The Demon Catchers of Milan #2: The Halcyon Bird (12 page)

This was one of those times when I’d felt like they hardly remembered I was in the room unless I spoke to them. Signora Gianna mentioned losing track of things. Perhaps she also lost track of human presences? And who or what was Gravel? Why had he forgotten where he came from? How old was he?

I couldn’t ask them directly. I’d tried, a week or two earlier, and they had just vanished into thin air, leaving behind a familiar feeling of emptiness.

Now, the air above me held a feeling of silent communion. The fight was over. They’d agreed on this matter—a matter of love.

I went to sleep wishing, once again, that I knew more about love, and about my family.

N
onno Giuliano was very pleased that Anna Maria and I had found the entries for the Second Door. We read on, learning about the kinds of wood G. Della Torre had used, the number of silver nails, and the real iron nails that had been used to keep the thing from falling off the wall of the palace. It seemed half a practical structure, half a balcony made of dreams.

I mentioned this to Giuliano one morning about two weeks after our visit to Signore Strozzi. He was too distracted to hear me. Without raising his eyes from the notes he was writing, he said, “Go and see if Nonna needs your help with lunch.” I nodded and went up the stairs, wondering why I didn’t complain,
like I would have if my mom or dad was telling me what to do.

Nonna Laura did need help with lunch, which was going to be a mushroom risotto to start, then a veal cutlet with a
contorno
of winter greens, and an orange salad to finish.

“The last of the oranges from our tree, this year,” she told me sadly, handing me a bowl of them to peel.

“We have an orange tree?” I asked, looking around. She laughed.

“Not here,” she said. “We have a place by the sea. We’ll take you there in the summer. These,” she added, pointing to the oranges, “Francesco brought back. Peel them and slice them to make circles, so.” She gestured with her hands. I started peeling.

“Everything all right?” asked Nonna, sitting down opposite me with a bunch of asparagus and beginning to snap the ends.

“Yes,” I lied. She nodded. For a while, the only sound in the kitchen was the snapping of asparagus and the whisper of orange peel. I watched the misty spray of orange zest burst from between my fingers.

Nonna did what she always does, snapping asparagus, waiting.

“I miss home,” I said, giving up. She looked up and pressed her lips together in sympathy.

“Skype isn’t enough,” she agreed.

“They are saving money to come over,” I said. “I know I shouldn’t try to go home yet.”

At that moment, I asked myself, really for the first time,
whether I could go home. There was more than a fair chance that when the demon and I met again, I would die. I knew that.

“I miss home, yet at the same time I don’t know if I’ll ever really want to go home, or if I’ll ever have the choice,” I said, surprised by my own words.

She nodded, snapping away.

“Of course, I don’t know if you could stand to have me live here forever,” I added.

“We’d manage,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “You are very helpful around the shop,” she added. “And your cooking is really improving.”

Francesca came home for lunch, bringing a loaf of freshly baked bread. Nonno glowered at her, his expression reminding me of my dad. “What are you doing home so early?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” she said with a shrug. “I don’t have court this afternoon, so Marcello said I should just take my work home.” She sat down, rubbing her eyes. “Oh, and Égide will be home late, he’s got a hearing for the Sudan case. He may have to go to Rome next week.”

I remembered that Rome was where Francesca and Emilio’s mother, Giulietta, lived. After their father, Luciano, died, she’d eventually moved back with her family in the capital. Maybe Égide would visit her while he was there. I saw Nonno look down at his plate.

Hating to see everyone look so sad, I said quickly, “Is this the same Sudan case he’s been working on?”

Francesca smiled faintly and said, “Yes. It’s three women with their daughters, seeking asylum from the Sudan. There’s so much pressure right now, so many people wanting to get into the European Union. Once you have a passport, you know, all Europe is your job market. It’s a big deal.”

One of the immigration offices was a few blocks from our apartment, in the Via Montebello. I had seen the line going down the street, heard twenty languages being spoken at once. Francesca and I had gone over there a couple of times to walk Égide home after a case, stopping for gelato if the day hadn’t gone well for him, or shopping for dinner, if it had.

