it up in a box and throw it into the oubliette in the northwest tower, where it will live in darkness, unknown. Another part, however, wonders if this is not something that must be seen by the world. As the naturalist who examined my daughter once said—Vita is an unknown treasure of our planet. Special. A creature from another time.
Ambrose held his secret as strongly as the oubliette holds prisoners. In all the years we were together, he said nothing. He waited until the very end of his life to tell me the truth of how Vita came to be.
Do I dare to write it down? I am superstitious. The British naturalist would laugh to hear me, but I fear bringing something terrible down upon us. I am uneducated in the ways of Mr. Pringle and fear the power of the pen to bring truths into being that might have remained unformed. And yet, if I do not write down what I have witnessed, the truth will disappear forever.
I remember it as though it were only last night when Ambrose asked for his confessor. The priest arrived from the village and went to Ambrose’s bedside, while I stood, listening from behind the door. He had been sick for some months, and I believed he would recover if he could survive until spring. But the sickness took hold of his lungs, gripping with such ferocity that Ambrose spoke with a faltering voice, spending each word as if it were a golden coin. The weight and value of his words were not lost upon me.
“Heavenly Father, hear me . . . I must confess . . . something I have kept from everyone . . . the truth . . . Vita is my fault.”
I heard him say it: Vita is my fault. His fault. A rush of relief swelled through me. I began to weep. This confession relieved me of a terrible burden. Always, they had blamed me. Surely I, the mother, was at fault for bringing such a creature into the world. But Ambrose’s confession confirmed what I had long suspected: I had not caused Vita’s troubles. He was responsible for Vita. The Montebianco family was responsible.
The priest was our confidant, having relieved Vita of spiritual burdens, and he knew enough to remain silent as Ambrose spoke. Ambrose asked the Lord’s forgiveness. He said he should never have married me, that he had known even before we met that he was from a cursed lineage. His parents—who had arranged our marriage—had been foolish. He had been selfish. He had loved me and hoped that we would be spared. Now that Vita existed, he prayed she would bring no further suffering to others.
I listened to this strange talk, trying to understand it. But as soon as the priest left, I went to my husband’s side and demanded he tell me everything. What did Ambrose know about Vita’s origins? What had he hidden from me? What is our child? How did she come into being?
My dear Ambrose, who was once so beautiful and strong, looked at me weakly. How time makes us wretched! How it deforms and destroys us! I put a wet towel against his neck and gave him spoonfuls of water from a cup. I had always thought death was like falling asleep, but his was a form of wrestling, as if the material and ethereal worlds were pulling him this way and that, both wanting him, both unwilling to let go.
“Why would you have me tell you?” he asked. “When it will only terrify you, my love?”
“I am an old woman now. You will soon be gone. What is left but honesty?”
It was then that Ambrose told me the horrible truth.
“I saw the creature with my father,” he began, gripping my hand. “We were hunting wild boar in the caves above Nevenero. Do you remember, Eleanor, when I took you there?”
I nodded. One summer afternoon, when we walked together in the mountains, he stopped at an arcade of caverns, bent his knee, and gave me the bouquet of wildflowers he had collected. We were married already, our union having been arranged years before by our families, but it was only then I knew he loved me.
“I was fifteen years old when my father took me hunting,” Ambrose continued. “I was inexperienced and worried that a boar would maul me. I carried my flintlock ready, clutching at its wooden handle so hard it was slippery with sweat. Wild boar shelter