They nodded.

"Built up that business with these," Baldassare said, holding up his hands. "Decided to specialize in uniforms-Bourbon, Redshirt, monk, didn't matter. My wife and I made a good life. All my sons attended university. They were about to take over the business when Garibaldi landed at Marsala."

Serafina waited for Nittu Baldassare to continue, knowing he must repeat the tragedy many times.

As he spoke, his voice grew soft. A line of color moved up his cheeks. "My sons followed him. The oldest wrote telling me it would be over soon. He was right. When the messenger came with the news, I'll never forget it." He pushed himself away from the desk.

He continued, talking more to himself than to his guests. "Killed in one battle, all five of them. Our world vanished. You see what the news did to my poor Addolorata."

Rosa began to speak, but Serafina sent her a daggered look.

"And, so, to Bella. When she was born, she was betrothed to Pirandello's youngest son. You know the family? They own a shop on Piazza San Domenico, tailors who make fortunes with every stitch."

Rosa nodded.

Baldassare pointed to his books and swatches. "But when she came of age, Bella told us she didn't want marriage, not to Pirandello, not to anyone. She broke our hearts. Instead, she left." He looked at Rosa. "Her mother would have been devastated had she known about Bella's life with you. And when I heard what she was doing, I couldn't believe it. Now, when I think of it..." He stopped.

The room was still.

"You must have been wild with anger," Serafina said.

"I disowned her." He cradled his head. "She wrote to me. At first I threw her letters into the fire, but she persisted. When she stopped writing, I became worried."

Serafina looked at Rosa.

"In time, we reconciled. Such plans she had-to earn enough to open a business of her own, 'twice as grand as Pirandello's,' she told me, 'at first, serving only royalty; in time, the wives of wealthy merchants. I'll make the name of Baldassare as famous for high fashion as the House of Worth. Women from all over the world will flock to our door.' She took my dreams, blew them up higher than Monte Pellegrino." He gestured toward the ceiling. "For that kind of enterprise she needed money, far more than she'd inherit from me-and she'd have gotten everything with my death."

He frowned. "Began to see my daughter as if she were a son. Finally, after all these years, I understood her. Earned good money working for you-far more than she could make being a seamstress, even in Paris. Oh, they asked for her, those fancy designers. La Contessa would have arranged it. Would have given Bella experience, prestige, but not the capital she needed for the control she wanted. Oh, La Grinaldi, she would have hired her as a designer. But not as an equal."

Rosa said, "And never spent, my Bella, so frugal. 'You want a dress? We'll find the right fabric,' she'd tell me. And charged me for the thread, the needles. Oh, she was a saver, our girl."

Nittu Baldassare grinned. "And smart. She thought of everything, that one, everything. She even had a scheme for salvation. So clever, my daughter."

Serafina stopped writing.

"Do I know about this, Nittu?" Rosa asked.

He shook his head. "Nor did I. But the last time she visited-July, it was-she told me it wouldn't be long. She'd given her money to La Grinaldi. She was ready to move back into town. 'Just some unfinished business,' she said." He shook his head before continuing. "She told me that she'd met a monk who offered salvation. Permanent absolution, even for one such as herself."

Silence except for Serafina's scratching pencil. When she finished, she looked at Rosa.

"Don't give me the evil eye. I didn't know about this scheme of salvation, or the monk. The first I've heard."

"I never saw her again." He looked at the floor.

Serafina heard the faint noise of traffic and a dove cooing to its mate. Minutes passed. Through clenched teeth, Nittu Baldassare turned to Serafina and said, "Bring her killer to me. I'll take care of him." He stood up and brandished a fist. "Flailing, too good for him, but I will find something worthy of this beast." He sat, hung his head. His desolation hung in the room like acrid smoke.

"What can you tell me of this monk?" Serafina asked. "Where did Bella meet him? Was it here in Palermo or Oltramari?"

He shrugged.

"Is there anyone who'd know? Bella's contessa friend?"

"She might. In Paris at the moment, I think."

A maid announced the afternoon meal.

