Lucy took a deep breath and nodded, her breath catching in her throat. “It said that a man, an Italian man, in his twenties, was found in a tunnel. They . . . they knew he was Italian but it didn’t say how they knew but they did. They said . . . they said it. He was . . . he was dead and de-com-posing—I mean, in advanced de-compo-si-tion. He was stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, nine times, six times in the back and once in the tummy and twice more in his breast . . . and the stiletto had markings—strange signs on its handle. I don’t know what a stiletto is, but it was murderous-looking, the newspaper said.”
Noah shook his head. “But it doesn’t mean anything to us. I mean—”
“It was him! I know it!” Lucy cried.
“Him?” Then Noah figured it out. “You think the man was Antonio Fornaio?”
Lucy nodded, sniffing back tears.
“But Luce, how—I mean, why now?” Noah tried to be reasonable. “What does this have to do with the baker’s son? You read this weeks and weeks ago, and you never thought to connect it to Signora Fornaio then. Why now?”
“I . . . I didn’t know before.” She sobbed.
“But what do you know now?” asked Jasper.
“The scar,” she blurted out between sobs. “The newspaper said he had a scar across the eyelid on his left eye.”
“I do not understand this,” Miss Brett said as she poured hot chocolate for the children. She looked outside at the snow, once again starting to fall.
Sitting by the fireplace in the manor house, the children tried to tell her about the newspaper article found in the kitchen on the ship.
“I hardly remember reading that bit,” said Faye, trying to think back.
“Lucy does,” said Noah with a humorless smile.
“Lucy remembers everything,” said Jasper, stroking his sister’s hair. Lucy had fallen asleep in Jasper’s lap. After he had gently taken the bracelet out of her mouth, her stuttered breathing seemed to ease.
No one spoke, but they all knew something bad was happening, and somehow, Antonio Fornaio was involved. Was he working for the men in black? Or, infinitely more worrying, was he working for Komar Romak? Did the baker’s son do something to displease his masters? Had they killed him? Why was that article kept on the ship? Did the men in black know? Had they been involved? Once again, there were so many questions and so much doubt. Should they trust these strange men, or should they fear them? A knife with strange markings could easily have come from these men,
These questions hung in the air and circled around and around, over and over as Miss Brett and the children stared into the crackling fire,
Suddenly, there was a harsh knock upon the front door. Lucy sat up, somewhat dazed. “Is it morning?” she asked, groggily.
Miss Brett went to the door. It was Signora Fornaio.
“Signora,” Miss Brett began, but Signora Fornaio stopped her. She was not crying, but the marks of her tears were like red scars down her cheeks. She looked resigned, but shrunken, like the weight of the world had pressed down upon her. Closing the door, Miss Brett noticed a drift of snow wafting in. It was really snowing now.
“Signorina Brett,” Signora Fornaio said, her voice full of strength and will. She walked over to Lucy and bent down to meet her eye to eye. “La bella Lucia. I know that you know something. Something about my Antonio.”
Lucy looked up at Miss Brett, panic on the little girl’s face.
Miss Brett started, “I, we . . . I—”
“Or perhaps, you believe something,” Signora Fornaio said, standing back up,
Miss Brett opened her mouth but said nothing. She closed her mouth and looked down. She could not deny this. Signora Fornaio turned to Lucy.
“Cara, Lucia,” she said, “it is you with the head that holds everything. Per favore, Lucia, cara mia, tell me what you believe.”
Lucy flew into Signora Fornaio’s arms. She didn’t want to say. She never wanted to say And Miss Brett considered this much too big a thing to put on the shoulders of this little girl.
Miss Brett removed Lucy gently from the baker, and Jasper took his sister in his arms. Miss Brett took Signora Fornaio by the hand and led her to the settee, sitting next to her, holding the old woman’s hand all the while. In a soft voice, Miss Brett told Signora Fornaio what they knew. Signora Fornaio listened in silence, an occasional tear escaping from her often closed eyes.
