"A boy with excellent lungs." Serafina reached into her reticule, handed over the money. "From the proud father."

She wiped the corners of her mouth with forefinger and thumb, and sighed, "I thought Maria would be the midwife, but she was born for music, Giulia for costuming, you for cuisine. No matter, we must each follow our own specialness. So that's settled. Too bad your papa died before we could have made one more girl."

Renata set her mother's breakfast on the table and Serafina sat. She took a bite of biancumanciari and closed her eyes. "The orange sauce, delicious. Makes me crazy, such bitterness smashing into sweetness, the smell of almonds and oranges mixed in with the aroma of your caffe-divine. I feel the springtime invade November." She twirled her spoon.

Carlo reached for part of Serafina's bread but she slapped his hand.

"Not yet November," he corrected.

"Make sure we have enough cream and eggs for tomorrow's breakfast. Sabatini's honey, you say? Get a big jar. I need to eat well. Rosa's guards and I have business."

Carlo folded his paper. "What sort of business? Better yet; don't tell us, it's too early to hear about your treacheries."

"We search the lower part of town and shore for clues to the killing of Rosa's women."

Her children stared at her as if she had spoken in a different tongue. She looked from one to the other. Then the dawn: the loss of their father was raw, her efforts at comedy, another one of her failures. "Not to worry," she said, softly. "The wild one hasn't been invented who can rid the world of me."

Giulia's finger began moving again on the page of her magazine. Maria buried her head in her music. She hummed a strange melody.

The domestic entered, carrying Tot. When he saw Serafina, he reached out to her.

"See how he adores me?" she asked.

"Wait a few years," Carlo said.

She got up and walked over to her youngest son, arms outstretched. "Renata, some biancumanciari for our little prince, and warm milk with bits of chocolate. He needs to eat, grow tall like his brother, don't you, my honey bee, but without his fat mouth." She planted his face with kisses. "And your specialness, my little man, what is it? Never mind, you'll know it soon enough."

Li Morti.

Friday, November 2, 1866.

After the noon meal, Serafina snipped flowers from the old geranium. She'd visit the cemetery before joining up with her children. Blowing them a kiss, she left.

In contrast to the vermilion blossoms she clutched, the November light flattened the world on this, the festa of Li Morti. Events would begin with a procession of actors from the cemetery gates, winding through town and down the Via Serpentina to the arena near the sea. There they'd stage a play, usually a farce of recent events and public figures.

But as Serafina passed through the public gardens and the piazza, her attention was far from the festivities. She seemed not to notice the old soldiers, the roughs with vacant stares and missing limbs, a newcomer in need of a bath lurking near the rope seller's store. Like the spokes of a carriage wheel spinning around its hub, her brain whirled round and round a half-formed picture of the murderer.

Who could he be, this killer? He was mad, of course, but clever at hiding his wild torment, someone whom all three victims knew and trusted. Eugenia? At this stage, she couldn't rule her out, but believed, along with Loffredo, that the killer was male, his soul caught in a spell. Like the mourner at Gemma's wake, or Falco, a customer who had helped himself to all three women. Was Rosa keeping information from her, more than what she, Serafina, hadn't already wrenched from the madam's mouth? Probably. Her customers tended to be wealthy with impeccable stature. Stature? Reputation? But she knew a public persona was often a chimera.

She shivered. That mysterious monk-like figure who picked up Gemma was their best lead. He'd be the most likely to have knowledge of the brazen serpent. Was he the same monk she saw? Scarpo saw? Arcangelo? Falco dressed as a monk? Someone else she knew? And what if the killer had an inside accomplice, one of Rosa's precious girls. Scarpo? Was there enough time to catch him before he struck again? Three or four more days, that's all she had, and if he discovered she knew about him, what then? Murder them all in their sleep? Her family too?

She'd heard about Allan Pinkerton and his agency, heard, too, about London's Scotland Yard, their brilliant successes, their failures, quick-witted men who uncovered master villains in a flash. They lived for detection, foiled assassination attempts, spotted a pickpocket by the way he walks. She was so new at this. Did she have the skills necessary to solve these murders? What would happen if she failed? She stumbled on a stone. Even the cobbles seemed to be testing her. It was as if the air itself held the answers she could not fathom.

