“Cracks and fissures appear in the hardest of stones.”
The door to the secret studio smashed open as if kicked, thrust open with such force, it hit the interior wall with the boom of God’s condemning thunder, the latch bent against the stone it chipped, the hinges screaming as they were pushed beyond their limits.
Fiammetta stood in the threshold, heaving like a rabid animal.
“Damn you, Viviana del Marrone.”
Viviana cringed. How happy she had been, but a moment ago, to be back in the studio, to be feeling well and returned to her work. She lowered her silverpoint from the barely marked canvas in a stupor.
“Why? Why do you damn me?”
Fiammetta crossed the room like a marauding army, heedless to a knocked over stool, the clatter and crack of overturned bottles upon a jostled table. She stood inches from her friend, dark eyes black in red-rimmed, swollen skin.
“My husband spent the night in the tower,” Fiammetta barked, ignoring the gasps throughout the room. “The same tower you once graced. And it is entirely your fault.”
The silverpoint dropped from Viviana’s hand. “My fault? Why was it my fault? I said nothing of—”
“It is not what you said,” Fiammetta spewed, “but what you did, what you made us all do.”
“What I—”
“Orfeo! We condemned Orfeo, now all his acquaintances are in question.”
Viviana took a step back, not out of fear but with thought. Orfeo had few men of close ties, few friends, and she had heard of none who had been arrested and questioned. Any time Patrizio spent time with Orfeo was due to the relationship of their wives. Patrizio had, however, spent more than a little time with…
“The Pazzis,” the tail end of her thoughts she said aloud. “Patrizio had a far closer relationship with the Pazzis then he ever did with Orfeo. Surely it is this which accounts for the government’s action, and nothing else.”
“Do not—” Fiammetta began, but it was Isabetta’s words putting a stop to them.
“Is he well?” she asked, the only one, including his wife, to speak of Patrizio’s welfare. “Is he still in custody?”
Fiammetta rubbed her eyes with fisted knuckles “He was soon released, but feels he is still watched closely.”
“Everyone is watched closely,” Mattea stated the obvious.
“Especially those with a long time connection to the Pazzi,” Viviana would not allow the blame to rest on her shoulders.
The other women rolled their eyes. It was not over.
Fiammetta jammed her chubby arms on her thick hips. “The Pazzi are one of the greatest families of Florence. Their knighthood dates back to the Crusades.”
“As do thousands of others.” Viviana shook her head with a smile that could be called many things, but never pleasant. “The Crusades, when men killed other men in the name of their God.”
“You cannot say the same for the obscure, upstart Medici.” Fiammetta’s thin upper lip curled unbecomingly.
“True,” Viviana sniffed righteously, “they worked for their power and their fortune.”
“By using unsavory—”
“They played the game, Fiammetta, they did not invent it.” Viviana tossed back her head in frustration. “They played the game as the Pazzis did, with the Pope and the taxes and their banks. You know it, and if you do not, do not suddenly be so eager to show your stupidity or your narrow-mindedness.”
Fiammetta’s mouth dropped open. Never had anyone dared argue with her with such impudence. It seemed to have stifled her. But no. “The Medici have strong armed this city for the last two hundred years. Marriages. Businesses. They control it all. Is it any wonder they made so many enemies?”
“Civilized people do not kill in response. Rise up, yes. Use the same system to try to gain control, yes. Cold-blooded, brutal murder under the eyes of God?” Viviana shook her head, her skin taking on a green pallor of one pestered with illness. “Only evil itself would perpetuate such a thing.”
“Come, Fiammetta, come sit. Have some wine.” Natasia led the still irate woman away to her worktable, sat her upon a stool, and fetched a full goblet. Viviana caught Isabetta’s eye, seeing the same question as the one bouncing about in her mind as they watched Natasia pacify and soothe.
Fiammetta drank, in silence. It seemed as if the group came to a rest.
“Did you attend d’Este’s fête, Fiammetta?” Mattea asked as if to change the subject, or was it to see if this woman who held others so accountable was as prodigious with her own responsibilities. “Were you able to find out anything about Lapaccia?”
“Yes, to both,” Fiammetta replied matter-of-factly. “The government no longer believes Lapaccia stole the painting but they do believe she may have taken something or she is somehow involved. They search for her still. As they see it, only the guilty run.”
“Surely Andreano’s—” Mattea swallowed and started again, “surely her son’s help protecting the Medici should prove something of their loyalties?”
Fiammetta nodded. “Yes, of course it does, but the widow of a knight, of a chivalric knight, does not just disappear without reason.”
It was the truth that had started them on this fraught-filled course.
“I fear I must tell you all something.” Natasia glanced at the entrance, the battered door still open a crack. “We must be quicker. We must look faster. I shouldn’t tell you; my brother should not have told me,” Natasia lowered her voice to a whisper should the priest be within hearing, “but Lapaccia spoke to him just before she disappeared. She spoke of her ill health, of it growing worse. She spoke of her final requests.”
They all knew of Lapaccia’s condition; the attacks of the lungs had plagued her all her life, what some called anemos or asma. More than one had mixed the concoction of herbs and heated them upon the hot bricks for her.
“What if she cannot get her herbal treatments where she is?” Mattea spoke aloud their shared fear.
Isabetta reached out and took Mattea’s hand. “We will find out as much as we can tonight,” she said, explaining to the other women about the salon and the man who may have information of worth to them.
“Natasia and I will go to her home once more,” Fiammetta volunteered for them both. “We will demand entry and do a search. Perhaps there is something in her home which will give us a clue to her whereabouts.”
The women began to talk at once, strength of purpose infusing them, and for a time they chatted and worked, and chatted of their work, and that of Botticelli and his giant mural, conversations layered upon others, overlapping, mingled with amusements, much in the way it had been before, yet tinged with something, something off-color, something it had never been.
As the bells of None rang out, they departed as they always had, though not a one felt the same as when they had arrived.