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, his eyes narrow.

“My skin lotion,” I said lightly, unzipping my weekend bag. “The sun here is… murderous.”

As we drove on, I had a hard time calming myself. Not only had he broken into my room and lied to me about his name, but even now, after everything that had happened between us-the kisses, the confessions, the disclosure of family secrets-he was still not telling me the truth. Sure, he had told me some of the truth, and I had chosen to believe him, but I was not fooled into thinking that he had told me everything there was to know. He had even admitted as much by refusing to explain why he had entered my hotel room. Yes, he might have put a few token cards on the table for me to see, but he was clearly still holding the major part of his hand close to his chest.

And so, I suppose, was I.

“Are you okay?” he asked after a while. “You are very quiet.”

“I’m fine!” I wiped a drop of sweat from my nose and noticed that my hand was shaking. “Just hot.”

He gave my knee a squeeze. “You will feel much better once we get there. Eva Maria has a swimming pool.”

“Of course she does.” I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. My hand felt strangely numb, right where the old ring had touched my skin, and I discreetly wiped my fingers on my clothes. It was definitely not my style to give in to superstitious fears, and yet here they were, bouncing around in my belly like popcorn in a pot. Closing my eyes, I told myself that this was not the time for a panic attack, and that the tightness in my chest was nothing more than my brain trying to throw a monkey wrench into my happiness, the way it always did. But this time, I wouldn’t let it.

“I think what you need…” Alessandro slowed down to turn into a gravel driveway. “Cazzo!”

A monumental iron gate barred the way. Judging from his reaction, this was not how Eva Maria usually greeted her godson, and it took a diplomatic exchange with an intercom before the magic cave opened and we could start up a long driveway flanked by spiral cypresses. As soon as we were safely inside the property, the tall doors of the gate swung back to close effortlessly behind us, the click of the lock barely audible through the softly crunching gravel and birdsong of late afternoon.

EVA MARIA SALIMBENI lived in something very near a dream. Her majestic farmhouse-or rather, castello-was perched on a hill not far from the village of Castiglione, and fields and vineyards fell around the property to all sides, like the skirt of a maid sitting in a meadow. It was the sort of place one would come across in an unwieldy coffee-table book, but never actually manage to pin down in reality, and, as we approached the house, I silently congratulated myself on my decision to ignore all warnings and come.

Ever since Janice had told me that cousin Peppo suspected Eva Maria of being a mobster queen, I had been swinging back and forth between lip-biting worry and head-shaking disbelief, but now that I was finally here, in broad daylight, the whole idea seemed ridiculous. Surely, if Eva Maria was really pulling the strings of something shady, she would never host a party at her house and invite a stranger like me.

Even the threat of the evil signet ring seemed to fade as Castello Salimbeni rose ahead, and by the time we pulled up beside the central fountain, whatever worries might still be kicking around the pit of my stomach were soon drowned out by the turquoise water that fell in cascades from three cornucopias held high by nude nymphs astride marble griffins.

A catering van was parked in front of a side entrance, and two men in leather aprons were unloading boxes while Eva Maria stood by, hands clasped, overseeing the procedure. As soon as she caught sight of our car, she rushed towards us, waving excitedly, gesturing for us to park and make it snappy. “Benvenuti!” she chirped, coming towards us with open arms. “I am so happy you are both here!”

As always, Eva Maria’s exuberance left me too stumped to react in a normal way; all that went through my head was, If I can wear those pants when I’m her age, I’ll be beyond happy.

She kissed me vigorously, as if she had feared for my safety until this very moment, then turned towards Alessandro-her smile turning coy as they exchanged kisses-and wrapped her fingers around his biceps. “You have been a bad boy, I think! I was expecting you hours ago!”

“I thought,” he said, displaying no guilt whatsoever, “I would show Giulietta Rocca di Tentennano.”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Eva Maria, all but slapping him. “Not that terrible place! Poor Giulietta!” She turned towards me with an expression of the utmost sympathy. “I am sorry you had to see that ugly building. What did you think of it?”