Standing before the vestibule's mirror, Rosa patted her curls, straightened her hat while Serafina fastened her cape.

Rosa put a hand to her mouth, "Something for you, almost forgot." She dug into her front. "Bella's record of account at Banco di Sicilia." She kissed him on both cheeks.

Serafina asked, "Who inherits your business, now that Bella's gone?"

"What a question!" Rosa said.

"My brother. Last month after Bella died-" His voice cracked.

Rosa clasped his hand. "Take your time, Nittu. For your sorrow, we have all day."

He continued. "After Bella died, I changed the will. The avvucatu, he took care of it: my brother inherits the business."

Rosa raised her brows.

"I'd like to talk to your brother," Serafina said.

Falco.

"Falco, it's Nittu!" Baldassare called out, opening the door.

As they entered, Serafina smelled wool and something else-perhaps sizing used on fabric. Her eyes smarted. She waited until the room focused, a place of fantastic-looking bodies, weird presences, like something out of a dream.

As the objects took on familiar shapes, headless bodies became models wearing uniforms or clerical garb. On one wall, shelves held spools of thread, braids, buttons, bric-a-brac. On the opposite wall, rolls of fabric leaned against a tall chest. Serafina walked over to it. She reached out to examine one of the small carvings sitting on top of the chest. Smiling to herself she put it back: Falco's clay figures.

Baldassare pointed to a dress uniform worn by Joachim Murat, an ostrich-feathered hat sitting on its shoulders. Another mannequin sported a red Garibaldi shirt beneath a leather jerkin. Others were draped in grey or blue homespun-for soldiers in America, Nittu told them. Several figures wore monastic scapulae and hoods. Neat and well-ordered, the room, almost a museum.

Serafina wiped her eyes. Presently she heard footsteps. A door opened and Falco entered, stroking his mustache with a table napkin.

"This woman with eyes like the sea-she investigates the killing of Bella and wants to meet you," Nittu said.

"We've met," Falco said, not taking his eyes from her face.

"Good. While you two get caught up, I'll take Rosa over to the shelves. There's some silk I'd like to show her."

Serafina stood still. Such an actor, Falco. In school he imitated teachers, mimicked the priests, her father, her mother, Giorgio, his fiancee. He betrayed her ardor with casual abandon.

"We've just finished our dinner," he said, gesturing with the hand still clutching his napkin, "and the domestic cleans the kitchen, but perhaps she can make us some tea. If you will wait-"

Serafina shook her head. "This won't take long. What I need to know is, where you were the evening of October 6, almost a month ago."

He smirked. "You are serious? The evening of October 6, around the time of Bella's murder? This is me you're talking to, your old Falco."

"Yes, I'm serious." She felt her face burn. Oh Madonna, how she hated this. But she persisted, a small atonement for her betrayal of Giorgio so many years ago.

"Think I had something to do with my cousin's death? Shame forever on my soul." He crossed his arms. "I don't know where I was on October 6."

"A Saturday evening."

"Probably at home here with my family." He pointed to the stairs. "Yes. With my family. Of course, where else would I be?"

"The shop would be open until when, seven or eight on a Saturday evening? As the proprietor you'd keep a record of sales and appointments with customers for fittings. Documents written in your hand on that date, any fittings you may have had-especially for late in the day-they'd confirm your whereabouts, at least until the shop closed Saturday evening. And if you'd also supply evidence of your location Sunday morning, it would let me eliminate you as a suspect in Bella's death."

"Preposterous. It is I, Falco. We made love in the blossoming days of our life, and you question me like this?"

Serafina pressed her lips together before she spoke. "Death is ugly. It demands an accounting of us all. I need to know where you were at the time of the murders. I need to place everyone who was close to Bella, including Rosa herself."

He continued hugging himself with his hands, rocking back and forth, an actor, playing to the cheap seats.

After a few moments of maintaining the pose, he spoke. "I keep the current month's calendar and bills of sale in a drawer in my desk. Would you like to see them?"

She shook her head.