And there was that other voice, the one telling her she should be at home, taking care of her children. Was she being fair to them? And what if she was killed? How would her children fend without her?

'Very well,' her mother's voice interrupted, 'Do nothing. Be a coward. Add to the chaos around you. Or open the window, let justice fill the room, and make mocking thoughts fly away.'

Serafina heard the creak of metal as she opened the cemetery gates, the crunch of her steps on the gritty path. Stately larch trees lined her way. Iridescent marble figures glared at her in the half-light. Angels knelt. Madonnas wept. A bird sang to its mate.

There it was again, the press of her soul against her stomach. That stone angel over there, did she breathe? It was Li Morti after all. There were bound to be other mourners paying respects to their loved ones, yet she saw no one else. She stroked the flowers in her hand, remembering the wryness of her mother's smile.

Stopping first at Giorgio's grave, she prayed, wept, and left some of the geraniums by his headstone.

At Maddalena's grave, Serafina saw them at once. They lay next to the marker, another spray of geraniums identical to hers. Without thinking she knelt, mixed her flowers in with the others, and retied the twine.

In vain she tried to conjure up Maddalena's face, whispered a hasty prayer, and left, certain that a pair of eyes watched her as she hurried away. She ran splayed fingers through tangled curls. Shed the shell of fear, a voice inside told her, like the snake does its skin. "Enough," she said aloud. She squared her shoulders and waved to her children who waited in the distance.

"Look!" Tot pointed to skeletons peeking from behind a praying angel. Other costumed players emerged from mausoleums, assembled near the cemetery's gates. As usual, the king and queen of the dead began the parade. The queen, in snaky wig and blackened teeth, smiled at them. Scores of players wore military costumes, some dressed as Napoleon, Murat or King Bumma. A faded Redshirt stumbled toward them, stopped directly in front of Serafina, and stared. Hands on hips, she fixed him with her eyes until, with a boozy whimper, he vanished.

Decorated carts carried ghosts, skeletons, and lidless coffins with monks lying in repose. Onlookers roared when, green-faced, one sat up. A bloodshot eye sprang from his forehead.

Spectators threw flowers as the procession marched through the piazza, snaked into the older section of town, scrambled down to the arena. Last night when she and Beppe drove through this neighborhood, the road was choked with rubbish. They must have cleared it early this morning. Nonetheless, Serafina stepped with care, mindful of the lingering turmoil from last month's uprising.

Someone dropped a bottle from the roof. She heard glass breaking, shouting, shrill whistles. The procession stopped. Uniformed men shoved past her. Serafina held her breath, but the disturbance ended quickly, and they moved on.

Vendors selling sausage, rice balls, sweetened figs, mulberry, blueberry, and orange ices lined the road near the entrance to the arena. Even though Renata packed food for them, Tot wanted some of everything he saw. Serafina obliged. "An ice, my little precious? Would you like another? One of these figs maybe?"

"Watch the coins," Vicenzu said.

"Quiet, Mr. Money. It's Li Morti, after all, and this is your brother's first."

"Tomorrow we starve, is that it?"

She didn't answer at first, balancing Tot on one hip. "You're right. From now on I'll take care, but I have a plan. We'll talk about it after I find the killer of Rosa's women."

"You jest. Look no further than the royal box." He gestured toward plush seats in the center of the arena. "There's your killer."

She followed his gaze, saw men in top hats, women in billowing skirts, sable capes, feathered hats. Perched in the center of the box sat a shock of red hair. While Tigro cultivated puffed-up nobles, his wife sat between their two sons, lost. Serafina waved to her. Elisabetta fluttered back an anxious linen. Giulia, too, waved to someone.

"That baroness with the important nose, she wears your dress? What a gorgeous frock. Surpasses all the rest. Such haunches she has, yet she barely fills the top."

"Not my design, that gown," Giulia said. "I let out the waist, that's all."

"Maria, hold my hand, my precious lovely. We don't want to lose you-who would play Brahms for us?"

Maria pushed up her spectacles. A clown in whiteface with gamy breath smiled close to her nose. Maria cringed.

The throng mashed them. They stood for hours, it seemed, squashed, immobile, then lurched forward, only to wait some more. Someone stepped on Serafina's foot. Again they advanced.

Carlo was missing, she realized. She asked Vicenzu who said, "He went off with friends after you left for the cemetery. Told me he'd try to find us here, but if not, he'd be back in time for supper."