When Miss Brett had told her all she could, Signora Fornaio opened her eyes and nodded. She seemed suddenly to summon strength from within. She pulled a package from her cloak. It was small, about the size of a tinderbox or a square bar of soap, and it fit into the palm of Signora Fornaio’s work-worn hand.
“This Antonio left with me,” she said. “He told me his mission was very secret and he was going to be a rich man in America. But he said that I must never tell anyone, especially i monaci in nero, i fratelli in nero. This I wanted to disagree, but he begged me. He gave this me and tell me that I must keep it for him and never open it until he writes to me. But he has not written and I fear . . .” She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I fear he will not be writing to his mama anymore.”
“You mustn’t say that.” Miss Brett took her hand. “We don’t know . . . we . . .” But Miss Brett knew what the clues meant. She knew that, in all likelihood, the man in the tunnel was the young Fornaio. “Where did your son get this package?”
Tears welled up again in Signora Fornaio’s eyes. “It could be, but I don’t want to believe.” She blew her nose. “I fear it is my fault, but . . . I don’t see how . . . I . . . bring him for help me, to clean, to prepare . . . but he . . . he maybe take it . . . maybe . . . but no . . . non capisco . . . non è possibile . . . non può aver tradito il suo popolo . . .” She was speaking to herself, mumbling in Italian, shaking her head, tears falling hard,
“Signora—” Miss Brett began, but Signora Fornaio stopped her. She put her hand to Miss Brett’s mouth and shook her head. Then Signora Fornaio handed the package to Miss Brett. She turned to leave.
“Wait, Signora, I can’t take this—”
“You must,” Signora Fornaio said.
“Should . . . should I open it?” Miss Brett asked.
“I wish you would,” said Signora Fornaio. “But if it is the reason my son has been killed, I never want to look upon it.”
She stepped outside and walked down the steps. Not wanting Signora Fornaio to be alone in her sorrow, Miss Brett grabbed her winter cloak and rushed to the door to follow. But through the door Miss Brett could see Mezzobassi, the shepherd. He was standing outside, his hand on his friend’s shoulder. He looked up at Miss Brett and waved. Miss Brett waved back, nodding that she understood Signora Fornaio would be in his hands. The shepherd then offered Signora Fornaio his arm, and the two of them walked slowly down the road toward the village.
The snow was falling like a blanket, and almost immediately, the two little people disappeared in the deep whiteness.
“It’s really turning into a storm,” Noah said, looking at the wind twisting the trees.
Miss Brett looked out the window toward the village, trying to see the two walking. She could see nothing—nothing but white,
Miss Brett looked at the package in her hand.
“Open it,” said Jasper.
Miss Brett carefully pulled back the plain paper covering the package. Inside was a simple wooden box. On its exterior was a faded carving, like petals of a flower. Tied around it was a length of twine. The twine held a folded piece of paper to the top of the box. Miss Brett untied the twine and opened the paper. It was a letter, written in Italian. At the top of the writing paper was a drawing of a black bird. Miss Brett placed the letter aside and opened the box. Inside was a soft cloth, perhaps silk.
“Can you move back a bit, sweet angels,” she said. The children were clumped around her, blocking her view of her own hands.
She slowly unfolded the cloth, only to find another cloth. This one was strange and seemed to be l
ined with lead. Whatever was in there, she had no idea. She untied and unfolded the lead-lined cloth. They all leaned over to take a look.
In the box was nothing but a small orb made of shiny, almost iridescent, metal. It was larger than the magnetic spheres, but still would fit easily into the hand of a child. But it had a strange reflective, almost glowing, quality. It was not like any metal the children had ever seen.
Noah reached in to touch it, but Miss Brett grabbed his hand.
“We don’t know what it is or what it does,” she said. Then, carefully, using her apron as a protective cover, she touched it herself. It did not react in any way. She dropped the apron and touched it with her finger. Nothing. She took it out of the box. They all crowded around closer. She placed it on the table. The orb did not move. It did not make a sound. It did not react in any way that betrayed its mission, if indeed it had one.
“What is it?” asked Noah.
“It’s an orb,” said Wallace.
“It looks very much like our magnetic spheres,” said Jasper, “but it almost glows.”