“Actually,” I said, glancing at Alessandro, “I thought it was quite… idyllic.”

For some inexplicable reason, my answer pleased Eva Maria so much that she kissed me on the forehead before marching into the house ahead of us both. “This way!” She flagged us through a back door, into the kitchen, and around a gigantic table piled with food. “I hope you don’t mind, my dear, that we are going this way… Marcello! Dio Santo!” She threw up her hands at one of the caterers and said something that made him pick up the box he had just put down and place it very gently somewhere else. “I have to keep an eye on these people, they are hopeless!… Bless their hearts! And-oh! Sandro!”

“Pronto!”

“What are you doing?” Eva Maria shooed him impatiently. “Go get the bags! Giulietta will want her things!”

“But-” Alessandro was not too happy to leave me alone with his godmother, and his helpless expression almost made me laugh.

“We can take care of ourselves!” Eva Maria went on. “We want to talk girl talk! Go! Get the bags!”

Despite the chaos and Eva Maria’s energetic gait, I was able to appreciate the dramatic proportions of the kitchen on my way through. I had never seen pots and pans that big before, nor had I ever seen a fireplace with the square footage of my college dorm room; it was the kind of rustic country cuisine most people claim they dream about, but-when the rubber hit the road-would have no clue how to use.

From the kitchen we came out into a grand hall that was clearly the official entrance to Castello Salimbeni. It was a square, ostentatious space with a fifty-foot ceiling and a first-floor loggia going all the way around, not unlike, in fact, the Library of Congress in Washington where Aunt Rose had once taken me and Janice-for educational purposes and to avoid cooking-while Umberto was away on his annual vacation.

“This is where we will have our party tonight!” said Eva Maria, pausing briefly to make sure I was impressed.

“It is… breathtaking,” was all I could think of saying, my words disappearing under the high ceiling.

The guest rooms were upstairs, off the loggia, and my hostess had very kindly put me in a room with a balcony overlooking a swimming pool, an orchard, and, beyond the orchard wall, Val d’Orcia bathed in gold. It looked like happy hour in Paradise.

“No apple trees?” I joked, leaning out from the balcony and admiring the old vines growing on the wall. “Or snakes?”

“In all my years,” said Eva Maria, taking me seriously, “I have never seen a snake here. And I walk in the orchard every night. But if I saw one, I would crush it with a rock, like this.” She showed me.

“Yup, he’s toast,” I said.

“But if you’re afraid, Sandro is right in there-” She nodded at the French door next to mine. “Your rooms share this balcony.” She elbowed me conspiratorially. “I thought I would make it easy for you two.”

Somewhat stunned, I followed her back into my room. It was dominated by a colossal four-poster bed made up with white linen, and when she noticed my awe, Eva Maria wiggled her eyebrows exactly the way Janice would have done. “Nice bed, no?… Homeric!”

“You know,” I said, my cheeks heating up, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me and… your godson.”

She looked at me with something that looked an awful lot like disappointment. “No?”

“No. I’m not that kind of person.” Seeing that I had failed to impress her with my chastity, I added, “I’ve only known him for a week. Or so.”

Now at last, Eva Maria smiled and patted me on the cheek.

“You’re a good girl. I like that. Come, now I will demonstrate to you the bathroom-”

When Eva Maria finally left me alone-after pointing out that there was a bikini my size in the bedside drawer and a kimono in the wardrobe-I collapsed, spread-eagled, on the bed. There was something wonderfully relaxing about her lavish hospitality; if I wanted to, I could undoubtedly stay on for the rest of my life, living the picture-perfect seasons of a Tuscany wall calendar, dressed to fit right in. But at the same time, the whole scenario was mildly troubling. It seemed to me there was something terribly important I had to grasp about Eva Maria-not the Mafia thing, but something else-and it didn’t help that the clues I needed were somehow bobbing around aloft, like newborn balloons trapped by a ceiling high, high over my head. Nor did it help my focus, I had to admit, that I had consumed half a bottle of Prosecco on an empty stomach, and that I, too, was bobbing around in seventh heaven from my afternoon with Alessandro.

