The Demon Catchers of Milan #2: The Halcyon Bird (32 page)

After a long silence, Francesca said, “You know, Mia, there’s this ridiculous idea that we make women and men out of each other—that somehow you’re a woman, or a man, once you’ve had sex.”

I felt my face burn. What did she think I had done with Bernardo?

“We didn’t,” I blurted out. My chest ached.

She laughed. “I’m pretty sure I would have guessed if you had,” she said. “It’s okay, Mia. And what I am saying is I don’t think that it’s true, that to me sex is
not
the rite of passage that makes us women and men.”

I frowned. What mysterious ritual did I still have to endure, to grow up? What was she talking about?

She went on. “I think that we become women and men after our first difficult, impossible experience even.… We become grown human beings after we recover from it. It’s not the terrible thing that happens to us; it’s when we reap strength from it. Do you see what I mean? That out of the soil of that difficulty comes a flower … ah, that metaphor is terrible!” She laughed at herself.

“I think I see,” I said, still watching the boats.

“In the old days, the Church gave us rituals so we knew when we were grown. Before the Church, there were our older religions, and before that, our tribes. Now, there are not so many rituals, which is why people might think sex is the big one. But I believe that the moment of true adulthood comes in
one’s own heart. After we choose to overcome what has happened.
If
we choose to.”

“But why does it have to be after such suffering?” I asked. “I’ve been possessed, I’ve watched someone dying from the same demon’s attack, I’ve probably lost my true love—” I stopped, embarrassed. “Certainly, I will never forget the moment his face changed, in my arms.…” This time, my voice just died in my throat.

Francesca put an arm around my shoulders and I leaned into her. I felt a flash of fear—what if I was wrong about where my demon was—what if I turned and saw his eyes in her face? But then she spoke again, in her warm voice, as rich as her brother’s. “I don’t know, Mia, why we have to suffer to become grown. Did you appreciate the life you have half as much before your possession? Now that it has nearly been taken from you, does it not seem more of a gift?”

I thought about this.

“No, not after it was nearly taken. I was too busy recovering and being scared and angry. Now, though, yeah, I appreciate every minute. Even the bad ones seem like gifts, sometimes. Not all the bad ones, though.”

She smiled sadly. “Yes.” She went on, “That is why I believe it is not the suffering but the testing of our strength that matters. What do you know about yourself, now? You know you’re strong enough to survive him once, to help pull another back from the brink, and to defend a third. You know you can
survive the terror of waiting for his attacks, first cornered in a house and a circle of family, and then on your own, out in the city, the world.”

She stopped, then added, “But I am not the one who should be telling you these things. You will know them all by yourself, or know what is good for you.”

She looked conscience-stricken, and I smiled at her. “Actually,” I said, “I appreciate the help.”
Especially since that isn’t the Della Torre way
, I thought.

We stood quietly for a moment. For the first time, I pondered what that moment had been for her. Was it when her father died? She’d only been nine.

I looked down the pier at Nonna, standing near the very end, the scarf she’d tied over her hair lifting in the night wind.

“What is she remembering?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said Francesca. “A lot of times, we Della Torres bring our brides, or grooms, here on honeymoon. We come in the winter as well, when there are fewer tourists, though we didn’t this year, because of you.… But no, don’t feel bad! We used to come out in the summer, too, in August. We might do that this year.” She looked back at Nonna.

“She’s remembering walking on this pier with your father,” I said, startled by my certainty. “When he was a boy.”

Francesca raised her eyebrows, her blue eyes gleaming at me in the half-light.

“You think so?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

She gazed at Nonna.

“I cannot bear imagining what it would be like to lose your only son,” she said softly. And then, “Well, maybe we have let her walk with him long enough, for now? Let’s go to her.”

Francesca gave me her arm and we walked slowly down the pier together.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’re welcome.… For what?”

“For not rushing to comfort me about—him; for letting me cry. For saying the things you said now. It helps to hear someone else thinking about it. Thank you for being here.”

She laughed. “You are very welcome. I can hardly help being myself, you know.”

Francesca touched her stomach thoughtfully, and I looked at her, wondering again what was different about her. I could almost name it, but not quite.

We caught up with Nonna. I expected to see tears on her face, but she was smiling, though her eyes were still far away.

“Luciano used to refuse to go to bed on nights like this,” she said, and Francesca flicked a glance at me. “He would make at least one of us walk down to the harbor with him. Sometimes he tried to walk to the moon, especially when he was very young. He would reach out his arms for her. Sometimes he just threw rocks in that shining path. If you came down to the harbor with him, you could get him to go to bed afterward.
If you tried to be firm, it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t worth the pain, believe me. Such a sweet boy, and he could throw such a tantrum! A tantrum over the moon.”

Nonna Laura looked at the two of us. “It’s cooling off,” she said. “Let’s go home. Unless one of you wants to throw a tantrum?”

I shrugged. “Not really,” Francesca said, deadpan.

“Me, either,” I said.

On the way home, I convinced Nonna and Francesca to stop for gelato just before the shop closed. I got my favorite,
nocciola
, hazelnut, but Francesca made me promise I would try
melone
before we left. I found myself hoping we would stay here forever. I would make my home here by the sea, and cook food, and all those people with demons could look after themselves. I wouldn’t even try to find out the name of a certain poet.… I wrinkled my forehead in thought as we left the shop, and Nonna patted my arm.