“It might contain bismuth, or something radioactive,” said Wallace.
He took out the sphere and the bismuth he had in his pocket and handed them to Noah, who placed them next to the orb, but the metal orb in the box did not react. Wallace then reached for the orb, but Miss Brett stopped him. She picked it up, using the edge of her apron. She didn’t want them touching it in case it was made of something toxic.
“Could this be the thing that was so important?” said Jasper, incredulous.
Noah pushed the orb slightly with the edge of the bismuth crystal, and it moved slightly, then stopped. It was, as far as they could tell, simply a orb.
“Maybe the note says something,” said Jasper.
Noah put the orb back in the box, and Miss Brett picked up the note.
“Can you read it?” asked Noah.
“I’ve only been learning Italian for two months, Noah,” Miss Brett said, “and, as the incident with the eyebrow has taught us, I am not fluent. Lucy is much better at—”
“No! I don’t want to look!” Lucy covered her face with her hands.
“Well, it is obviously from Antonio, and written to his mother . . .” She scanned the letter, looking for familiar words. “And he says ‘morto,’ which means—”
“‘Dead,’” said Lucy, biting her lip.
“I think he says that he must be dead if she is reading this, or, I suppose . . . ‘Se fossi’ means ‘if I was’ . . . ‘vivo,’ ‘alive’ . . . that if he had been alive, she would not be reading this . . . or something like that, ‘Camera di un migliaio di lingue’ . . . I don’t understand that, but I think it says ‘room of a thousand languages,’ but that makes no sense. Let me see . . . ‘in pericolo,’ someone is in peril or danger. He . . . it says he has betrayed someone . . . ‘tradimento,’ ‘betrayal’ . . . ‘benefattore,’ ‘benefactor’ . . . he has . . . I think . . . ‘pauroso’ . . . fear . . . of . . .” And here Miss Brett sucked in her breath.
“What is it?” asked Jasper.
“It says—”
But Miss Brett was interrupted when the door flew open and a man in a black bonnet, black-laced pantaloons, and a large, hooked shepherd’s staff walked in. Although he wore a fierce expression on his face, the rest of his attire made him look like a big Bo Peep in mourning.
“Where has it?” he asked.
“What?” asked Miss Brett, not sure whether she should hide the box or not. She casually covered it with her handkerchief, “Has he been? Did he know?” Bo Peep looked what could best be called fearful.
Miss Brett was flustered. “I am sorry, but I don’t—”
“No!” he shouted. Then, he turned toward Jasper and pointed, menacingly. “You . . . what has?”
“Me?” I don’t know what you mean.” Jasper moved back from the man’s pointing finger.
The finger moved to Faye. “You . . . where? He has been?”
“Do not point your finger at the children!” Miss Brett was now not only afraid, but quite angered. “Who? Who are you talking about? Does who know what?”
“Yes, tell me!” he shouted.
Lucy started crying and hid her face in Jasper’s arms.
Miss Brett had had enough. “Look, you, I want some answers. Did you kill Antonio Fornaio? What is going on here?”
Bo Peep stepped back as if he had been hit.
“Antonio?” he said quietly. “Does she know?”
“She? Antonio is not a she,” Noah said. “Antonio is the baker’s son.”
“That’s not who he means, Noah,” said Faye, her eyes narrowing as comprehension dawned.
Miss Brett seemed suddenly to put the pieces together. Signora Fornaio had not known before tonight—but he had. “Yes, she knows. Oh, you horrid, horrid—”
“No, not we—” But he didn’t finish. Instead, he turned on his little black boots and ran out the door.
Miss Brett stood with her mouth agape. Through the window, she watched the man run, his laced pantaloons billowing with each stride, his bonnet flapping on his head. He grabbed the man in black who was shoveling snow from the path to the garden, then ran back to the house, dragging the man along. The man Bo Peep brought with him wore a brimmed hat with black feathers trimming the edges, and what appeared to be a black suit made of feathers. He looked at the children, then at Miss Brett. He pulled his feather boa from his face. They could see his quivering chin.
