The Scarlet Contessa. Jeanne Kalogridis

a fistful of cold, wet soil and sprinkled it onto Matteo’s coffin. The other four mourners watched me, hesitant. I turned to them, gesturing at the mound of earth.

      “Please,” I said.

      The woman was first to add her handful of dirt; the men followed. Once I had handed a coin to the priest for his services, and a purse for the monastery from Bona to Brother Domenico, the gravediggers took to their work with haste. I turned to the others.

      “Ser Lorenzo,” I asked, “may I have a private word with you?”

      He nodded, and moved to my side; the others retreated a few steps, while Lorenzo led me over to a bare-limbed tree, swollen with pink-red bud in response to the unusually mild weather. I tried not to flinch each time a clod of earth struck Matteo’s coffin.