"At the end of the month, I transfer this information to a ledger, and keep the ledgers of past months locked in cabinets in the attic. Now, if you've finished, I've no more time left for you."

"No, I'm not finished. I'm sure you'll be ready with October's books and any bills of sale you may have for the sixth of that month by, shall we say, sixteen hundred hours tomorrow? I'll send someone who can attest to having seen them."

He called out, "Nittu, your guests are ready to leave." Keeping his eyes on Serafina's face, Falco spat into his napkin.

Eager for Home.

Serafina heard blasts of steam each time the train slowed. She moved with the grind of wheels. They lurched her forward. They crashed her into the back of her seat.

She wished she could have spoken with the contessa, one of the last people who saw Bella alive. But the black swan was still in Paris, according to her secretary, not expected to return until after Li Morti. Serafina made an appointment to see her on November 4, the earliest possible date she could. She needed to find out more about Bella's monk. Did the prostitute discover him in Palermo or Oltramari? Forget asking Rosa who either missed knowing the most important facts about the running of her house, or deliberately masked the truth. Absent the contessa, she must ask some of Rosa's prostitutes. They might know about Bella's monk-Gioconda or Gusti, for instance, whose information she trusted. Serafina chewed her cheek. It was an important missing piece.

Tessa slept, rocking sideways when the train gathered speed and banked inward, her head pillowed by Rosa's shawl. To Serafina's right, hills cast long shadows over fields and citrus groves. A pair of oxen plowed the earth. On her left fishermen mended their nets, the spars of their boats bobbing in the setting sun.

She tried to sleep, but saw scarlet through closed eyelids. Rearranging herself, she glanced into the aisle and caught Rosa and Renata standing near the door of their compartment in animated conversation. She closed her eyes again.

"Is your mind stuck?" Rosa asked, shaking her. "Halfway home. We need to talk."

Serafina stared out the window until Rosa, now seated next to her, kicked her foot.

"I'm awake, just thinking."

They discussed what they'd learned about Bella's desire for salvation.

"Significant new information," Serafina said.

Rosa agreed.

Serafina yawned, paged through her notebook. "A few of the women mentioned salvation when I talked to them yesterday. According to Rosalia, Gemma told her, 'I can no longer be your friend because you are not saved.'"

"That explains the fight they had shortly before I found Gemma's body. Slamming doors, crying, the two of them not speaking."

"Quite hurt, Rosalia," Serafina said.

Rosa's eyes were like transparent marbles as she considered.

The two women were silent while they swayed with the train.

Serafina said, "I wonder if it was this 'permanent salvation' that Bella's father talked about. Did Gemma find the same monk? Is he the killer?" She turned a few pages, then quoted Baldassare talking about his daughter, 'She thought of everything, that one, everything. She even had a scheme for salvation. So clever, my daughter.'

"And don't forget the rosary in her reticule," Serafina said. "That reminds me, now that we've found Carmela, I'd like to borrow two of your guards. I want them to search the shore with me. There might be other clues."

"Colonna said they searched. Found nothing."

Serafina sent Rosa a withering look. "They found nothing, but not because they searched." She glanced out the window, not at anything in particular. Anyway, the scenery was a blur by this time. "Doubtless it's this monk who convinced them they must pay for a unique type of salvation. And Nelli paid for something, too."

"Nelli?" Rosa asked.

"Don't tell me you don't remember Formusa's account of Nelli's secret-how she kept her coins with the cook until she needed them? Scooped them up the night she disappeared?"

"Of course I remember. You're the one who almost forgot to tell me Formusa's tale. I told you, these murders are all about lucre."

"We don't know about Gemma's wish for salvation, only that she was going someplace with someone whom she called her uncle," Serafina said.

"Arcangelo's wintry-clothed man."

"Yes. The monk," they said in unison.

"That monster. Duping the weak out of their hard-earned coins," Serafina said.

"What about me? My coins?" Rosa asked.

"We all long for salvation, but it's given to us at birth or baptism or...confession, one of those," Serafina said.