The Ride Home.

On their way home, mist obscured the moon, but Serafina saw thousands of stars, maybe millions. Brilliant tonight, the world. Letting her body follow the sway and swing of the trap, she peered into the ether, high up into that mighty interstellar darkness, not opaque but not quite transparent; where space went beyond itself to somewhere lighter, bluer, farther up than she or it or any star had ever traveled; where past and future were finished, and truth existed, pure, whole, untouched. What would Rosa say if she could hear these thoughts? Serafina saw the face her friend would make. She smiled, and giving herself over to the ride, bumped on, bending with the curve in the road.

She felt an excitement somewhere, a tingling in her toes, in the vigorous beating of her heart. Life had changed. She was brand new. Or perhaps it was her quest to find the killer of Rosa's women, a calling she was always meant to follow. No matter the reason, she began viewing her surroundings for the first time. "Look at the glittering heavens, Beppe. The big star, see it?"

His brows furrowed. His cheeks moved in and out as he poked a dirty finger at the sky. "That one?"

"La Puddara, a good friend. It never moves. Walk toward the star, you'll pass through the rough neighborhoods and come upon the sea. Walk away from it, you'll come back to the Centru. Keep going, you bump into the Madonie or a wheat field, one of those, it depends. Shepherds and fishermen know how to work La Puddara better than I. Talk to them, they'll teach you all the ins and outs. Or maybe Giulia has a book about the polar star. Ask her." As she spoke, the wind took her breath, the night air stung her nose. She thought of her children's laughter, the way her sweet Giorgio used to warm their bed.

"Tomorrow night, too?"

"Yes, and the night after that, and after that, in a string of nights as far and wide as the mind can imagine. The power of La Puddara is forever. When it chooses to appear, that is. Learn how to use this star and it'll keep you on the right path. Admit it, you're lost half the time in this part of town."

He lifted one corner of his mouth.

Beppe, what would she do without him? Two years ago, she received a letter from the head of the orphanage. 'Finished with schooling, Beppe, too old to stay here,' the nun had written, 'but no one wants him.' So he came to live with the Florio family. They fed and clothed him, gave him a room of his own and a stipend. In exchange, he ran errands for the house, accompanied Serafina to and from her midwife's work. To most, he seemed a simpleton, but she knew better. Oh, his brain was a little sluggish, but his fists were not, a fact which endeared him to her children. That, and his size-he towered over most men, including her own boys, and, more to the point, over the town's troublemakers, of which there seemed to be more and more. The lot of them, cowards all, looked away when Beppe passed. "An estimated 25,000 deserters," her son, Carlo, told her. Many of them gathered in the piazza each day, and by night, lurked in the shadows of unlit streets.

Beppe quickened Largo's pace. Serafina shivered despite wearing her thick winter cape. They passed the market stalls shuddering in the wind, the stables, the blacksmith, the houses of the artisans, dark and small, standing like battered sentinels on the edge of town. Serafina heard bawdy laughter coming from somewhere, the angry voices of a man and woman arguing, the howling of a mad dog. She turned her head around and saw Arcangelo on his mule riding a few paces behind. A black cat skirted in front of Largo's hooves and shone her yellow eyes at Serafina, the feline's belly close to the ground, a rodent's tail and claws wriggling between clamped teeth. Serafina smelled wet laundry, cheap wine, human waste.

Closer to town, they passed the former abbey flying the tricolor. Ever since the government muscled it away from the monks, soldiers marched back and forth in front, lean and tall, handsome in their uniforms, tight in all the right places, and she'd looked. Her cheeks warmed at the thought. She could live with that change and, she admitted, was grateful for the show of strength, glad when the Bourbon rulers slinked off her land. Good riddance: ugly, self-righteous pigs, every last one.

Except for the queen. Stately, beautiful, stubborn, Maria Sofie held out in Gaeta surrounded by all of Savoy's troops, soldiers and cannon stacked against her as high as the peaks of Monte Pellegrino. Yet she refused to surrender, stood her ground while the king, her husband, cowered in the closet. Defeated, the queen, still my queen, she'd said one day to Giorgio who replied, "While she ruled, Maria Sophie cared not a jot for Sicilians." But Serafina had no plans to remove her picture from its place of honor in the parlor.

Beppe snapped the reins. Again and again he touched his back, twirled his head left and right, looked up at the heavens searching for the star. His Phrygian cap crimped the tops of his ears. He turned onto a side street, their usual shortcut.

Not far from home, then, but Serafina couldn't see a light anywhere, except for their lantern, and a small beacon behind them, Arcangelo's torch. It was dark ahead, and Beppe paid too much attention to that star. And she, wishing she hadn't mentioned La Puddara, not at all, thought that Largo was going too fast, probably sensing the end of the journey, when one of their wheels rolled over a large stone.

The trap canted to one side, as if suspended, creaking on two wheels for ever so long, it seemed. Beppe slid into her. Serafina hung onto the iron railing, biting her lip and trying with all her might to push Beppe back, but it was seconds before the trap righted itself.