After lunch, Nonno went back down to the shop while Francesca took a nap. That left me with Nonna and the dishes, and I found myself telling Nonna about summer in Center Plains: the humidity, the summer jobs, the smell of cut grass, the nights when we went to the movies just to get into an air-conditioned building. I had to explain what air-conditioning was. She said, “Mostly, we just go to the sea when it gets that hot. It sounds like our way is better.”

I didn’t mention that I was fairly sure Aunt Brigida had air-conditioning. Nonna was always pleased whenever the Milanese way was proven, yet again, to be better than that of the rest of the world.

“I guess so,” I said.

I ended up taking a nap, too. Later, Nonna stopped me on my way downstairs and said, “Can you catch up with Nonno and give him this list for the shops?”

I took the list and barreled down the stairs and through the back office. Emilio, who must have come in when I was asleep, raised his eyes and said, “Watch it!”

“Sorry!” I called, looking back at him from the doorway, before turning and running into someone, hard.

He grunted.

“Uh—oh—sorry,” I said again, and found myself face-to-face with the top button of a man’s blue shirtfront. I looked up. What I saw made me jump back, even more embarrassed.

Up until then, I’d thought Emilio the most beautiful man in Milan. Over the centuries, Etruscans, Romans, Vikings, and Arabs had passed through the city and left more than money and architecture behind. The man in front of me had classic Milanese looks—dark hair with deep reddish tones; pale blue eyes; high cheekbones; translucent skin.

He looked down at me and grinned.

“In a hurry,” he stated, in a level tenor that sounded younger than he looked but was as beautiful as the rest of him.

“Sorry,” I began. “I thought—”

Nonno laughed behind him.

“Mia, meet Bernardo Tedesco, grandson of an old friend of mine,” he said. “Bernardo, this is Mia Della Torre, our young American cousin.”

“Ah! Emilio was telling me about you,” said the most beautiful man in Milan.

Crap
, I thought.
What did Emilio tell you? Lame, clumsy …

Bernardo just smiled and looked at me like an Italian
man looks at, well, a woman, I guess.
“Piacere,”
he said, and I remembered my manners, finally.

“Piacere,”
I replied, and put out my hand.

“You are enjoying Milan?” he asked.

I thought of Anna Maria, and replied, “Who wouldn’t?”

He laughed. “Well, this time of year, just about anybody,” he said. “The city is full of freezing fog, most of the time.”

“The other night was perfect,” I blurted out, remembering Nonna’s birthday dinner.

“True,” he agreed, his eyes twinkling.

“We should go,” said Giuliano, touching Bernardo’s arm. “We can talk on the way.”

“Oh, right. Though you’ll have to ask my father about most of the details, like scheduling,” said the most beautiful man in Milan. “Good-bye,” he told me. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes,” I said. “I mean, it was a pleasure to meet you, too.”

He laughed again and buttoned up his coat before following Nonno out the door.

I completely forgot to give Nonno the shopping list, and ended up having to track him down; I was glad of the excuse to catch up with him, hoping he was still with Bernardo. He wasn’t.

I knew Emilio had mentioned Bernardo on the night of Nonna’s birthday party, but I didn’t know anything else about him, or why he had been visiting Nonno. It took two long days to find out.

Studying wasn’t enough to distract me, even though I was searching for the demon’s poem. The next afternoon, I skimmed volumes of minor poets and struggled, more slowly, through collections of letters, looking for one line, one reference. I felt the old, familiar urgency—I had to solve the riddle before the demon found a way around my bell. My quest tugged at me, but now I felt another pull. I couldn’t stop thinking about Bernardo, about the way it had felt to slam into him and hear his voice.

You met the guy for five minutes
, I told myself. It didn’t matter. My eyes drifted away from the pages as I tried to figure out how old he must be, and whether he had a girlfriend. I kept thinking about how blue his eyes were, and how before I had come to Milan I had never seen such a combination: the pale, pale skin, the dark red-brown hair, and the eyes like borrowed sky.

The shop bells jingled, and I came out of my reverie to see Signora Strozzi closing the door behind her, and looking around as if she were surprised to find herself in such a place. Maybe she had all her candles delivered.

