Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1)

In the first chapter, Mrs. Reed says these words to the heroine to help her realize how important history is to the present and how enlightening art can be. This book is a quest, but it is also a tool to navigate the spirit of the Florence Renaissance. Before writing
Lost in the City of Flowers
, I spent half a year researching the social circumstances, architecture, and artwork of the time period. Through visual analysis and reading copious materials such as diaries and writings by distinguished historians, I wrote a story that emulates the time period for the readers. The glossary located at the back of the book gives the reader more information about historical characters and defines art history terminology. In addition, the glossary points out which characters are actually real. A map is also included to help you follow Viola on her adventures through the City of Flowers.

“What is real and what is not?” is an indispensable question that comes up frequently in historical fiction. This story is based on real people and conditions of the time period. Most of the pivotal characters in this book actually co-existed. The descriptions of the artists and other historical figures are based on portraits or descriptions of them. Information regarding artwork is also accurate, although some of the dates of the artwork have a wide range of possible completion. Therefore, for a few of the pieces, such as the
Baptism of Christ
by Andrea Verrocchio’s workshop, it is difficult to determine when exactly they were finished.

Acknowledgments

At one point in a person’s life they lose their way. Like many, I experienced that oh-so-familiar feeling of uncertainty and fear. But without that momentary anxiety, I would not have created the first novel of the Histories of Idan. The idea of Viola and her nostalgic travels started as a bud in my mind, but under the nurture of loved ones, friends, and strangers, it blossomed.

My parents, Sila and Alex, always encouraged me to explore my passions and helped me follow my dreams. I want to thank them for not holding me back when I went on to study something I loved. To my Uncle Tony and Aunt Gitta, I am eternally grateful for their constant support and for shedding light on my path when all was dark. Jorge, my husband, to whom I am most indebted for the hundreds of sacrifices he has undertaken and encouragement he has given—without which this book or my sanity wouldn’t be possible.

As so many know, when you move to another place, especially as a young child, your existence twists upside down and spins out of control. An incredible experience is both precious and daunting. I was fortunate to find my balance with the help of my three siblings: Tommie, Teresa, and John. If it were not for the challenges we faced or the laughter we shared together, I would not be who I am today.

I not only owe my eternal gratitude to my family but also to my dear friends. It is my belief that friendship is the purest example of all that is wonderful about humanity. This bond is based on sharing joys and sorrows with kindred souls in a transient world. It is about caring, giving, and taking. I am thankful to Cristina for healing my wounds, fostering my confidence, and for being a constant source of inspiration. Denise, I am so appreciative of you for being my pillar in the calm and the storms. Thank you to the McGrail family, for always being so constant and for having faith in my vision. My brimming gratitude also goes out to the Soldo family. They made me fall in love with Italy. Moreover, I will never forget the extraordinary kindness they have shown me throughout the years. I asked for a helping hand and you gave me shelter and strength.

I would like to extend another hearty thank you to the Beta Readers, especially to Alyssa Abraham. Lastly, I would like to tip my hat to all those who contributed to the crowd-funding campaign. Your trust and willingness has touched me. More importantly, you have brought these words and pages to life. All these individuals have enabled me to realize my dream.

PROLOGUE

Shivering in the shadows, Ginerva peered into utter darkness.
I must be dead
, she thought.
Isn’t that why the priest came? Was it for that reason I could hear my mother’s sorrow and do nothing to comfort her?
This was death then, an eternity of blackness. It could not be! I so hated the dark. Surely God and all his saints know that. This must be Hell then.

“What have I done to deserve this punishment?” The dark said nothing. “Everything I have done in life was to please my family and you. I was ordered to throw away my only chance of happiness and I obeyed.” The quiet engulfing Ginerva persisted. “I married a man with no love in his heart and broke that of my dear Antonio. Now he has vowed to walk this earth alone. Oh Satan, have pity on me. Turn me into a ghost so that I may walk by his side yet.” Lucifer ignored her too.
Death didn’t feel different
, she thought.

Ginerva still felt miserable. Chills plagued her damp body. It took so much effort for the young lady to move her hands. It was in an attempt to make sure her eyes were truly open that she felt the shroud that covered her. At the touch of the linen, she wept for the first time in four years. Tears for the life she never lived and the love she never had. She cried for her parents and the sister she had lost.

“Mother Mary, why must I endure all the suffering of weakness and sadness that comes with being human? You, God, have forsaken me. Every day I praised you in joy and in gloom. I have given everything and asked for nothing. Why then?” Ginerva cried. Every breath hurt and every word was a dire struggle. “Someone speak to me!”