“It was me,” he said, dropping into a chair, his head falling into his hands.
In an instant, Miss Brett began to formulate plans. She ran various scenarios through her mind, quickly altering and revising. They would have to pack their belongings, but that might take too much time. Instead, she considered just grabbing the children and running. The problem was, she didn’t know where to run. Could she run to the underground castle? There must be more to it than that one room. Possibly that was where the parents were at work, but she had no way of knowing for sure. And she had no way of finding their workplace, either. More likely, they’d wind up lost forever in those tunnels, ultimately joining the unfortunate artist.
Whatever she was going to do, she was going to do it now. They had murdered the baker’s son. The feathered man had just confessed. She could no longer allow the children to be with these murderous men in black. She felt so betrayed. She had trusted them, or had at least begun to. Could it be that all the mysterious men in black were evil? Or was just this feathered man?
But when the feathered man looked up, she was taken aback. She saw no evil. She saw no anger. She saw no murderer. What she saw was profound sorrow, the deepest sorrow that eyes could reveal. Something was wrong, Miss Brett could see. This man could not have meant to kill Antonio Fornaio. Collecting herself, Miss Brett steadied her voice,
“You didn’t want to kill him then, did you? Was it an accident?” Then she remembered that Antonio had been stabbed nine times. “Or self-defense?”
He looked at her in horror. “Kill Antonio? I am not. I find him.”
Now she was utterly confused. “I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t . . . What did you say?”
“I find Antonio. Dead.” From his shaking shoulders, she could see the man was now weeping,
Miss Brett didn’t know what to say. The feathered man looked up at her. She could see how miserable he was, even through his dark glasses and huge moustache and beard. Looking at him sitting there, wringing his hands and shaking his head, she knew there were tears hidden in his eyes. She felt sorry for him. He was in pain. He was hurt. He was real. It was the first time she had even considered one of these mysterious men to have any human attribute whatsoever,
The feathered man looked down again, hanging his head, eyes on the ground. She put her hand on his shoulder. He began to sob. She patted his shoulder and waited patiently. He hiccupped, then seemed to collect himself,
“Antonio bad boy. He hafna inkwiet—trouble. He worry to us,” the feathered man said.
“He . . . ideat ħżiena. His ideas bring sorrow,” said Bo Peep, who had been standing in the doorway, quietly sad and thoughtful.
The feathered man looked up at Bo Peep. He spoke in a language unlike any Miss Brett had ever heard. It was not Italian, that was for sure. She realized these men, when they spoke English, were certainly not speaking with Italian accents. What on earth was it?
“Tell us what happened,” said Faye. “What is going on here?”
“Not know to say,” said the feathered man.
“To say what?” asked Noah.
“I don’t want to know what happened in the tunnel,” insisted Lucy covering her ears.
The feathered man looked at Miss Brett.
“Please tell us,” she said quietly, placing her hands over Lucy’s ears to further deaden the sound.
“Antonio,” said the feathered man. “He in, and I wait.”
“For who?” asked Noah.
“Say not say,” said the feathered man.
“He told you?” asked Lucy, pulling her hands and Miss Brett’s away, then quickly replacing them before she could hear the answer.
“Told him what?” asked Noah, scratching his head.
“Not know we knew.”
“Knew what?” asked Faye.
“Yes,” said the feathered man.
“Yes, what?” asked Noah.
“Yes, knew we he do,” said the feathered man.
“Do he what?” asked Noah.
“What was he doing?” asked Jasper.
Miss Brett’s hands no longer over her ears, Lucy decided to give up trying to hide, since she could hear through her hands anyway. “He was doing bad, wasn’t he?” she said. “Antonio did something very bad and you were trying to stop him.”
“So bad.” The feathered man shook his head, looking down.
Bo Peep shook his head, too. “Antonio want. He want free. Riches. More than more.”
“Heart gone,” the feathered man agreed.
“Lost and break,” Bo Peep added.
“Not to know. Never back. She heart so,” said the feathered man.
The Ravens of Solemano or The Order of the Mysterious Men in Black Page 29