The wind off the sea muffled the laughter and calls of the crowd. Black clouds massed. Serafina could feel her curls pull in the dampness. Vicenzu limped ahead to scout for seats. When he found them, he waved his crutch back and forth in the blowing air.

Serafina navigated the first step. "Come on, girls, let's all stay together." She tripped, caught herself just in time. There it was again, a sharpness to her movements. She missed Giorgio.

As soon as they settled, Renata passed the basket of food, Vicenzu, the wine, Giulia the fruit juice for Tot. He drank it as if he hadn't drunk all day.

Maria puckered her lips. "I'm too old for this. I should be home."

"You're eight. Now watch the stage and be quiet," Giulia said.

Vicenzu told Maria she sounded like a prima donna.

The audience shouted for the show to begin.

Clowns rolled out of entryways onto the stage. Actors dressed as straw men hit one another with sticks. Priests cavorted with female clowns. Led by the ringmaster whose coattails swelled like red sails, Barco's circus performers entered. There were fire eaters and fat ladies, painted elephants, brown bears. Acrobats tumbled, jumping high through hoops of fire.

Tot whispered to Serafina who picked him up and, lifting her skirts, made her way down the steps. Renata elbowed Vicenzu, who swooped Tot from Serafina's arms. When they got to the water closets, he took Tot inside.

"Long time it's been." Don Tigro tilted his head to her. "About Giorgio, my condolences."

Startled, she turned around, took a moment to compose herself, and thanked him.

"You visit Betta tomorrow."

She nodded.

"Bringing your children?"

His teeth, she noticed, were perfect. Not inherited from her side of the family. Her mother must have been delirious in the last moments of her life. A burden you've given me, Mama. "Perhaps my daughter, Giulia. She'd like to see Elisabetta's gowns. From Paris, no?"

"I don't pay attention to those things. Maria comes with you?"

Maria, Serafina wondered, why would he ask about her?

As if reading her thoughts, he said, "One afternoon last year, the most exquisite Brahms came from the maestro's workshop as I passed. I stopped. 'Maria Florio, a prodigy,' Lorenzo said. If you bring her, she can play Betta's concert grand." He touched his hat and melted into the crowd.

Tot nearly knocked her down. Running into her, he hid in her skirts. She gave him a hasty peck on the cheek.

"Didn't you hear me?" Vicenzu asked.

"What? Oh, of course, dear."

They ascended.

Carlo reached for Tot.

"You're back with us!" Serafina said.

Vicenzu smacked his forehead. "I just told you he was here. Watch your mind or we'll be orphans."

Carlo slid over and gave his mother a kiss.

"You." She pinched his ear. "I haven't seen you this whole visit, probably pestering poor Gloria."

"In Prizzi with her family."

"Then why so scarce? No, I don't want to know-my ears, too delicate. But now I'm happy, I have my whole family with me."

"Not your whole family," Carlo said.

"Not here, wrong time," she said.

Carlo shot her a jagged look. "When's the right time? If you won't talk about Carmela-"

"Oh, Tot, look at the clowns!" She pointed to the stage.

Red-faced, Carlo rose and straightened his coat. "I can't stand this-" He stormed into the crowd, head down.

Serafina blinked at a watery stage. Tot started to cry. Vicenzu took him. Looking down, Serafina rubbed her forehead. Maria, Giulia, and Renata looked at one another. Minutes passed.

Renata said, "I think I see blue sky."

"You always say that," Maria said.

"No, Renata's right. It seems sunnier. Well, at least the clouds lift, what do you say, my best player of Brahms?"

"No more Brahms. I'll play Scarlatti so you'll be happy and not worry about Carmela."

Again, silence.

The family, those that remained, watched the rest of the performance with unwavering attention. At the finale, they clapped with the others when clowns dressed as Redshirts rolled onto the stage and, with a flourish, handcuffed players dressed as King Bumma and his ratty son. Whistles blew, crackers popped.

The crowd streamed out of the arena under a sky streaked with crimson.

The Message.

Saturday, November 3, 1866.

"Yes?" Vicenzu stood in the doorway.

"My name is Arcangelo," the young man said, taking off his cap and holding it with both hands. "I work for Rosa. You know her?"