Painting Mona Lisa. Jeanne Kalogridis

I lived in the mountains. I had a brother. Closer to me than a brother; he was my twin.’ She smiled with affection at the memory. ‘Headstrong and full of mischief he was, always making our mother wring her hands. And I was always helping him.’ The faint, wry smile faded at once. ‘One day he climbed a very tall tree. He wanted to reach the sky, he said. I followed him up as far as I could, but he climbed so high that I grew frightened, and stopped. He crawled out onto a limb …’ There was the slightest catch in her voice; she paused, then resumed calmly. ‘Too far. And he fell.’

      I straightened in my chair, aghast. ‘Did he die?’

      ‘We thought he would; he had cracked his head and it bled terribly, all over my apron. When he was better and could walk, we went outside to play. But before we went too far, he fell, and began to shake, just as your mother does. Afterwards, he could not speak for a while, and slept. Then he was better again until the next time.’

      ‘Just like Mother.’ I paused. ‘Did the fits … did they ever … did he …?’

      ‘Did the fits kill him? No. I don’t know what became of him after we were separated.’ Zalumma eyed me, trying to judge whether I had grasped the point of her tale. ‘My brother never had fits before he hurt his head. His fits came after his injury. His fits came because of his injury.’

      ‘So … Mother has struck her head?’

      Zalumma averted her gaze a bit – perhaps she was only telling a story, calculated to soothe me – but she nodded. ‘I believe so. Now … Do you think God pushed a little boy from a tree to punish him for his sins? Or do you think he was so craven that the Devil possessed him, and caused him to leap?’

      ‘No, of course not.’

      ‘There are people who would disagree with you. But I knew my brother’s heart, and I know your mother’s; and I know that God would never be so cruel, nor allow the Devil to rest in such sweet souls.’

      The instant Zalumma said it, my doubts about the matter vanished. Despite what Evangelia or the priest said, my mother was not a host to demons. She attended Mass daily at our private chapel; she prayed constantly and had a shrine to the Virgin of the Flower – the lily, symbol of resurrection and of Florence – in her room. She was generous to the poor and never spoke ill of anyone. To my mind, she was as holy as any saint. The revelation gave me great relief.

      But one thing still troubled me.

       There is murder here, and thoughts of murder. Plots within plots once more.

      I could not forget what the astrologer had told me two years earlier: that I was surrounded by deceit, doomed to finish a bloody deed others had begun.

       It all repeats.

      ‘The strange things Mother cries out,’ I said. ‘Did your brother do that, too?’

      Zalumma’s fine porcelain features reflected hesitation; at last she yielded to the truth. ‘No. She spoke of those things before the fits came, since she was a girl. She … she sees and knows things that are hidden from the rest of us. Many of the things she has said have come to pass. I think God has touched her, given her a gift.’

      Murder, and thoughts of murder. This time, I did not want to believe what Zalumma said, and so I decided that, in this case, she was being superstitious. ‘Thank you,’ I told her. ‘I will remember what you have said.’

      She smiled and leaned down to put an arm around my shoulder. ‘No more vigil; it’s my turn now. Go and get something to eat.’

      I looked past her at my mother, uncertain. I still felt responsible for what had happened that morning.

      ‘Go,’ Zalumma said, in a tone that allowed no argument. ‘I’ll sit with her now.’

      So I rose and left them – but I did not go in search of the cook. Instead, I went downstairs with the intent of going to pray. I wandered outside into the rear courtyard and garden. Just beyond them, in a small separate structure, lay our chapel. The night was bitter cold, the sky clouded and moonless, but I carried a lamp so that I would not stumble over my skirts or a stepping-stone.

      I opened the chapel’s heavy wooden door and slipped inside. The interior was dark and gloomy, lit only by the votives flickering in front of the small paintings of our family’s patron saints: the woolly John the Baptist in honour of Florence; the Virgin of the Lily, my mother’s favourite; Santa Maria del Fiore, for whom the Duomo was named; and my father’s namesake, St. Anthony, who bore the Christ-child in his arms.

      Most private Florentine families’ chapels were decorated with large murals, often portraying members as saints or Madonnas. Ours lacked such embellishment, save for the paintings of the three saints. Our grandest adornment was suspended over the altar: a large wooden statue of the crucified Christ, his expression as haunted and mournful as that of the aged, repentant Magdalen in the Duomo’s Baptistery.

      As I entered, I heard a soft, low moaning. And as I lifted the lamp towards the noise, I saw a dark figure kneeling at the altar railing. My father was praying earnestly, his forehead pressed hard against the knuckles of his tightly folded hands.

      I knelt beside him. He turned towards me; the lamplight glittered off the unshed tears in his amber eyes, eyes full of misery and remorse.

      ‘Daughter, forgive me,’ he said.

      ‘No,’ I countered. ‘It is you who must forgive me. I hit you – a horrible thing for a child to do to her father.’

      ‘And I struck you, without cause. You were only thinking to protect your mother. And that was my intent, yet I find myself doing the opposite. I am older, and should be wiser.’ He looked up at the image of the suffering Christ and groaned. ‘After all these years, I should have learned to control myself …’

      I wished to coax him from his self-reproach, so I rested a hand on his arm and said lightly, ‘So. I inherited my ill temper from you, then.’

      He sighed and ran the pad of his thumb tenderly over the contours of my cheek. ‘Poor child. This is no fault of yours.’

      Still kneeling, we embraced. At that instant, the forgotten medallion chose to slip from my belt. It struck the inlaid marble flooring, rolled in a perfect circle, then fell flat on its side.

      Its appearance embarrassed me. Curious, my father reached for the coin, lifted it, and examined it. He narrowed his eyes and drew back his head slightly, as if threatened by a slap. After a long pause, he spoke.

      ‘You see,’ he said, his voice low and soft. ‘This is what comes of anger. Dreadful acts of violence.’

      ‘Yes,’ I echoed, eager to end the conversation, to return to the warmer feeling of conciliation. ‘Mother told me about the killing in the Duomo. It was a terrible thing.’

      ‘It was. There is no excuse for murder, regardless of the provocation. Such violence is heinous, an abomination before God.’ The piece of gold, still held aloft, caught the feeble light and glinted. ‘Did she tell you the other side of it?’

      I tried and failed to understand; I thought at first he referred to the coin. ‘The other side?’

      ‘Lorenzo. His love for his murdered brother drove him to madness in the days after.’ He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘Eighty men in five days. A few of them were guilty, most simply unfortunate enough to have the wrong relatives. They were tortured mercilessly, drawn and quartered, their hacked, bloodied bodies heaved out the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria. And what they did to poor Messer Iacopo’s corpse …’ He shuddered, too horrified by the thought to pursue it further. ‘All in vain, for even a river of blood could not revive Giuliano.’ He opened his eyes and stared hard at me. ‘There is a vengeful streak in you, child. Mark my words: no good can come of revenge. Pray God delivers you of it.’ He pressed the cold coin into my palm. ‘Remember what I have said each time you look on this.’

      I lowered my gaze and accepted the chastisement meekly, even as my