Just as I was drifting off, I heard a loud splash of water from somewhere outside and, seconds later, a voice calling me. After peeling my limbs off the bed one by one, I staggered out onto the balcony to find Alessandro waving at me from the swimming pool below, looking exceptionally frisky.

“What are you doing up there?” he yelled. “The water is perfect!”

“Why,” I yelled back, “does it always have to be water with you?”

He looked perplexed, but it only added to his charms. “What’s wrong with water?”

ALESSANDRO BURST INTO laughter when I joined him by the swimming pool, wrapped in Eva Maria’s kimono. “I thought you were hot,” he said, sitting on the edge with his feet in the water, enjoying the last bright rays of sun.

“I was,” I said, standing around awkwardly, playing with the kimono belt, “but I’m feeling better. And, to be honest, I’m not a great swimmer.”

“You don’t have to swim,” he pointed out. “The pool is not very deep. And besides”-he gave me the eye-“I am here to protect you.”

I looked around at everything but him. He was wearing one of those skimpy European bathing suits, but that was the only skimpy thing about him. Sitting there in the light of late afternoon, he looked as if he was made of bronze; his body was practically glowing, and had clearly been sculpted by someone intimately familiar with the ideal proportions of the human physique.

“Come on!” he said, sliding back into the water as if it was his true element. “I promise, you’ll love it.”

“I’m not kidding,” I said, staying where I was, “I’m not good with water.”

Not quite believing me, Alessandro swam over to where I was standing, resting his arms on the edge of the pool. “What does that mean? Do you dissolve?”

“I tend to drown,” I replied, perhaps more sharply than necessary, “and panic. In reverse order.” Seeing his disbelief, I sighed and added, “When I was ten, my sister pushed me off a dock to impress her friends. I hit my head on a mooring line and nearly drowned. Even now, I can’t be in deep water without panicking. So, there you have it. Giulietta is a wimp.”

“This sister of yours-” Alessandro shook his head.

“Actually,” I said, “she’s okay. I tried to push her off the dock first.”

He laughed. “So, you got what you deserved. Come on. You’re too far away.” He patted the gray slate. “Sit here.”

Now at last, I reluctantly shed the kimono to reveal Eva Maria’s minuscule bikini, and walked over to sit down next to him, my feet in the water. “Ow, the stone is hot!”

“Then come down here!” he urged me. “Put your arms around my neck. I’ll hold you.”

I shook my head. “No. Sorry.”

“Yes, come on. We can’t live like this, you up there, me down here.” He reached out and grabbed me by the waist. “How am I going to teach our children to swim, when they see that you are afraid of the water?”

“Oh, you are priceless!” I sneered, putting my hands on his shoulders. “If I drown, I’m gonna sue you!”

“Yes, sue me,” he said, lifting me off the edge and into the water. “Whatever you do, don’t take responsibility for anything.”

It was probably fortunate that I was too irritated by his remark to pay much attention to the water. Before I knew it, I was in up to my chest, my legs wrapped around his naked waist. And I felt fine.

“See?” He smiled triumphantly. “Not as bad as you think.”

I glanced down at the water and saw my own distorted reflection. “Don’t even think about letting go of me!”

He took a firm grip of Eva Maria’s bikini bottoms. “I’m never letting go of you. You are stuck with me, in this pool, forever.”

As my nerves about the water slowly subsided, I began to appreciate the feeling of his body against mine, and, judging by the look in his eyes among other things, the sentiment was mutual. “‘Though his face,’” I said, “‘be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s, and for a hand and a foot and a body, though they are not to be talked on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb.’”

Alessandro was clearly trying hard to ignore the engineering feat of my bikini top. “See, that is where Shakespeare is right about Romeo-for a change.”

“Let me guess… you’re not the flower of courtesy?”

He pulled me even closer. “But gentle as a lamb.”

I put a hand on his chest. “More like a wolf in lamb’s clothing.”

