attempts to help her—experimental therapies and so on—she never did become presentable. This portrait is a work of fiction. The family hired an artist to create a flattering version. The eyes, the enormous Montebianco blues, those are Vita’s. The rest is propaganda.”
“But why?” I asked.
“The truth has never been an easy burden for the Montebiancos,” Dolores said. “With power comes pride. Better to hide a problematic child away than to let the world know how very damaged she—and thus the family—was.”
Suddenly, I remembered the woman in the tower. The flicker of the candlelight over her pale face. The way she had watched me. It had not been Bernadette in the tower.
“Ambrose, Vita’s father, had wanted to kill Vita, but her mother stopped him. I suspect she thought Vita would not survive long, and would take her tainted blood with her to the grave. But instead, Vita remained strong and vital. And, of course, her parents grew old and died, leaving Vita to the family like a cursed heirloom, one passed from generation to generation.”
“Vita is alive,” I said.
“She will be one hundred and two years old in March.”
“And she is the person in the northeast tower.”
“She has resided there all her life.”
“But I don’t understand,” I said, trying to work out the consequences of this information. “Why didn’t Vita inherit the title of countess?”
“Mon Dieu,” Dolores said. “Vita would never have been capable of running this place. She was deemed incapable of managing her own affairs and disinherited. The family records are in the library. I would suggest you acquaint yourself with them.”
I glanced up at the portrait of my ancestor, the oils gleaming in the flickering candlelight. “Can I meet her?” I asked.
She twisted a large ruby on her finger. “In time, yes. But not now. I’m in no condition for Vita today. She is not easy to stomach, even at her age.”
“What is wrong with her?” I asked, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my chest as I realized that Vita’s medical problems might explain my own troubles.
Dolores gave me a long, steely look.
“The Montebianco family is one that survives by traditions, Alberta. Traditions that have been passed down for many hundreds of years. These traditions might seem outdated to someone like you, coming from a place like America, where people do just as they please. But for us, they are essential. The suits my husband wore were sewn by the same haberdashery in London as his great-great-grandfather used. His shoes? We have a cobbler in Milan who knows the family feet intimately—the width, the length, the peculiarities of shape. I don’t imagine you have these kinds of traditions over there in America, but for us, certain practices are not questioned.”
She coughed again and, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket, wiped her lips.
“For the past hundred years, the most important tradition of your family has been to keep Vita. Keep her from harming herself, of course, but mostly to keep her from outsiders. That has not been an easy task. She is often her own worst enemy. And over the years, there have been instances of trouble. Stories. Rumors. When fear and superstition get hold of simple people, they turn violent. Have you heard the accounts of what happened to noble families during the revolution in France? Such violence has happened often throughout history. Frightened peasants surround a family, burn them out of their home, parade them through the streets, and execute them. They pillage and destroy everything of value. It is savagery. They would have killed us all if they’d got ahold of Vittoria.”
Dolores turned her wheelchair to face me, her green eyes suddenly ablaze.
“But now you are here, and there is a higher responsibility to uphold than protecting Vita.” Dolores gestured to my ancestors gazing down from their gilded frames. “The Montebianco family relies upon you, Alberta. It is their legacy, our legacy, that must be kept. And I will help you do it.”
Thirteen
The air felt heavy as I pushed Dolores back to her rooms on the west side of the castle, as if weighed down by all that she had left unsaid. I wanted to ask her to explain what she had meant about protecting our legacy, but the poor woman was exhausted. Even before I handed the wheelchair off to Greta, she had fallen asleep. The morning had been overwhelming for me as well, and I felt the beginnings of a headache. I asked Greta the way to the courtyard and, armed with