She must not, must not become entangled in Rosa's web. She must consider her children. Her temples pounded.

The madam's eyes sparkled. "A wizard you are."

"I'm a midwife, not a detective."

"With the mind of a marvel," Rosa said.

Serafina shook her head and was silent.

"When we were young, you solved a riddle faster than a tuna flips its tail. Who solved the mystery of Scarpo's missing sheep?" Rosa asked.

"I did." Her temples pounded.

Rosa peered up at her. "And who caught that flashy accountant skimming my profits?"

"Handsome crook, that one. I remember you saying, breathless, simpering, 'Come into the office and feast your eyes, he looks like a Greek god.' So struck were you, you hated to see him leave."

"Kicked him out with relish, I did, the minute you discovered he was the one snatching my coins. I still don't know how you did it-you're so bad with numbers."

"Opened my eyes. Opened my mind. Spoke with Scarpo, your gardeners, the other servants. Kept detailed notes. Asked my mother's opinion. Had Beppe follow him and, of course, watched his clothes turn from shabby to silken, and the shadows lengthen on his face."

"Too many words as usual, and your mother was dead at the time." Rosa shut her ledger, scooped up the coins, and threw them in the box. "But you're as good at birthing as your mama was, and if you can make a stubborn baby slip out of its womb, appear as if by magic, corner a wolf, uncover a thief, then you can do the same with the killer of my girls."

"Make truth slip out from wailing lungs for all to hear?" She chewed her cheek. "Truth never slips out, not for me, not whole and breathing."

Rosa pulled the cord. "If it's clues you're after, Bella spent time in the new conservatory. Loved it, she did."

"Gloomy in there, I'd say. Just poking my head inside was enough to frizz my curls."

Rosa smiled. It was the first real smile Serafina had seen on her friend's face since the killings began.

Tessa appeared, ran to Rosa, and put her arms around her. She stopped, walked over to Serafina who hugged the child, felt the blades of her shoulders through the fabric of her dress.

"Grown, my girl, since you last saw her," Rosa said.

For an instant the corners of Tessa's mouth moved upward.

Five years ago Rosa sent for Serafina: 'Bleeding, no baby, come at once.' Serafina slapped the reins. Largo galloped. The trap careened around corners, nearly tipping onto Via Marsala. Too late. The mother died, a messy, sad business, but Serafina saved the infant. Health officials ordered Rosa to bring the baby to the orphanage. She refused. Money changed hands. Tessa remained with Rosa.

Serafina opened her bag. "I brought you some marzipan candies." She handed them to Tessa, kissed her on both cheeks. Embracing her friend, she said, "We'll concentrate on Bella's life, the last one killed. She's left more for us to discover. I'd like to spend some time alone in her room."

"Tessa will show you the way, won't you, my girl?"

Bella's Room.

Serafina smelled stale air and lye. Tessa led her to what looked like a ghostly presence under one of the windows. She removed the muslin draped over the object and saw a machine attached to an oak table.

"Bella used this to make our dresses," Tessa said. Her hand stroked the arm of the machine. "'My magic machine,' she called it. She showed me how to turn the wheel and make stitches." Tessa opened the table's middle drawer, pulled out a piece of dark cloth with crude white stitching. "See? Bella was going to teach me how to thread the needle, too, but she died."

"My daughter, Giulia, has one of these. She tried to teach me once, but gave up. She said I haven't the patience. Run along, now, Tessa. Tell Rosa I'll return soon with the key."

Serafina touched the wheel and shut her eyes, trying to feel Bella's presence through the instrument that in life was her silent companion. Nothing happened. She roused herself: dawdled long enough. She'd head for home soon, but first she'd search the room carefully. She owed that much to her friend. She walked to the hearth swept clean of ashes and began to examine each object in the room, picking up a figurine on a nearby shelf, swiping the dust from a book cover.

She saw movement in the far corner, swung around, discovered that the deception was caused by her own reflection distorted in a spotted mirror.

Even though the prostitute had been dead only a day, a film of dust lay over the room, on the mirror's gilt frame, on the chair below it, on the red silk bedcovers and pillowcases. Little wonder: someone had neglected to close a window. Serafina walked over and secured the shutters that banged against the house. She felt grit on the brocade draperies and on the windowsill, heard it grind underneath her boots.

She looked down at the edge of land. Foam and wind seemed to stir up the beasts of the deep. Bracing herself against the sill she let the elements blow full-throated against her face. For a while she stood like this, listening to the incessant work of the sea. Why was a woman with such talent a prostitute? Doubtless money was a factor. Prostitutes, at least at Rosa's, earned far more than seamstresses. Did she have enemies? Where did she go two nights ago on the evening of her death? Whom did she meet? Who were her regular customers? Her customers on the night she was killed? No doubt Rosa had a list of who was with whom and for how long, but, at least for now, the madam's mouth was a sealed tomb.

