Ian Creasey by Silence in Florence

Author:Silence in Florence [Florence, Silence in]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2012-02-21T11:28:34+00:00

Her trance broken, Maria looked up at the French nobleman. Whatever he saw in her eyes made him hurry to the stairs, almost tripping over the broken end of his shoe.

Maria gazed at the angels’ apartment, wishing she knew what was happening to Cristina. She noticed white light shining through the crack at the bottom of the door, a light brighter than any oil lamp or log fire. The radiance of Heaven!

She pressed her ear to the door, but could hear nothing through the thick wood. The light dimmed.

The door opened, and Maria almost fell through it. One of the angels came out with Cristina, who looked pale and frightened. “We’ve done the best we can,” the resonant voice said. “But don’t let the sick crowd our door. We’ve already done more than we’re permitted, and we’re leaving tonight.” Before Maria could utter any thanks or praise, the veiled figure slipped back inside.

Maria hugged her daughter, and saw a small red mark on Cristina’s neck. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Can you speak?”

Cristina opened her mouth. After a few moments, a faint croak emerged from the back of her throat.

“It’s a miracle!” Maria dropped to her knees, and pushed Cristina down too.

“Oh Lord, we thank you for the gift of your angels.” Maria hoped that Cristina would join her prayer. Her first words should be ones of praise. But Cristina didn’t speak. Instead, she made a drinking sign.

Water. They hastened downstairs. After the girl had drunk two cups of water, Maria asked again. “Can you speak?”

Cristina opened her jaw wide. Maria saw the muscles in her neck tense as she strained to make a sound. A squeak burst forth, as harsh as the scrape of a rusted hinge.

It was enough. “Hush now,” Maria told her daughter for the first time. “You should rest. Perhaps some honeyed wine, if there’s any left from the banquet.” She realized there’d be no sudden gift of tongues. Cristina would have to learn to babble like a babe before she could talk in words. But even this painful squeak sounded as precious as if Cristina had called her “Mama.” Maria gave her daughter a drink of warm sweet wine, and put her to bed. Then she left the cramped servants’ quarters in the Palace basement. No matter what angels might visit, no matter what miracles might occur, she still had work to do.

Too many people had seen her slacking today.

She frowned. Cristina had finished the upstairs apartments. What else needed doing? Maria remembered her visit to Dottore Alessandro. She’d have to go back and retrieve Giovanni’s chamberpot. The doctor scrutinized so many samples that chamberpots kept accumulating in his room, and people shouted at her for losing them.

And she could tell the doctor about Cristina’s marvelous miracle.

She rushed to Alessandro’s room, where the eager words spilled out of her like water from the new fountains.

The doctor had been using a spyglass to examine a small brown turd. He gave her an exasperated look and said, “Angels? The artists paint angels all the time.

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