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until the doctor arrived with the undertakers to take away the mortal remains, and eagerly awaiting lunch, which was, of course, their favourite pastime.

    The Bonaiuti Ferro sisters had gone to ground in the little chapel close to the woods and there, kneeling on the wooden benches, had begun to unwind kilometres of rosary beads in memory of the dead man and beg forgiveness for his soul – obviously ignoring the fact that Teodoro was a good person and that the one sin he had been in the habit of committing, that is, kicking the pathetic excuse for a dog that was currently crouched at their feet, was the only one the two old maids could never forgive him.

    Signorina Barbarici was lying in the dark in her room, with a damp cloth on her forehead and her ankles raised, moaning from time to time.

    Signor Ciceri had set off for the woods, whistling a happy tune,with his camera over his shoulder, accompanied by the estate manager’s youngest son, Cecco, who was pleased to have been granted the privilege of carrying the photographer’s tripod and guiding him to the most picturesque spots.

    Sitting next to her grandmother, young Cecilia was reading to her in a voice throbbing with emotion:
    â€œâ€˜In the days that followed, which loomed before us huge and laden with dangers, grim and solemn and mysterious and unknown, no battles were to be expected, according to the forecasts, but only retreats. Not even two days later …’”
    The dowager baroness seemed bored.
    â€œâ€˜And so we were now prisoners of war, the whole of our platoon. With me—’”
    â€œThat’s enough, Cecilia, please.”
    Even when she spoke calmly (which did not happen often), the dowager baroness’ words were orders. With ill-concealed chagrin, Cecilia closed the book. “Don’t you like it?”
    â€œIt’s better than the rubbish the Barbarici woman insists on reading to me. But it still makes me sad. I don’t need to read stories about a decaying aristocratic family. I just have to look around me.”
    â€œDon’t say that, Nonna.”
    â€œWhy on earth not? Did you see the spectacle Lapo made of himself this morning? As drunk as a coachman, and even more vulgar. The only thing the boy’s good for is unbuttoning his trousers.”
    â€œAt least this time we were together as a family. Do you remember when he put out the fire on New Year’s Eve?”
    The dowager baroness glared at Cecilia.
    The previous year, Lapo had been invited together with all the family to dinner at the house of Marquis Odescalchi, the father of Lapo’s betrothed, Berenice. The Bonaiuti family had arrived at seven o’clock on the dot, apart from Lapo, who had reached the castle three hours late, in gaiters and crush-hat, and with an alcohol level that had gone through the roof. Having been silently admitted to the dimly lit smoking room by the butler, he had mistaken the function of the sandstone arch towards which he had groped his way (and which was actually a fireplace) and had cheerfully emptied his bladder on the embers beyond the fire screen. The sizzling cloud of steam that rose in consequence of this had scared poor Lapo to death – the rum obviously playing its part, too – and he had run out of the room and across the whole of the dining room at a gallop, with his trousers still unbuttoned, screaming “The devil! The devil!” and blowing on his penis, in full sight of the two families lined up around the table. The engagement had been called off the following day.
    Cecilia sustained her grandmother’s gaze, and an involuntary smile creased the dowager baroness’ lips. Two seconds later, they were both laughing.

    â€œThe explanation is simple. He’s an invert.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Lapo and Gaddo were walking slowly around the pond, Lapoholding a cup of strong coffee and Gaddo with his hands behind his back.
    â€œAn invert. A pederast. If you