“Wolves,” he replied, lowering my body until our faces were only inches apart, “are very gentle animals.”

When he kissed me, I didn’t care who might be watching. It was what I had been longing for ever since Rocca di Tentennano, and I kissed him back without reserve. Only when I felt him testing the flexibility of Eva Maria’s bikini did I gasp and say, “What happened to Columbus and exploring the coastline?”

“Columbus,” Alessandro replied, pushing me up against the side of the pool and closing my mouth with another kiss, “never met you.” He would have said more than that, and I would most likely have responded favorably, had we not been interrupted by a voice calling from a balcony.

“Sandro!” yelled Eva Maria, waving to get his attention, “I need you inside, now!”

Although she disappeared again right away, Eva Maria’s sudden manifestation made us both jump with surprise, and, without thinking, I let go of Alessandro and nearly went under. Fortunately, he did not let go of me.

“Thanks!” I gasped, clinging to him. “It seems you don’t have evil hands after all.”

“See, I told you?” He brushed aside a few wisps of hair that were stuck to my face like wet spaghetti. “For every curse there is a blessing.”

I looked into his eyes and was startled by his sudden seriousness. “Well, in my opinion”-I put a hand on his cheek-“curses only work if you believe in them.”

WHEN I FINALLY RETURNED to my guest room, I sat down in the middle of the floor, laughing. It was such a Janice thing to do-making out in a swimming pool-and I couldn’t wait to tell her about it. Although… it would not please her one bit to hear that I was exercising so little restraint when it came to Alessandro, and that I paid no attention to her warnings whatsoever. In a way it was very sweet to see her so jealous of him-if that was what was going on. She had never explicitly said so, but I could tell that she had been seriously disappointed that I didn’t want to drive to Montepulciano with her, and go hunting for Mom’s house together.

Only now, with a twinge of guilt stirring me from my giddy reverie, did I notice a smoky smell-of incense?-that might or might not have been in my room before. Stepping out on the balcony in my wet kimono for a mouthful of fresh air, I saw the sun disappearing behind distant mountains in a feast of gold and blood, and everywhere around me, the sky was turning into deeper shades of blue. With the daylight gone, there was a touch of dew in the air that brought with it a promise of all the smells, all the passions, and all the ghostly chills, of night.

Going back into my room and turning on a lamp, I saw that a dress had been laid out on the bed for me with a handwritten note saying, “Wear this for the party.” I picked it up in disbelief; not only was Eva Maria once again dictating my apparel, but this time she had set me up to look ridiculous. It was a floor-length contraption in dark red velvet with a severe, angular neckline and flared sleeves; Janice would have called it the latest scream for the undead and tossed it aside with a scornful laughter. I was tempted to do the same.

But when I took out my own dress and compared the two, it occurred to me that, maybe, flitting downstairs in my itsy black novelty on this particular evening would turn out to be the biggest faux pas of my career. For all Eva Maria’s plunging necklines and risqué comments it was entirely possible that the crowd she was hosting tonight was a bunch of prudes who would judge me by my spaghetti straps and find me wanting.

Once dressed-obediently-in Eva Maria’s medieval outfit, and with my hair piled on top of my head in an attempt at a festive do, I stood for a moment at my door, listening to the sounds of guests arriving below. There was laughter and music, and in between the popping corks I could hear my hostess greeting not only darling friends and family, but darling clergy and nobility as well. Not sure I had enough backbone to dive into the fun on my own, I tiptoed down the corridor to knock discreetly on Alessandro’s door. But he wasn’t there. And just as I reached out to try the door handle, someone put a claw on my shoulder.

“Giulietta!” Eva Maria had a way of sneaking up on me that was deeply unsettling. “Are you ready to come downstairs?”

I gasped and spun around, embarrassed to have been caught where I was, almost trespassing into her godson’s room. “I was looking for Alessandro!” I blurted out, shocked to see her standing right behind me, somehow taller than I remembered, wearing a golden tiara and-even for her-unusually dramatic makeup.