Serafina closed the shutters, pulled down the sash, and turned away.

Two large cabinets stood on the far wall, both of them unlocked. One held Bella's personal wardrobe, each item covered in muslin. Serafina leafed through these, one or two day dresses, several gowns, many a little too revealing. She smiled to herself, remembering how her children described her taste-what was the word Renata used?-'burgisi,' that was it. She held out a dress, examined the stitching. Although not a seamstress herself, Serafina knew expert finishing when she saw it. Again she pulled out a frock, looked at it. She examined another and another. She began to recognize Bella's strong gift, a sense of costume, a unique flair. And then she felt Bella's presence. The dead woman hung between her frocks, a specter not yet departed.

Below the garments in neat rows were pairs of shoes crafted in fine leather, polished, buffed, and arranged below the matching garment. Serafina made a mental note to visit the shoemaker. Bella may have been his customer, a frequent one, unless she had them fitted in Palermo. Perhaps he saw her recently. Merchants often knew a lot about their customers, when they were flush and when not, the company they kept.

In the second cabinet she found a shelf holding hats, a few of them wide-brimmed with feathers and pins, some straw hats, wool hats, no doubt all made by Bella, one or two like the brown velvet she found on the beach; shelves with bolts of fabric, watered silks in all shades, a few garish colors, wools in gabardine, bombazine, cloth in a variety of textures, some finely woven, others thick, nubby, boiled. The bottom shelf held a basket stuffed with spools of thread, needles, jars of beads. Next to it was a stack of Godey's Lady's Books. She knew this name: Godey's. Giulia waited for it each month, disappointed when publication stopped during the war in America.

Serafina grabbed a few of the magazines and flipped through them, pausing at some of the colored plates.

She looked at her watch and felt pinched. How did she get herself into this? She wanted to continue helping Rosa, she must, but she must be home when her children returned from school for the noon meal and siesta.

Dust flew up her nose. She sneezed, stopped at a page with a creased corner, and peered through watery eyes at an article with drawings of Italian beadwork, embroidery, and church vestments. In a prostitute's bedroom, of all places. What were those swirling things carved in wood, etched onto a chalice, or embroidered onto vestments? One snake-like creature wound itself around a holy book of some sort. Another drawing showed it slithering around a cross. She tried to read the words, but the article was written in English. No matter, she'd get Giulia or Vicenzu to translate.

She blew her nose and sat. Her ballooning skirt forced more dust into her face, and she coughed, wishing she had known Bella in life. She was someone who would rather have worked with her hands and mind than with her body. The woman could have been a designer of high fashion, a creator of unique lines, expensive gowns for the nobility. Did all of Rosa's women have dreams like Bella's? She decided to take another look around. She'd be home just in time if she left by 11:30. That gave her forty more minutes.

She opened the second cabinet again, feeling around in the dim light for something she may have missed. Wedged between the Godey's and the back of the cabinet were letters neatly tied into two packets. She scooped them up, stuffed them into her pockets, and stopped. If she were Bella, where would she hide valuables?

She looked behind the mirror. No holes. No patching. She walked the floor looking for loose boards: none. Of course, the bed. Why didn't she think of it before? After feeling underneath for a box or hole in the boards, she yanked off the linen, ran her hand over the top and sides of the mattress, but found nothing. Wait until Rosa saw the mess she was making of 'our sweet Bella's room.'

Serafina thought she'd just enough muscle to flip the mattress, but try as she might, it wouldn't budge. Stuffed with the feathers of a thousand geese, oh Madonna. She prayed for more strength, stopped to catch her breath, felt sweat beginning to bead on her forehead. With an upward thrust, she lifted the mattress, steadied it while it teetered on end for a moment before thudding against her body. The heft of it almost knocked her down. She waited, took ragged breaths, felt drops of water running down the sides of her body and losing themselves in a mass of moistening corset. Again she flexed her arms. With one large grunt, she pushed it. When it fell over, it shook the mirror on the wall, dislodging more dust.

She mopped her face, sat down, and stared. Then she felt every centimeter of its surface until her fingers found a neat square of stitching. After fishing around in the sewing basket for a scissors, she cut the thread and pulled out one feathery book. It looked like an account ledger. She shoved it into her pocket, picked up the Godey's with the snaky designs, closed the door.

All that work for such a meager result. Perhaps reading the letters would reveal more information, something about the woman and her dreams, her friends, her enemies.

Dates.

"What did you find?"

"Not much. Any water?" she asked, wiping her face. Serafina dumped the letters, the Godey's, and the account book on Rosa's desk.