“Buon giorno,”
she said in a bright voice, and actually smiled at me.

I stood up.

“Buon giorno
, Signora Strozzi,” I replied, more warmly than I meant to. “What can I do for you today?”

“I have come to speak to Signore Della Torre. Is he in, please?”

“I am,” said Giuliano, emerging from the office. He came forward and clasped her hand, glancing at me. “
Buon giorno
, Signora Strozzi; it is good to see you again. Please sit. May I get you anything to eat or drink?”

She shook her head, taking the chair he offered her.

“You know my assistant,” he told her. “May she remain?”

Please say yes!
I thought. I didn’t want to miss this.

“It would be helpful to the case if she did,” Nonno added gently. “Young eyes see many things old ones do not. And young ears hear better,” he finished with a deprecating laugh.

“That’s fine,” she said without a smile this time.

She was wearing the same enormous diamond earrings I had seen last time. As she turned her head, they caught the light, and flashed like a warning.

“He’s getting worse,” she said abruptly. “He was up in the night, screaming.”

She glared at me as if this were my fault. Giuliano caught her eyes and held them with a kind look.

“I am very sorry to hear that,” he said. “It is indeed the kind of thing that gets worse before it gets better. Fortunately, we have discovered a possible solution.”

“Oh?”

The relief and eagerness in her voice gave her away. I realized she hadn’t been glaring at me at all; she had been glaring because of how helpless she felt.

“Yes,” said Nonno. “It is a complex but ancient practice.
Have you ever heard of the Second Door?”

“No.”

“It is a magical door, one that we build in this world in order to enter another.” In answer to her frown, he added, “I know you are still having a hard time believing this.”

He waited. She said nothing.

“But,” he went on, “you had the sense to send for me in the first place, which suggests this is not the first time you have run across the supernatural in your life.”

“It is not,” she said, sounding slightly proud.

“So …” said Giuliano, “it is possible for you to believe that a door made of ordinary wood can serve such a purpose. And we have built such doors before. My ancestor indeed built one for the rulers of Milan, more than two centuries ago.”

“Really?”

He smiled at her.

“Yes, indeed. A door on the side of the Palazzo Reale. It was for one of the governors, you know, during the Austrian occupation,” he added with a wave of his hand. “Not a Milanese. But we have done them for other Milanese, too.”

In spite of herself she seemed interested. She smiled, and I saw the worry lines, the shadows of sleeplessness on her face.

“The Palazzo Reale,” she repeated. “My husband’s ancestors funded the renovation. And you built a door on the side of the palace, a permanent door? Did your ancestor cut a hole in the wall? Is it still there?”

“No, no. A Second Door is a kind of false door,” Giuliano answered. “We generally build it over a large window, or better yet, a set of French doors on a balcony. I think I saw a balcony at your house?”

“We have more than one.”

“Excellent.”

“But you can’t permanently damage our home.”

“Of course not. We would remove the Second Door afterward as if it had never been there.”

“My husband will not approve.”

Nonno nodded and spread his hands out on his trouser legs. He met her eye.

“Can you convince him?” he asked.

She raised her eyebrows.

“I see I need not ask,” he said dryly.

“But why this … carpentry project? Why not the bell, book, and candle, all that?”

I was curious to hear how Nonno would answer this one.

“Are you familiar with the instruments of your husband’s trade?” he asked.

“Some of them,” she answered guardedly.

“The different kinds of loans, the ways he and his ancestors made money from loans to princes, funding their military campaigns, and so forth?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Our work is much the same: different situations require different instruments. I would not use only the rituals of
expulsion in this matter, just as your husband would not use a home loan to fund a war.”

Signora Strozzi did not look impressed. She pressed her lips together, holding his eyes.

“And the cost?”

“Well, it is not cheap,” Giuliano said bluntly.

“Price is no object,” Signora Strozzi said firmly. I saw her chin lift. Nonno had said the right thing.

Then why ask about it in the first place?
I thought.
Because she’s proud, and she wants to show that they are rich
, I answered myself.