Just then, she heard a sound break the stillness. There were voices. Neither celestial nor evil, they were human and bickering.
This could not be death,
she thought.

Ginerva made a move to sit up but hit her head on the stone above her. It was then she fully realized that she had been buried alive. Panic took her as she folded the shroud from her head. Adrenaline gushed through her veins. There was a stone wall above her, but there was an opening on her left. Ginerva turned over. The tips of her fingers grazed the rough pebble floor. Bracing herself, she rolled out of her resting place and hit the ground hard. Luckily, the tangled shroud and full dress broke her fall. Using her hands and knees, she crawled towards the voices.

Ginerva’s long dress, weak body, and blindness slowed her pace to a crawl. The bickering was getting louder. Never had anything sounded so sweet. Either her eyes were adjusting or moonlight was penetrating through crevices of masonry, but she could make out the walls and skeletons on either side of her path. Ginerva knew exactly where she was. Her husband buried her in his family’s crypt. Months earlier, she had come here to pay respects to his late mother.

“The door is just a little ways now,” she assured herself as she turned into the entrance hall. The dim light that came through a narrow window blinded her.

“This is a rotten job,” said a coarse voice.

“How many times do you have to say it? I promise you one more time won’t make it miraculously pleasant. It puts food in your belly, you ungrateful old man,” answered an almost identical voice.

“Who are you calling old? Don’t you forget I am younger than you. It shows too, as you can barely lift that shovel you’ve got in your hands.”

Ginerva was almost at the door. She used a column in the atrium to prop herself up on her feet.

“Nearly there,” she whispered.

“You’re younger by about two minutes, and even that is unclear. Mama could barely tell us apart. But one thing is for sure, you’re a sour bastard, Marco.”

“That makes two of us, Jacopo.”

Ginerva had reached the grand wooden door and tried to pound on its surface with her weak fists.

“Say what you will. I’m not bitter like you.”

“Does that help you sleep at night?” asked Marco.

Ginerva tried to scream, but a coughing fit overtook her.

“I don’t sleep at night, stupid. I dig graves with my half-wit brother. We should be thanking God that he gave one of us some brains.”

“Did you hear that?” asked Marco, putting a gnarled finger to his chapped lips.

“What?”

Grabbing the shovel out of Jacopo’s hands, Marco waited. “That …” he said, hearing a faint cry. They both looked up.

“It must be coming from one of the crypts.”

“That or it’s those scoundrels trying to scare us again.”

“I don’t think so. That lot of boys are not so subtle.”

Ginerva cried out with all the force she could muster. With one final attempt, she drove her whole body at the entrance. Immediately, she recoiled in pain and sat cradling her arm on the steps. Nothing but silence and sobs hung in the musky air. The smell of decaying flesh was all around her.

“Is someone in there?” said Jacopo from behind the door.

“Yes!” screamed Ginerva. “Please don’t leave me. Open the door, I beg you!”

“Marco! It’s a girl and she’s in there.”

“Told you I heard something. These old ears of mine aren’t shabby yet.”

“Right, don’t go getting a big head. Give me the keys.”

“You’ve got the keys,” said Marco.

“You put them in your bag this afternoon. I saw you do it.”

“Oh yeah,” he admitted, hearing the clashing of metal in his leather pouch.

“Signorina, just wait a bit longer … There are quite a few keys here!”

After only the third key, the door gave way. The elderly twins stared at the crumpled girl sitting on the steps. She was fairness and pitifulness come to life. The black hair that fell to her knees tangled around her. Layers of sweat and grime caked her face. Her full lips trembled as the adrenaline dwindled. The two men got her on her feet and took turns carrying her down the hillside of the cemetery. She barely had the strength to look up from their worn arms, but she managed soft murmurs of gratitude.
How sweet it smells on the hillside
, Ginerva thought. She could feel the warm summer air on her face and the wind carrying the jasmine’s perfume. Even the smell of turned earth was a welcome respite from the crypt.

When they stopped, Ginerva looked up to see two mules. One sulked under the weight of tools and the other had a saddle for two. “I’ll take the lady into the city,” said Marco.

“Why you and not me?”

“Because I’m the one that heard her first,” he explained.

Jacopo looked at the sickly girl and said nothing. “Very well! Don’t be long. I can’t dig all these graves by myself, you know. If this job doesn’t get done—”

“We don’t get paid,” finished Marco, straddling the mule.

With great difficulty, Jacopo lifted Ginerva onto the saddle. Her long dress, now spotted with filth, swept up from the floor.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin your beautiful dress, signorina,” whispered Jacopo as he handed her the trail of her pale pink gown.
How awful
, thought Ginerva as she peered down at the creamy silk and gold embroidered stars. They had clothed her in her wedding dress.