“He had to run an errand,” she said, dismissively. “He will be back. Come-”

Walking back down the loggia with her, it was hard not to stare at Eva Maria’s dress. If I had toyed with the idea that my own attire made me look like the heroine of a stage play, I now realized that, at best, I had a supporting role. Dressed in a vision of golden taffeta, Eva Maria shone more brightly than any sun, and as we sashayed down the broad staircase together-her hand clasped tightly above my elbow-the guests gathered below were helpless to ignore her.

At least a hundred people were standing around in the great hall, and they looked up in silent wonder as their hostess descended in all her splendor, graciously escorting me into their circle with the gestures of a flower fairy spreading rose petals before woodland royalty. Eva Maria had clearly planned this drama well in advance, for the whole place was lit exclusively by tall candles in chandeliers and candelabra, and the flickering flames made her dress come alive as if it, too, was on fire. For a while, all I could hear was music; not the classical favorites you would expect, but live music with medieval instruments coming from a small group of musicians at the far end of the hall.

Looking out over the silent crowd, I was relieved at having chosen the red velvet dress over my own. To suggest that Eva Maria’s guests this evening were a bunch of prudes would have been a phenomenal understatement; it would be more accurate to say they looked as if they belonged in another world. At first glance, there was not a person in the room under seventy; at second glance, it was more like eighty. Someone charitable might have said that they were all dear old souls who only went to parties every twenty years or so, and that none of them had opened a fashion magazine since World War II… but I had lived too long with Janice for that kind of generosity. Had my sister been there with me and seen what I saw, she would have made a scary face and licked her fangs suggestively. The only upside was that if indeed they were all vampires, they looked so fragile that I could probably outrun them.

As we reached the bottom of the stairs, a whole swarm of them approached me, all talking to me in rapid Italian and poking me with bloodless fingers to make sure I was for real. Their amazement in seeing me suggested that-in their minds-it was I, and not they, who had risen from the grave for the occasion.

Seeing my confusion and discomfort, Eva Maria soon began shooing them off, and we were eventually left with the two women who actually had something to say to me.

“This is Monna Teresa,” explained Eva Maria, “and Monna Chiara. Monna Teresa is a descendant of Giannozza Tolomei-just like you-and Monna Chiara is descended from Monna Mina of the Salimbeni. They are very excited that you are here, because for many years they thought you were dead. They are both knowledgeable about the past, and know much about the woman whose name you have inherited, Giulietta Tolomei.”

I looked at the two old women. It seemed perfectly reasonable that they should know everything about my ancestors and the events of 1340, for they looked as if they had taken a horse-drawn carriage right out of the Middle Ages to attend Eva Maria’s party. They both appeared to be held upright exclusively by corsets and the lace ruffs around their necks; one of them, though, kept smiling coyly behind a black fan, while the other looked at me with a bit more reserve, her hair done up in a way I had only ever seen in old paintings, with a peacock feather sticking out. Next to their antiquated forms Eva Maria seemed positively juvenile, and I was happy that she stayed right beside me, on tiptoes with excitement, to translate everything they said to me.

“Monna Teresa,” she began, referring to the woman with the fan, “wants to know if you have a twin sister, Giannozza? For hundreds of years it has been tradition in the family to call twin girls Giulietta and Giannozza.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said. “I wish she was here tonight. She”-I looked around at the candlelit hall and all the bizarre people, swallowing a smile-“would have loved it.”

The old woman erupted in a wrinkly smile when she heard that there were two of us, and she made me promise that, next time I came to visit, I would bring along my sister.

“But if those names are a family tradition,” I said, “then there must be hundreds-thousands-of Giulietta Tolomeis out there apart from me!”

“No-no-no!” exclaimed Eva Maria. “Remember that we are talking about a tradition in the female line, and that women take their husbands’ names when they marry. To Monna Teresa’s knowledge, in all these years, no one else was ever baptized Giulietta and Giannozza Tolomei. But your mother was stubborn-” Eva Maria shook her head with reluctant admiration. “She wanted desperately to get that name, so she married Professor Tolomei. And what do you know, she had twin girls!” She looked at Monna Teresa for confirmation. “As far as we know, you are the only Giulietta Tolomei in the world. That makes you very special.”