The Stranger.

Largo halted. Serafina heard a mandolin, the melody faint. In the dark, something moved. The shimmering of an ancient shade?

A form appeared in the glow of the trap's lantern, a shadow running toward them, growing more distinct. Weathered hat. Matted hair. Beard. Long legs. Tattered shirt and pantaloons. Bare feet. Knife in belt. Lips formed words, indistinct. An accent? Funny, he held the pistol with both hands. Unsteady. Too much wine, perhaps. He fired, hitting the lamp. Blackness.

Serafina heard another shot, more shouting, metal clattering on stone.

Afterward, she recalled the set of the stranger's mouth, a taut red band, remembered flaming shards exploding around them like fireworks at the end of a festa.

"Stop or I shoot!" Arcangelo yelled, framed in the light from his torch. He dismounted. His revolver pointed at the attacker who sunk to his knees and begged for his life.

Beppe jumped down to join Arcangelo. As they stared at the man, probably a deserter living rough, he wrested the gun from Arcangelo's hands, swiped it across Beppe's jaw, and ran.

"Quick," she heard Beppe shout, "let's get him!"

"Let him go!" Serafina said. She handed Beppe a cloth to dab the blood from his lip.

"But my revolver," Arcangelo said.

"Do as I say. You were both going to run after him and leave me alone in the dark with no gun, a scared mule, and God knows how many of the bandit's comrades lurking in the shadows."

Arcangelo and Beppe looked at the ground.

"And as for revolvers, you can choose one of ours. We have too many as it is. But bravo to both of you for your bravery. A sure shot, Arcangelo. That unfortunate would have taken our coins had you not been here to help."

A Quick, Sure Stab.

"Why do you weep?" asked the monk, gesturing freely. "Look around. The air, sweet for November. This spot is a pleasant respite from the strife of daily toil. Birds sing in their ancient abode. Flowers bloom. Dry your eyes and take joy in the simple beauty of nature." He stretched his arm to indicate the public gardens surrounding them.

Through a stuffy nose, she said, "Better leave. I've no money for the likes of you."

"I'm not begging for coins, my child." The monk made the sign of the cross over the young woman. "May your heart flood with the peace of the brazen serpent." He sat back and began reading his holy book.

They were silent.

Then she asked, "What kind of a monk are you?"

He smiled. "From the north. We practice an ancient rite, one that bequeaths peace beyond understanding."

"Not for the likes of me." Her smile was lopsided.

"I know what you do. Forgiveness is yours if you ask. And perpetual absolution if you so desire. It is for a select few."

She shook her head. "You don't understand. I must continue with my work or my family starves. Yesterday my brother took the money I gave him, but said it wasn't enough. It'll be my fault, he said, if my family can't stay together. I need to earn more, but La Signura won't raise my fee."

The monk was silent. "Tell me about your brother."

She shrugged. "What is there to say?" She told the monk that she sent money home with one of her siblings who came to call each month. She cannot earn more.

"And your family, where are they?"

"Enna." She began to relax.

"My work needs many hands," the monk said. "I could use yours, and they would fill with gold."

"Not interested," she said, rising.

"Easy work. Information, that's all I need," the monk said. "For you, enough prayers to last a lifetime. I need recruits for my life's work, the work of the brazen serpent."

When the voices told me to begin, I left, like you. Careful, now, so careful I am. The last one, smooth, the blade like the serpent's razor, the flesh like jelly. I sharpened it beforehand, you see. A quick, sure stab. She stilled. The carving, perfect. This time there were no screams. The voices do not drown them out. They howl when the moon is black. I cannot abide their ringing. You'd be proud of me, I follow the will of the serpent, my work has begun. Early days yet, but I will triumph. I will go back soon to rescue my helpless one. He has sticks instead of arms. In the grave they told me he is, but they are wrong. He is alive. He comes to me in dreams. I know he lives. Perhaps he is with you. In dreams, too, lurks the wizard. So near to me she was, I saw the fear in her face. I could have triumphed: one quick pull of the trigger, but the time was inauspicious. Righteous and sacred, they say, the voices, when I wait for a day of totality, in the fullness of the earth and of the heavens, when I wait for the perfect number. Next time, there will be a next time, now that I have help. So precious to herself she is, the wizard, but she will be no more. Soon, it will be soon, and the harlot's house will collapse. The work of the serpent will kiss the land. The voices demand it. Blood washes blood, they sing in my ears, a honeyed melody, a cloak for dreaming. And they heal me, they tell me I cannot fail.

Part Two.

October 23 - November 4, 1866.

The Train Station.

Tuesday, October 23, 1866.

Serafina thought there would be a few passengers at the station, but when she and Renata arrived, a long line of carts waited at the front door to discharge passengers. Inside, wiry men stood together smoking cigarettes and talking fast. They wore collarless shirts and carried knapsacks. They'd take the train to the harbor, board a steamer bound for one of the Americas and work, return in six months or a year.