“You think too much,” she informed me with a wave of her gelato spoon. “The young always do. Stop worrying for a minute.”

“I’m not worrying,” I retorted, then added, “sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

She just laughed and shook her head. “Well,” she said, “we’ve seen the moon, so now we can go home and go to bed.”

I turned and put my arms around her, kissing her cheek.

I woke up the next morning while the house was still silent,
and stood by the window, watching the light change on the sea as the sun rose with silent, unstoppable power.

Most of me still felt like I would never get over the moment when I felt the double pulse in Bernardo’s neck. I couldn’t allow myself to think that he might forgive me. I should have mentioned that I came with a few risks. “Every relationship has problems,” I could imagine Gina joking.

I gripped the windowframe. I understood then what I hadn’t before, even while the demon was forcing Bernardo’s throat to speak, forcing his arms to hold me. I understood why Nonno did the work he did, why Emilio did it. They had brought me to Italy to learn to protect myself, but I had more to protect than myself, now.

Even if Bernardo never spoke to me again.

He wasn’t the only one I would fight for, either.

My heart hurt. I mean the actual muscle just ached, while I stood there, watching the sea and the town emerge into daylight.

I stared out at the flickering water, imagining a nest out there, bobbing on the waves, and a small bird gliding out to it, a stick in its beak. It landed, rocking the nest, and wove the twig into the refuge, making the nest that much sturdier where it floated, suspended over the deep.

Then, under the waves, I saw my demon’s face. There was a terrible yearning in his eyes, but that faded, and he grinned like a lizard.

“Go ahead,” I told my demon. “We’re not finished yet.”

W
hile I wrote this novel my whole life changed utterly. I know I’m going to forget to thank someone, so bear with me.

I would like to thank my daughter Tasmin for interrupting everything by her arrival, and teaching me precisely how to combine new motherhood and a career.

I would like to thank my stepdaughter, Rain Lochner, for her ideas about the big possession scene. It’s good because of you, dear.

Stacy Braslau-Schneck and Dave and Monica Schneck, you saved my groats emotionally and physically during one of the hardest periods of my life. For shelter, comfort, and emergency holiday inclusion, I thank you.

Luna, Flipper, Minnie: we miss you. Thank you, our loyal pack mates.

Vicki Vickers, you took us in and grandmothered Tasmin on zero notice. Thank you. Rob Kent, you lent us the car and your support. Thank you.

Emmanuele, Nicola, Gianni, and Adamo of the Monastery Hostel in Milan, I am grateful for your enthusiasm, advice, and cheerful acceptance of the odd American couple and the youngest youth at your hostel. You helped us to find out where the Strozzi family would live, where Nonna would have her birthday, and a whole bunch of other important information.

Marco, owner of Candele Mum, you took the news that your shop inspired a novel very well.

The nation of Italy and the city of Milan: you welcomed my five-month-old daughter with open arms. We learned quickly to leave an extra half hour before going anywhere, so that the Milanese could talk to our daughter, and the first words Wolf learned in Italian were probably, “
Cinque mezze
—five months.” Because of you, my daughter knows how to smile.

Titi, John, and Diana at the Alhambra restaurant—along with the rest of your family, especially Tasmin’s Eritrean-Italian friend Christian, and your neighbors, especially Giorgio—you all fed us great food and kept us talking half the night, teaching me so much about the immigrant’s view of Italy.

Wolfgang, you believed in me and took care of our tiny daughter through the first draft. Though we didn’t work out,
we both did our best, and we’ll go on doing it for our daughter’s sake. Thank you.

Haddayr Copley-Woods read the draft in record time, and raced to give me such sensible help. So did my doughty Smokey Wizard Bacon crew, Brendan Day, Carrie Ferguson, David Englestad, David Gallay, and Kelly Janda. Thank you all for the reassurances and the insights. David Gallay, especially, made sure that Mia kicked more butt.

Art Chocolate—Cathy Couture, Jane Washburn, Kim Long-Ewing, Rhea Ewing, Rio Mayoleth, and Stacie Arellano—saw me through. Cathy and Jane, thank you for housing Tasmin and me, and Cathy, thank you for being her Madison grandmother. Karen Meisner, Beth Hoover, and Stephen White, you helped me bear the hard stuff and celebrate the awesome stuff.

Thank you, Bonnie Cutler, managing editor at Egmont, for having the savvy to hire Joan Giurdanella, and for believing so much in my work. I also want to thank Andrea Cascardi, Egmont’s publisher, for your forbearance when one thing after another was happening—and for setting the deadline when it mattered. Thank you to Margaret Coffee and Michelle Bayuk, and everyone else in marketing, for making it possible for my readers to find me.

Ruth Katcher, my editor, you were patient when I needed patience, and set deadlines when I needed to focus. Your edits made this a far better book. Joan Giurdanella, you caught some
major howlers, and you and I made Ruth laugh with our online debates. Caitlin Blasdell, my agent, you joined with Ruth in lending emotional and professional support. I know you all know this, but still I’ll remind you: you rock.

Thank you all. I couldn’t have let Bernardo go without you.