to his hands. His gaze found the pale stain darkening the floorboards. It was from his father’s blood.
Behind him, the bathroom door opened, and Elisabetta came out in a fresh dress, her expression stricken.
“I want to go home,” she said quietly.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SIX
Elisabetta
19 October 1943
Elisabetta climbed the stairs to her bedroom, numb with grief. Marco had walked her home, but they hadn’t said a single word. They existed in a hell that was shared, but also, somehow, private.
She reached her bedroom, unlocked the door, then closed it behind her. The bedroom was dark, except for a pale moonbeam filtering through the window, so faint as to appear ghostly.
Gnocchi and Rico began meowing, part greeting, part protest. Rico remained at the foot of the bed, his shadow as dark as the coal on the train. Gnocchi was visible, with her white fur glowing in the moonlight.
Elisabetta felt like crying, but no tears were left inside her. Only an emptiness, and a tearing in her chest that felt like she also had been shot through the heart. She had been shocked when Sandro had dived in front of the bullet, but she shouldn’t have been. That was who Sandro was, as a man. Marco, too. Each would have given his life for the other, and for her, and Sandro had.
She began unbuttoning her dress, walking over to her chair. She noticed that her notebook lay open on her desk, which was odd. She turned on the light and saw a note, which read:
Elisabetta,
We had one night, but I want a forever of nights. I love you forever.
Your Sandro
Her throat caught with emotion. Tears filled her eyes. She ran her fingers over the handwriting, feeling its indentures. She picked up the open notebook and held it against her chest. She knew that she would love Sandro forever. She wouldn’t stop just because he was gone.
She found herself walking to the back door and up the fire escape. She crossed the garden to her chaise longue and lay down, holding the notebook against her chest. She closed her watery eyes, and in the next moment, she heard a loud flapping and fluttering above her, in the sky.
She looked up to see hundreds of starlings flying in front of the moon, their silhouettes twisting, turning, and forming all manner of elegant shapes. She knew that the flock was a murmuration, a natural phenomenon not uncommon this time of year, but it was remarkable just the same. Appearing on this heartbreaking night, it felt like a sign from Sandro, as surely as the note she held against her chest.
She watched the starlings shift and form elongated parabolas and ellipses, the mathematical shapes that he had loved so well. She realized that Sandro was with her still, and would always be, even if he was above and she was below, him in the heavens and her on the ground, among her plants and flowers and animals.
Together they were the land and sky, the world entire.
And it was a world of love, and loss.
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN
Marco
19 October 1943
Marco, his mother, and Emedio stood in the aisle of the open-air building that held his father’s vault, at his funeral. Almost two hundred mourners filled the place, flowing outside into the sun, on both sides. Their body heat and the humidity of the afternoon intensified the cloying fragrance of the bouquets lining the wall. It made Marco almost woozy. He hadn’t slept at all last night, experiencing an emotional exhaustion that nevertheless rendered sleep impossible.
His father was to be buried in one of the gray marble vaults that lined the aisle on both sides, stacked five high. Each was a meter square and about three meters deep, containing a coffin. A bronze plaque was affixed to the front, engraved with the name of the deceased and dates of birth and death, which Marco couldn’t read. His father’s plaque wasn’t ready, so Nino had put up a piece of paper with his father’s name. Marco couldn’t help but feel that his father deserved so much more. The vaults reminded him of the file cabinets at Palazzo Venezia.
His mother stood beside him, having cried throughout the funeral Mass, leaning against Emedio. Marco had barely listened to the Mass, though he had knelt and responded when required, then borne his father’s pall and accepted condolences from the mourners. They had included the partisans, veterans of the Great War, his father’s old friends from cycling, their neighbors, bar regulars,