But Serafina also saw whole families, large clumps of them. It looked like they had all their belongings with them. Each person carried a cloth bundle. Peasants, Serafina knew from their dress and inflection, or as Loffredo would say, "people of the soil," thin, with leathery faces and bright eyes.

A voice cut through the crowd. "Feeeeena! Where aaaarrre you?"

"Here, Rosa!" Serafina watched the swarm of peasants part for her. Her face purpled and she scurried toward Serafina, rearranging her load of packages from one hand to the other, and clutching her hat. Tessa clung to Rosa's skirts, skipping to keep up.

"Finally!" Serafina pecked Rosa on both cheeks, bent to kiss Tessa whose hair was in ringlets. She wore a silk dress of red and green plaid reaching to mid-calf, the bodice cut deep to reveal a linen blouse with ruffled collar and tiny pearl buttons. Her petticoat had rows of lace near the tops of cordovan boots.

"What a pretty dress!" Serafina said.

"Bella made it before she died," Rosa said.

"Let me take some of these packages. Oh, this one smells delicious. What did you bring?"

"Gifts for Bella's father and for that Grinaldi woman. And cook fixed a box of food for the train. It's heavy, can you manage?" She looked down at Tessa. "Sorry I said those words to you, my girl. Pity, we couldn't find your bracelet. Searched all over, didn't we?" The madam fanned herself, whispered something into Tessa's ear. Tessa gazed at the crowded station while she listened. She gave her a swift peck on the cheek.

In front of them, two boys began a tug of war over a toy wooden cart. The older boy yanked it from the younger one's grip. He fell, cracking his knee on the stone floor, and bawled. Motes of dust erupted into the light streaming down from high windows. Seeing blood, the mother wailed. People closed around the scene, waved arms.

Serafina said, "Who knew there'd be so many people at this early hour? Let's find Renata. She's buying the tickets. See her over there?"

Rosa shook her head. "How can you find anyone in this crowd?"

"You're blind," Serafina said, gesturing to the front of the line where her daughter was handing money through the bars of the window. Holding hands, the three of them walked over and greeted Renata who managed to collect the tickets, peck Rosa's cheeks, and introduce herself to Tessa.

Tessa and the three women made their way to an empty space next to a large window. They saw hundreds on the platform, talking, bustling, calling to one another. Most of the women wore homespun skirts and Garibaldi blouses, shawls wrapped around their shoulders.

"We'll never get on the train. We'd better go home, have Carlo or Vicenzu drive us to La Vucciria," she said.

"Better yet, we'll drive ourselves," Renata said.

"Not on your life," Rosa said. "I'm brave, but not foolhardy, and I've given my driver the day off because we planned to take the train." She shot Serafina a look. "We'll take a later one."

"Maybe there's a conductor outside who knows when the crowd will thin. Hold hands. We'll have to force our way to the door," Serafina said.

The three women arranged themselves around Tessa. They pushed their way forward, making progress toward the platform until a man with an infant in his arms blocked their way.

Serafina smelled dirty diaper. The baby began to cry. The man tried to calm him, but the infant's yowls became more strident.

Rosa held a linen to her nose. "My eyes, they water so!"

The man looked up at Serafina and Renata. "Please, dearest ladies, can you help?"

"Let me have a look." Rosa elbowed her, but Serafina continued to reach out for the infant.

The man, dressed in clean but threadbare clothes, handed him to Serafina.

"There, there." Serafina rocked him. Renata bent close to see the child's face, then pulled away.

"Fina, what are you doing? Why did you get me out of my bed at such an ungodly hour-to watch you hold this crying baby? Give the child back to his father."

"About a month old, I'd say. Didn't deliver, or I'd recognize him." She smoothed the infant's brows with two fingers, stroked his ears, felt his silky hair. The baby made sucking noises and slept. "Hungry for his mother's milk. Where is she?"

The man's brow furrowed. "My wife, she comes soon. Now she makes a final look over our house, because today we take the boat. Leave for good." He strained upward, trying to see beyond the crowd. "One moment. I think I see her. Maybe getting off the cart now?" Smiling, he said, "Yes, I see her." He waved and turned back to them. "Be right back."

"You see, Rosa. No harm done. The mother's here."

"And all of Palermo will walk on the other side of the street when they smell you coming. It's after seven thirty. Where's the train? We need to be on the platform. Oh, Fina," she said, stomping her foot, "you'll be the death of me! How do you stand this mother of yours?"

Renata shrugged. "Whatever she wants, we do."

"Not all of you," Rosa said. "Some of you leave."

Renata's eyes widened and she put a finger to her lips.

By this time the waiting room was dangerously overcrowded. The man, barely visible, continued yelling for his wife. They watched him slip out the door. Serafina, Rosa and Renata stood motionless, hemmed in by the press of people. The baby slept in Serafina's arms. The man disappeared.

Renata stood on tiptoes. "There he is! Let's follow him."