The Savage Garden

remarkable discovery.

    Adam and Harry assisted a flagging Signora Docci back to the amphitheater, each of them gripping a bony elbow, Antonella bringing up the rear. They speculated about the identity of Flora's lover, concluding that it must surely have been one of the many artists and writers who attended Federico's cultural gatherings at Villa Docci. A younger man, no doubt, more Flora's age than her husband's. Or why not a woman? This was wishful thinking on Harry's part, though not entirely misguided. Tullia d'Aragona, the Roman poetess and courtesan, had disappeared abruptly from the Florentine scene in 1548—the year of Flora's death. Maybe there was a connection, after all. Adam kept these musings to himself.

    Arriving at the amphitheater, Signora Docci asked to rest awhile on the stone bench. She also asked to be left alone.

    From a distance they saw her gazing up at Flora, dabbing at her eyes with the back of her hand every so often.

    It was ten minutes or so before she called for Adam to join her.

    'Are you okay?' he asked, setting himself down beside her.

    'You don't know what you've done.'

    'What have I done?'

    'Something extraordinary. Crispin will be proud of you. I'm proud of you.' She patted him on the knee. 'At my age you don't expect to learn anything new.'

    Harry seized the opportunity of a lift with Antonella to make another foray into Florence, despite Adam's warning that he was taking his life in his hands by climbing into a car with her. As they pulled away, he made a sign of the cross, blessing the vehicle.

    Returning inside, Signora Docci was nowhere to be found. He called her name. 'In here,' came the dim and distant reply.

    She was in the study, standing to the left of the fireplace, examining the small portrait of her ancestor, Federico Docci.

    'Please, call me Francesca.'

    'Francesca,' he said, trying it on for size.

    'I insist.'

    'It doesn't sound right.'

    'It never did. I was never a Francesca. I always thought of myself as a Teresa.'

    'A little too saintly, maybe.'

    For a moment he thought he had gone too far, but her face creased into a smile. 'Oh dear, you really do know far too much about me, don't you?'

    She turned back to the portrait.

    'I'm thinking about burning it.'

    'But you won't.'

    She shook her head. 'It explains a lot in his expression, don't you think?'

    'I think we see what we want to see.'

    'Goodness me,' she said, 'already talking like a wise old professor.'

    Adam looked suitably chastened.

    'I would like to go to the chapel,' she announced. 'Do you mind helping me?'

    There were gardeners at work on the terraces, trimming hedges, raking gravel and sprucing up the borders for the party. Signora Docci greeted them but didn't stop to talk.

    'Are you religious?' she asked as they approached the chapel.

    'No.'

    'Not even as a child?'

    'I enjoyed the stories.'

    He was dreading a metaphysical debate. It didn't happen.

    'Yes, they're good stories,' she replied simply.

    She crossed herself on entering the building and made her way to the altar, the tap of her cane echoing around the interior. She must have sensed his hesitation, because without turning she said, 'I doubt he'll strike you down in his own house.'

    He joined her at the altar, where she removed a candle from her pocket—a votive candle in a red glass jar. He offered her his lighter to save her fiddling with the box of matches.

    'Thank you.'

    She lit the candle and placed it in front of the triptych.

    'Maybe now she can rest in peace.'

    Her words caught him off-guard. Had she felt the same unnerving presence?