peculiarities was a necessary part of another story buried away in the composition, according to Federico Docci's instructions.
The harder he strained to see it, though, the more it receded from him. In his frustration, he found himself talking to the sculptures, exhorting them to share their secret. He was still doing this when a shift in the shadows at his feet announced the appearance of someone in the entrance behind him.
Maria had been out gathering wildflowers. An unruly bunch of them lay in the shallow wicker basket hanging at her elbow. Her eyes ranged over the interior, establishing that—yes—Adam was alone. And—yes—he was obviously losing his marbles.
'Another beautiful day,' said Adam.
'Yes.'
'Not as humid as yesterday.' 'No.' Maria raised the basket. 'I have to put these in water.'
Adam winced as she left, a flush of embarrassment warming his cheeks, sweat pearling his forehead. He tried and failed to see the humor of the situation. Maria obviously experienced less difficulty, because a moment later he heard the dim but unmistakable sound of laughter.
He waited awhile before creeping from the grotto, eyes screwed up against the glare. He lit a cigarette. It was his first of the day and he was hit by a wave of light-headedness.
He glared at Flora—twisted on her plinth, perched high above her kingdom—and he found himself thinking that she was to blame. The goddess had issued an edict of silence to her subjects; she had commanded them to shun his advances. Why, though? Why allow him to glimpse a part of the story, then shut him out?
Only one answer presented itself to him.
Okay, he thought, let's do it your way.
He was nearing the villa, still working out how best to broach the sensitive subject with Signora Docci, when he saw her on the lower terrace, standing at the balustrade, looking out over the plunging olive grove. He wondered if Maria had told her about his solitary rant in the grotto.
Her face as he approached suggested she knew nothing of the incident. 'Good morning,' she said.
'Good morning.'
'Another beautiful day. Not as humid as yesterday.'
His exact words to Maria in the grotto.
Adam gave a weak smile.
'Are you feeling better?' she inquired.
'I was feeling fine then, and I am now.'
'I have a cousin—Alessandra—they took her away for the same thing.'
She was clearly going to have her moment of amusement at his expense, whether he liked it or not.
'Talking to sculptures?'
'Paintings.'
'Waste of time,' said Adam. 'They've very little to say for themselves.'
She laughed. 'Where's Harry?'
'He went into Florence.'
'He's a strange young man.'
'He had a difficult birth.'
'Really?'
'No. But he's always been like that, as long as I can remember. He doesn't care what people think of him. He just, well... is Harry.'
'Is he a good sculptor?'
'I don't know. I suppose. They asked him to stay on and teach when he graduated last year.'
'He must have something, then.'
'Yes, a strange desire to spend the rest of his life welding rusty pieces of metal together.'
It was a cheap swipe, revenge for Harry's assault on him the night before, but Signora Docci was amused.
'You remind me of Crispin when he was younger. He also made me laugh.'
It was the opportunity he'd been waiting for.
'I wanted to ask you about him.'
'About Crispin?'
'It's a personal question.'
'Oh.'
'Very personal.'