They all looked at me expectantly, and I did my best to appear grateful and interested. Obviously, I was delighted to learn more about my family, and to meet distant relatives, but the timing could have been better. There are evenings when one is perfectly content talking to elderly ladies with lace ruffs, and evenings when one would rather be doing something else. On this particular occasion, in all honesty, I was longing to be alone with Alessandro-where on earth was he?-and although I had happily spent many wee hours absorbed in the tragic events of 1340, family lore was not what I felt most like exploring on this particular night.

But now it was Monna Chiara’s turn to grab my arm and talk to me intently about the past. Her voice was as crisp and frail as tissue paper, and I leaned as close as I could to hear her and avoid the peacock feather.

“Monna Chiara invites you to come and visit her,” translated Eva Maria, “so you can see her archive of family documents. Her ancestor, Monna Mina, was the first woman who tried to unravel the story of Giulietta, Romeo, and Friar Lorenzo. She was the one who found most of the old papers; she found the trial proceedings against Friar Lorenzo-with his confession-in a hidden archive in the old torture chamber in Palazzo Salimbeni, and she also found Giulietta’s letters to Giannozza tucked away in many places. Some were under a floor in Palazzo Tolomei, others were hidden in Palazzo Salimbeni, and she even found one-the very last-at Rocca di Tentennano.”

“I would love to see those letters,” I said, meaning it. “I’ve seen some fragments, but-”

“When Monna Mina found them,” Eva Maria interrupted me, urged on by Monna Chiara, whose eyes were aglow in the candlelight, yet strangely distant, “she traveled a long way to visit Giulietta’s sister, Giannozza, and to give her the letters at last. This was around the year 1372, and Giannozza was now a grandmother-a happy grandmother-living with her second husband, Mariotto. But you can imagine what a shock it was for Giannozza to read what her sister had written to her so many years earlier, before she took her own life. Together those two women-Mina and Giannozza-talked about everything that had happened, and they swore that they would do everything in their power to keep the story alive for future generations.”

Pausing, Eva Maria smiled and put a gentle arm around the two old women, squeezing them in appreciation, and they both giggled girlishly at her gesture.

“So,” she said, looking at me meaningfully, “this is why we are gathered here tonight: to remember what happened, and make sure it never happens again. Monna Mina was the first one to do this, more than six hundred years ago. Every year on the anniversary of her wedding night, for as long as she lived, she would go down into the basement of Palazzo Salimbeni-into that dreadful room-and light candles for Friar Lorenzo. And when her daughters were old enough, she would bring them, too, so they could learn to respect the past and carry on the tradition after her. For many generations, this custom was kept alive by the women of both families. But now, to most people, all those events are very distant. And I’ll tell you”-she winked at me, revealing a sliver of her usual self-“big modern banks don’t like nightly processions with candles and old women in blue nightgowns walking around in their vaults. Just ask Sandro. So, nowadays we have our meetings here, at Castello Salimbeni, and we light our candles upstairs, not in the basement. We are civilized, you see, and not so young anymore. Therefore, carissima, we are happy to have you here with us tonight, on Mina’s wedding night, and to welcome you to our circle.”

I FIRST REALIZED something was wrong at the buffet table. Just as I was trying to pry a drumstick off a roasted duck that was sitting very elegantly in the middle of a silver platter, a wave of warm oblivion rolled onto the shore of my consciousness, gently rocking me. It was nothing dramatic, but the serving spoon fell right out of my hand, as if the muscles suddenly all went limp.

After a few deep breaths, I was able to look up and focus on my surroundings. Eva Maria’s spectacular buffet had been set up on the terrace off the great hall, underneath the rising moon, and out here, tall torches defied the darkness with concentric semicircles of fire. Behind me, the house shone brilliantly with dozens of lit windows and external spotlights; it was a beacon that stubbornly held the night at bay, one last, refined bastion of Salimbeni pride, and if I was not mistaken, the laws of the world stopped at the gate.

