is always the chance that Zimmer will retrieve you soon, but I wouldn’t count on it. The Montebianco family needs you far too much. They have kept me in their service for over two decades, and I can tell you: once they get their hands on you, they don’t let go.”
Twelve
Basil’s warning accompanied me on my hike to the portrait gallery, his words making me doubt Zimmer for the first time. Until then, I had trusted what the estate had told me, not only about Zimmer’s return, but about everything from the DNA test to the state of the Montebianco finances to Dolores’s illness. The thought crossed my mind that I should have been a bit more wary before climbing into a helicopter and flying to God knows where without an escape route. And yet, I told myself, nothing had happened to make me doubt Zimmer’s honesty. Basil was most likely exaggerating, and Zimmer would be back in six days.
All thought of Zimmer disappeared as I passed through the enormous double doors of the Montebianco portrait gallery. Basil had been right: it was an incredible collection. From the ceiling lush with trompe l’oeil clouds to the panels of oil paintings on the walls, it seemed to glisten and refract with light. I walked through the long, narrow room, the gleaming parquet floor reflecting the gilded frames of oil paintings, dozens upon dozens of family portraits, all hanging side by side.
I found Dolores asleep in her wheelchair at the center of the hall, her wool blanket slipping down to her ankles. I pulled it up around her waist and tucked it in, taking a good look at my great-aunt. Time and illness had ravaged Dolores, leaving her thin and frail. Her weakness was even more exaggerated when compared to the vibrant portraits. These men—because only men stared down from the frames—were exemplars of fortitude, perfect specimens of strength. The wealth and breeding of each Montebianco count—the hunting trophies, the battle scars, the beautiful wives, the palaces—had given him the bold confidence of an emperor. In fact, one of my ancestors—Heinrich XII, Count of Montebianco—had been painted standing on a chariot before a Roman aqueduct, as if he had conquered the world.
And yet, despite their grandeur, something had gone terribly wrong. All their wealth and power had been unable to sustain their dynasty. Whatever had caused their diminishment—whether it was bad luck or, as Nonna had said, some taint in their blood—time had brought them the same fate as the rest of humanity: obsolescence, death, and obscurity. I wondered what they would have thought, to see the world now, centuries after their deaths. How they would have balked at the idea that a young woman from another part of the world, without the culture or noble bearing of the Montebianco family, was all that remained. Their power and fecundity had dwindled, and now there was nothing left but me.
Dolores awoke suddenly, blinking as she tried to recognize me. “Push,” she said at last, pointing a bony finger forward, her voice hoarse, little more than a croak.
I wheeled Dolores past the glossy, dark-hued oil portraits, the sleeves of the mink coat draping over the metal handles. The silence of the gallery was pristine, so clear that the squeaking rubber of the wheels on the floor carried through the space, resounding like a chime in a church. Small brass plates were affixed to each frame, presenting the name of each Montebianco. I strained to read them as we passed, feeling an eerie sense of recognition. Large blue eyes, flat noses, heavy brows that made them look grumpy even when they smiled—there was such continuity in their traits that they seemed like one man, dressed in different uniforms perhaps, sitting before different scenes, but all variations of an ancient original. I had never known any of them, and probably wouldn’t have liked them much if I had. And yet I carried them inside me. I found, in the shape of a chin or the mold of a cheek, a reflection of myself. Their genetic predispositions were my genetic predispositions. This, I realized, was the definition of family in the twenty-first century.
“There,” Dolores said, as we rolled by a portrait. “Your grandfather Giovanni next to his brother, my Guillaume.”
The picture showed Giovanni as a young man. He was pale and stocky, with blue eyes and white-blond hair. A defiant smile gave me a shock of recognition. I remembered his face as an old man, how he