The madam stuffed the book down her front, reached for the bottle of mineral water, and poured a fresh glass. "You look worse than Scylla on a bad day. What have you been doing, luring young sailors to your lair?"

Serafina gulped the water, choked, and said, "That's better. Dust in the mouth from Bella's room."

"That clown, Colonna, didn't bother to search her room, and look what you discover in a few minutes. And the most important discovery of all," she said, patting her chest. "This book belongs to Nittu." Rosa winked.

The madam was in a jovial mood. Time to strike. "I need the names of the customers who visited Bella on Saturday. One of them might know something, might even be the killer. Anyone come to mind?" She watched Rosa's face, now a wintry sunset.

"Bella had the evening off."

"On a Saturday? Your busiest evening?"

"An exception to all the house rules, Bella. She asked for the weekend, left on Thursday. Probably went to Palermo to see the contessa. They were going to open a business of some sort."

Serafina raised her brows.

"Not that kind of business. Venturing into the dressmaking trade, the two of them."

Serafina opened the Godey's and showed Rosa the plates of the writhing serpent, the strange vestments.

Rosa looked at them a moment and shrugged.

Serafina untied the bundles of letters and fanned them out. Sunlight and shadows from the sea undulated on the envelopes. They crinkled at her touch. "From her father," Serafina said, indicating one. "But this address?" She tapped on the return address written in flowery script.

"From the contessa," Rosa said.

"Don't have time to read them now. I'd like to take these with me. They may tell us something we don't already know, but I doubt it. And the Godey's, I'll take that, too."

The madam sat there grinning, her fingers bent like hooks, not caring a jot about letters or magazines or serpents, only that she, Serafina, was being raked into the search for the killer.

And truth to tell, she felt herself drawn into the mystery, powerless to stop the pull of her own curiosity. Little wonder: the need for truth and justice was great. Sicily bled. Officials did nothing, and the dead women couldn't speak for themselves. They needed her voice. Well, she would continue searching for clues until she found enough evidence to reveal the villain, dump it all into the lap of Colonna, and compel him to act. Simple.

She was half-way to the door when she said, "The dates?"

"What are you talking about?" Rosa asked.

"The first two bodies."

"What about them?"

"You discovered Bella on October 7. But on what dates did you find the first two women?"

Muttering something about late for dinner, Rosa retrieved a large leather-bound book from the shelf behind her desk, its ecru pages smelling of broom and albumen. Serafina walked around to get a better look.

Rosa leafed through its pages. Each spread contained a month, seven columns across, with four or five rows down. The madam's scrawl appeared in many of the squares.

Light from the sea swam over Rosa's face. She turned to August.

Rosa said, "The beginning."

The square for August 7th contained one word, 'Gemma,' written in Rosa's scratch.

"The day you found Gemma?"

Rosa nodded.

Serafina turned the page.

Rosa gestured to September 7th and saw the word, 'Nelli.' "I opened the door. There was our darling Nelli. It dries the throat."

Without looking up, Rosa refilled their glasses. "October." Rosa gulped her water and caressed with a finger the name she'd written on the seventh, turned, and said, "You're on my side of the desk."

"Sorry. Only that-" Serafina stared into space.

"That what? I hate it when you do that."

"Do what?" Serafina moved around and sat in her own chair, her skirts puffing.

Rosa put on her spectacles and began flipping the calendar pages back and forth. "Peasants are starving and you bite off a chunk of words and don't finish them. At least spit them out before you stare into space."

Serafina looked out to the sea, one finger tapping her chin.

"You are impossible! Always late, always three times as much time as I take, you take. Make three times as many words as you need. They cling to you, your words, like maggots on the dead."

"I was going to say that if you found all three bodies on the seventh, it means the killer attacked on the sixth, or early on the seventh each time. Don't you see? It means if he kills again-and he'll try, mark my words, he'll try-he'll strike on the same date. It means we have until the sixth of November to find him before he kills again."

Blanched, Rosa's face.

Serafina continued. "There's a systematic ghoulishness about these murders, a wildness about this killer that we will never understand. He lusts not after flesh, but has the cunning of the wild, intent on one thing only-eliminating you and all your women and the business you think I know so little about. For lucre? I doubt it."

The madam's eyes were flaking embers.

"Why the mark carved into their foreheads?" Serafina asked. "Why did each death occur between the sixth and the seventh of the month? We must discover how the victims' lives touched their killer's path. Why did these women need him? Agree to meet him? What did the three have in common, other than their profession and their address? How did they know their killer? Is he a customer who helped himself to all three? To others?"

"Never!"

"Who is the one woman most likely to be his next victim?"

The Apparition.