Picking up the serving spoon once more, I tried to shake my sudden wooziness. I had only had one glass of wine-poured for me personally by Eva Maria, who wanted to know what I thought of her new-growth sangiovese-but I had tossed half of it into a potted plant because I did not want to insult her wine-making skills by not finishing my glass. That said, considering everything that had happened that day, it would be odd if I did not, at this point, feel mildly unhinged.

Only then did I see Alessandro. He had emerged from the dark garden to stand between the torches, looking straight at me, and although I was relieved and excited to have him back at last, I instantly knew something was wrong. It was not that he seemed angry; rather, his expression was one of concern, perhaps even condolence, as if he had come to knock on my door and inform me that there had been a terrible accident.

Filled with foreboding, I put down my plate and walked towards him. “‘In a minute,’” I said, attempting a smile, “‘there are many days. O by this count I shall be much in years ere I again behold my Romeo.’” I stopped right in front of him, trying to read his thoughts. But by now, his face was-as it had been the very first time I met him-completely void of emotion.

“Shakespeare, Shakespeare,” he said, not appreciating my poetry, “why does he always come between us?”

I dared to reach out to him. “But he is our friend.”

“Is he?” Alessandro took my hand and kissed it, then turned it over and kissed my wrist, his eyes never letting go of mine. “Is he really? Then tell me, what would our friend have us do now?” When he read the answer in my eyes, he nodded slowly. “And after that?”

It took me a moment to grasp what he meant. After love came separation, and after separation death… according to my friend, Mr. Shakespeare. But before I could remind Alessandro that we were in the process of writing our own happy end-were we not?-Eva Maria came flapping towards us like a magnificent golden swan, her dress ablaze in the torchlight.

“Sandro! Giulietta! Grazie a Dio!” She waved for us both to follow her. “Come! Come quickly!”

There was nothing else to do but obey, and we walked back to the house in Eva Maria’s shimmering wake, neither of us bothering to ask her what could possibly be so urgent. Or perhaps Alessandro already knew where we were headed and why; judging by his glower we were once again at the mercy of the Bard, or fickle fortune, or whichever other power commandeered our destinies tonight.

Back in the great hall, Eva Maria led us straight through the crowd, out a side door, down a corridor, and into a smaller, formal dining room that was remarkarbly dark and quiet considering the party going on right around the corner. Only now, crossing the threshold, did she briefly pause and make a face at us-her eyes wide with agitation-to make sure we stayed right behind her and remained quiet.

At first glance, the room had seemed empty, but Eva Maria’s theatrics made me look again. And now I saw them. Two candelabra with burning candles stood at either end of the long table, and in each of the twelve tall dining room chairs sat a man wearing the monochrome garb of the clergy. Off to a side, veiled in shadows, stood a younger man in a cowl, discreetly swinging a bowl of incense.

My pulse quickened when I saw these men, and I was suddenly reminded of Janice’s warning from the day before. Eva Maria, she had said-bursting with sensational headlines after talking to cousin Peppo-was a mobster queen rumored to dabble in the occult, and out here, at her remote castle, a secret society supposedly met to perform gory blood rituals to conjure the spirits of the dead.

Even in my woozy state, I would have stepped right back out the door, had not Alessandro put a possessive arm around my waist.

“These men,” whispered Eva Maria, her voice trembling slightly, “are members of the Lorenzo Brotherhood. They have come all the way from Viterbo to meet you.”

“Me?” I looked at the stern dozen. “But why?”

“Shh!” She escorted me up to the head of the table with great circumstance, in order to introduce me to the elderly monk slumped in the thronelike chair at the table end. “He does not speak English, so I will translate.” She curtsied before the monk, whose eyes were fixed on me, or, more accurately, on the crucifix hanging around my neck. “Giulietta, this is a very special moment. I would like you to meet Friar Lorenzo.”