The dress had been the only beautiful thing about that terrible day. As Ginerva's head leaned against Marco’s shoulder, she squeezed Jacopo’s rough hand.

“Be back as soon as I can,” said Marco, heading towards the city gates.

The mule’s rhythmic stride rocked Ginerva to sleep. The next thing she remembered was being awoken by Marco.

“My lady, I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, so I came here,” he said, signaling to the great domed cathedral. “Where can I take you, ma’am?”

“I would be most grateful if you could just let me down here,” said Ginerva.

“Should I fetch a priest?”

“No need, Marco.”

“Allow me to accompany you to your door, signorina.”

“No, thank you,” she said, placing a steady arm on his shoulder. “Thank you and your brother for saving me. I will make sure you are rewarded.”

Marco helped her down. He offered his shoulder to lean on while she regained her balance “Really, my lady, I don’t mind.”

“My husband’s house is just down that alley, I assure you.” She kissed him on the cheek and shuffled towards one of the dark, narrow streets that sprawled off the plaza.

She clung to the walls to support her steps. After a few minutes, she had reached her husband’s door. Ginerva rapped on it until her knuckles bled. The peephole slid open and the candlelight from within revealed her husband’s dark eyes and bushy eyebrows. They were startled at the sight of her, and he shut the opening quickly.

“Please rest in peace, Ginerva … I meant you no harm. I tried to make you happy.”

“You’re a coward and a liar,” she said, her throat chafing with every heavy breath. “Let me in.”

“We want no spirits here. Please go in peace, I beg you.”

Ginerva could hear his rushed footsteps climb up the stairs. She leaned against the door. Her parents’ house seemed so far away, but there was nowhere else to go.

It seemed an eternity before she had turned onto Via dei Benci. The city was still sound asleep. Even the beggars lay sprawled on their backs enjoying the summer night from the comfort of their dreams. When she reached her home, she knocked a familiar melody on the wood. It was a few moments before her father appeared at the street window. His balding head peered down at her.

“Who disturbs this house in mourning at such an indecent hour?” he called.

“It is I, Ginerva,” she cried.

There was a long bout of silence before a sound broke it. In all her life Ginerva had never seen the city so abandoned. Pigeons slept cradled in the arms of the gargoyles and angels that crowned the churches. Not even the wind was awake to dry the sweat that rushed down her face. Nor was there the beat of the Arno’s tide lapping against the bank to comfort her. In a last desperate effort, Ginerva knocked on the door again. She could hear the familiar sound of the locks turning. The door opened just enough to shadow her father’s face.

“Please let me in, Papa, I’m so sick.”

“
Mi Tesoro
… do not haunt me. My guilt is punishment enough,” moaned her father. She was shocked to hear his voice. All her life he had been stoic and above any kind of sadness.

“But I’m alive! Feel me! Touch my skin!” Her voice cracked while her hands flailed desperately about to show the life that remained within her. Frightened by the spirit, her father slammed the door. The once comforting sound of the locks turning transcended to defeat, and Ginerva collapsed on the doorstep of her home. It was impossible to think that she would ever have been shunned from her haven.

“Where will I go?” She groaned, her head hanging between her knees, her nose touching the wet silk of her wedding dress. “Should I shut my eyes and die?” she asked the empty street. “You promise you will take me this time? Swear you will welcome me to your gates?” She cried to the brightening twilight.

Ginerva wedged herself against the stone archway and the decrepit wooden door for a long while. She had been so sure that when she reached the door she loved so much that her father would coo away her pain and her mother would mend her wounds. Smoke sifted through the stench radiating from her. Chimneys burned into life along with the morning’s sun. The shroud of darkness that had engulfed her body and spirit slowly lifted. Ginerva could not remember the last time she saw such a glorious dance of color. Pale yellows and blues spun around their orange and violet partners. The girl staring up at the sunrise realized she had been struggling for the wrong reasons. Ginerva was fighting so hard to recover the life forced upon her, that she forgot to live for the life she had not been allowed to have.

Grasping the wall with moist fingers, she slid up the stone archway until she was standing. “Just a few houses away,” she told herself as the clang of pots and whines of children escaped from behind the houses she clung to. Every step was a marvelous feat. “
Two more houses
.”

When Ginerva reached the house, she tossed her body against the door, hoping that it would be enough. The window’s curtains peeled back revealing the sweetest of faces. Even if he did not open the door for her, it had all been worth it. The whole ordeal was made peaceful with one last glimpse of him. A door opened and she heard her name in the distance.

“Antonio,” she whimpered before she fell unconscious into her lover’s arms.

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