doubts or taint the family name with their eccentricity.
“Is there any way I can help? Anything I can say to him on your behalf? I think he might listen to me,” I offered, feebly.
“It is a frivolous thing he does, Signora Vespucci. Can you convince him of that?”
“No, I don’t think I can, because I don’t believe it. And neither do you.”
We walked in silence back to the Via della Vigna Nuova. Even though Mariano rambled negatively about Sandro most of the day, I felt we bonded somehow. Hopefully enough for him to heed my warnings, which, in my opinion, were important words of wisdom—the few I’d ever spoken.
When we were steps away from his front door, he squinted and said, “I feel as though we have met before today.”
“ Déjà vu. ”
“I am sorry. Is that Tuscan?”
“No, it’s French. It’s a term meaning that you feel an event has occurred before.”
“You know French?”
“Only that phrase.” I smiled. “Because I have the same feeling as you—that we have indeed met before.”
“You know full well it is not a feeling, but a truth, Signora Vespucci.” My heart began to pound, as he continued. “If you believe I do not know who you are, you would be mistaken.”
Before I could respond, Mariano entered his house and shut the door. I stood motionless for a moment, trying to process his words.
Mariano recognizes the truth. He knows who I am, and he does not seem happy about it.
Chapter 11
Antonella grabbed my arm and yanked me up the stairs as soon as I closed the front door behind me. She tiptoed while looking with paranoia in each direction, presumably for any household members that might spot us.
“You must be careful dressing that way in broad daylight,” Antonella spoke, when we reached the safety of my bedchamber. “If you were seen by any who know you, it would spoil our antics!” She chastised with a smile. I wasn’t sure what “antics” she was referring to, but Antonella felt strongly enough, she immediately went for the servant’s gown to pull it off me again. I hadn’t changed clothes so many times in one day since high school.
“For Madonna’s sake, what is all over your hands?” Antonella queried.
“I was tanning hides with Mariano.” I shrugged.
Antonella sighed heavily. “Will you never learn, Netta? Gardening, reading, tanning…these are not the activities of a noblewoman! Such actions were barely acceptable when we were in Genoa, but here in Florence, you must behave!”
Antonella had been with Simonetta in Genoa. No wonder their relationship was so comfortable.
“I’ll try my best,” I replied.
Antonella dressed me once again, this time returning me to the green velvet gown with the shift underneath. She scrubbed my hands until they felt as though they might bleed, then surrendered to the uselessness of her effort and donned my hands with white silk gloves.
“I should have many hours to prepare you for supper! Must you always give me such a challenge?”
“It keeps you on your toes.” I smirked.
“Why ever would I wish to be on my toes?” Antonella scoffed.
“Oh, never mind.”
At lightning speed, Antonella returned my hair to the painful, complicated, jeweled mass of braids, applied a second coat of the same cosmetics she had used in the morning, then doused me with perfume. She wrapped a pearl necklace with a large, gaudy brooch around my neck, directly over the thin black cord with the small Medaglia Miracolosa charm — the only piece of me in this Renaissance world.
“I do not know why you always insist on wearing that atrocious thing. It makes you look like a peasant!” Antonella gently pulled on my Miraculous Medal and tucked it under the gaudy brooch.
Always wear it? How’s that possible?
I decided to be bold. “It was given to me by a nun at the Ognissanti.”
“Yes, I know. I know. How many occasions have you spoken of it? The Abbess who told you of the Miraculous Medal, and how Mother Mary would
“Is there any way I can help? Anything I can say to him on your behalf? I think he might listen to me,” I offered, feebly.
“It is a frivolous thing he does, Signora Vespucci. Can you convince him of that?”
“No, I don’t think I can, because I don’t believe it. And neither do you.”
We walked in silence back to the Via della Vigna Nuova. Even though Mariano rambled negatively about Sandro most of the day, I felt we bonded somehow. Hopefully enough for him to heed my warnings, which, in my opinion, were important words of wisdom—the few I’d ever spoken.
When we were steps away from his front door, he squinted and said, “I feel as though we have met before today.”
“ Déjà vu. ”
“I am sorry. Is that Tuscan?”
“No, it’s French. It’s a term meaning that you feel an event has occurred before.”
“You know French?”
“Only that phrase.” I smiled. “Because I have the same feeling as you—that we have indeed met before.”
“You know full well it is not a feeling, but a truth, Signora Vespucci.” My heart began to pound, as he continued. “If you believe I do not know who you are, you would be mistaken.”
Before I could respond, Mariano entered his house and shut the door. I stood motionless for a moment, trying to process his words.
Mariano recognizes the truth. He knows who I am, and he does not seem happy about it.
Chapter 11
Antonella grabbed my arm and yanked me up the stairs as soon as I closed the front door behind me. She tiptoed while looking with paranoia in each direction, presumably for any household members that might spot us.
“You must be careful dressing that way in broad daylight,” Antonella spoke, when we reached the safety of my bedchamber. “If you were seen by any who know you, it would spoil our antics!” She chastised with a smile. I wasn’t sure what “antics” she was referring to, but Antonella felt strongly enough, she immediately went for the servant’s gown to pull it off me again. I hadn’t changed clothes so many times in one day since high school.
“For Madonna’s sake, what is all over your hands?” Antonella queried.
“I was tanning hides with Mariano.” I shrugged.
Antonella sighed heavily. “Will you never learn, Netta? Gardening, reading, tanning…these are not the activities of a noblewoman! Such actions were barely acceptable when we were in Genoa, but here in Florence, you must behave!”
Antonella had been with Simonetta in Genoa. No wonder their relationship was so comfortable.
“I’ll try my best,” I replied.
Antonella dressed me once again, this time returning me to the green velvet gown with the shift underneath. She scrubbed my hands until they felt as though they might bleed, then surrendered to the uselessness of her effort and donned my hands with white silk gloves.
“I should have many hours to prepare you for supper! Must you always give me such a challenge?”
“It keeps you on your toes.” I smirked.
“Why ever would I wish to be on my toes?” Antonella scoffed.
“Oh, never mind.”
At lightning speed, Antonella returned my hair to the painful, complicated, jeweled mass of braids, applied a second coat of the same cosmetics she had used in the morning, then doused me with perfume. She wrapped a pearl necklace with a large, gaudy brooch around my neck, directly over the thin black cord with the small Medaglia Miracolosa charm — the only piece of me in this Renaissance world.
“I do not know why you always insist on wearing that atrocious thing. It makes you look like a peasant!” Antonella gently pulled on my Miraculous Medal and tucked it under the gaudy brooch.
Always wear it? How’s that possible?
I decided to be bold. “It was given to me by a nun at the Ognissanti.”
“Yes, I know. I know. How many occasions have you spoken of it? The Abbess who told you of the Miraculous Medal, and how Mother Mary would
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