“Pietro!” Agnola runs to him. She takes his hands. “What’s the matter?”

What can he say to her? Pietro’s eyes meet Antonin’s. The man’s gaze moves pointedly to Pietro’s hands within Agnola’s. Antonin turns his head to the painting hanging on the wall. Pietro should pull away, but he’s glad Agnola’s holding on to him. He’s glad her attachment to him makes her oblivious to Antonin. He is so much in love with this woman. How is it that he’s gotten into the unbearable position of not being able to tell her all the things that have been going on? It’s a wicked twist of fate.

“I need to see the signora,” says Pietro.

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I…” He has to tell the truth as much as he can. “A friend has died.”

“I’m so sorry. Someone dear to you?”

“She’s become dear.” Pietro hadn’t realized that before, but it’s true. In his visits to the cabin in the woods, he has come to know Bianca…or Neve….She was not the vapid thing he’d thought her to be. Not at all. She was strong.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No.”

Agnola looks bewildered. “But you want to see Dolce?”

“I need her help.”

Agnola shakes her head. “Her help but not mine?”

“It’s a matter of money.”

“Money?”

“Please, Agnola. I need to talk with the signora.”

She bends forward and speaks softly. “Every day she’s worse.”

Good. The world will be better without her. “I won’t make her worse.” In fact, she’ll probably rally at the news. She’s finally succeeded.

Agnola nods to Antonin. “Please announce our visitor. Pietro and I will wait in the music room.”

“You don’t have to accompany me.” Pietro walks ahead. “I know the way. I’ll wait alone.” He goes quickly into the music room.

Agnola follows. “Don’t you want me with you?”

“No.”

“But why not? Pietro, you don’t have to be embarrassed about money around me. How much are you looking for?”

“More than you have.”

Agnola’s mouth opens in surprise. She sinks onto a chair, clearly overcome. Nevertheless, she didn’t sink onto the closest chair, the nicest one; she leaves that for Dolce. Pietro loves Agnola so much. He stands right in front of her. It would be easy to kiss her now. They just look at each other.

At last Agnola finds her voice: “What do you need it for?”

“Need?” It’s Dolce.

Though Pietro knows now that she is crazy, he still feels disgust at the sight of Dolce. After all, what’s the difference between illness and wickedness when it causes such evil?

She stands in the doorway with Antonin a moment, then lets go of his arm and takes her place in the best chair. “Who needs what? And, welcome, Pietro.”

Her face looks happy. But it’s coated with a thick layer of cosmetics. She’s in disguise…again. Covering decay. The illness consumes her, like fire.

Dolce and Agnola are both looking at him.

Pietro makes a slight bow to Agnola. He hopes she’ll take it as an apology. “If you’ll permit me, I need to speak with the signora alone.”

“I won’t permit you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“This doesn’t concern you.” Which is a lie. Pietro wishes he could take it back.

“Anything that concerns you concerns me.”

Pietro grits his teeth. “I’m begging you to leave us, Agnola.”

“Did you not hear me? I’m not going anywhere. I am your ally, Pietro. If anyone has sway with Dolce these days, it’s me.”

Dolce shakes her head. “Enough of this.”

Maybe Agnola is right to stay; maybe she can help. Pietro just has to be careful, very careful, how he words things. He bows again, in acquiescence. “If I may, Signora, I’ve come to ask a favor.”

Dolce looks at him, then turns one hand palm up and bends the fingers repeatedly, as though beckoning, to hurry him along. Her eyes radiate contentment. Pietro is not a violent man, yet in this moment he can understand crimes of passion.

“A friend of mine died last night.”

“For certain?”

Agnola gasps. “Dolce, what kind of a response is that!”

“Forgive me. Is there more to say?”

“She needs a casket,” says Pietro. “Immediately.”

“Oh, Pietro.” Agnola jumps to her feet. “I have enough money for that.”

“A special casket,” says Pietro. “An expensive one.”

Agnola frowns and sits again. “Is this a noblewoman?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if she’s married or widowed, she should be buried in her husband’s tomb, if he was a decent sort and provided for her. She was married, wasn’t she?”

“No.”

Agnola stiffens. “Then she should be in her family crypt. This is a family affair.”

“The situation is complex. The family is…scattered. I am begging you, both of you, to treat her as you would your own family.”

Dolce leans forward. “It is impossible to bury her in our family crypt.”

“I’m asking for a casket. That’s all.”

“And you want a fancy one,” muses Dolce, a gloved finger resting on her cheek. Her face grows solemn. “Yes, I will give you the money for that.”

Agnola reaches across and touches her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “You’re very kind, Dolce.”

Pietro’s hands ball into fists. He has to clasp them behind his waist and breathe slowly and deeply to overcome his anger. “We don’t want wood.”

Dolce tilts her head. “We?”

“Her friends.”

“Her friends? So you’ve come to me for what? A sarcophagus of alabaster? One white as snow?”

Pietro’s eyes dart toward Agnola, but she is looking only at Dolce.

“Something much more precious,” says Pietro. “Glass.”

Now Dolce and Agnola both stare at him.

“Murano’s best. White crystalline. Perfectly transparent. She loved it. She said she adored it.”

“And she did,” says Dolce.

Agnola tilts her head. “What do you mean by that?”

“Who doesn’t adore white crystalline?” Dolce taps her gloved fingers together. She seems pensive. “A glass-topped casket. Like Sant’Eliodoro. I used to look through the casket at him when I was a child.”

“Saints’ coffins are gruesome.” Agnola wrings her hands. “Why would anyone ask for such a thing? Did this woman die a martyr?”

“No.” Dolce hits her hand on the arm of the chair with a thud. “Let’s not talk about martyrdom. Death is dramatic enough.” She turns her head and gazes out the window on the canal. “A white crystalline coffin lid.” Her shoulders give a little shake.

“Not a lid. The entire casket. All six sides must be perfectly transparent.”

“Who ever heard of an all-glass casket?”

“I have, actually.” Agnola nods. “I just remembered. Simonetta of the Vespucci family. She was a noblewoman, from the kingdom of Genova. She married a noble from Firenze, and died young. Your age, Dolce. Twenty-two. She had consumption. They made a glass coffin and carried her through the streets of Firenze to the burial ground at the church. Thousands followed the procession. Everyone was in love with her.”

“Why glass?”

“To see her. She was famous. She was the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“It’s not true.”

“What’s not true, Dolce?”

“She was not the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Agnola’s mouth twists. “Maybe at her time she was.”

Dolce seems to relax back into her chair. “Maybe so.” She looks at Pietro. “Is this why her friends want the coffin to be glass? So that they can look upon her beauty still?”

“Not her beauty. Her presence.”

“Hmm. You realize, of course, that she’ll change rapidly. Skin white as snow will grow ashen. Lips red as blood will dry up. Hair black as ebony will fade.”

“White skin, red lips, black hair.” Agnola’s voice is thin. “You speak as though you know her.”

“I do. We all do.”

A little shriek of pain escapes Agnola.

Pietro feels suspended. What is Dolce doing?

“The perfect beauty is someone we all dream about.” Dolce stands. “I will not pay for a glass casket just so you can watch this girl’s beauty rot….”

“Who said she’s a girl?” asks Agnola.

“Girl, woman…you do her a disservice.” Dolce leaves.

Pietro’s eyes are on Agnola. Her face has transformed. He shivers.

Agnola stands. “Take the glass chest-bench. I’ll tell Antonin and Carlo to carry it down for you.” She follows Dolce.

“Wait, Agnola. Please.”

She turns around. “Oh, Pietro.” She just looks at him. “How could you?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Whatever you did, it has destroyed us.”