names she’d mentioned. I watched her, with her perfect hair and clothes, her pristine skin and elegant features. I’d seen her photograph in magazines, and on a billboard, too. I always wanted to point her out, and say, “That’s my cousin.”
Who would guess that that face hid a mind full of history, or that she sometimes came to her photo shoots straight from an exorcism?
“Okay,” she said, pushing a pile of leather-bound notebooks toward me. “We need to look for these two names, or a variation on them. I know Nonno thinks I’ve got all this in my head now but I don’t. I’ve always been interested in the nineteenthcentury, not the eighteenth. Although I’ve often speculated about G. Della Torre, the one who founded our shop. These cases would have happened during his time, you know.
“Of course,” she added, “with some clients we had to use code names, particularly if they were nobles. So if you see some unusual name repeated, something that doesn’t look normal, note the page.”
She passed me a pad of what looked like very slender, cream-colored Post-its. “Use these,” she said. “Always. They are acid-free and won’t harm these old manuscripts.”
I nodded, opening the notebook on the top of the pile. The spidery, gorgeous cursive handwriting of our ancestors was hard to read. There were records of visits, like the one Nonno Giuliano and I had paid Signore Strozzi; detailed notes of exorcisms, with commentary on what had worked and what hadn’t. We wound up with a list of page references, with short notes beside them. The notebooks began to bristle with acid-free markers.
It may not sound all that interesting, but we had a good time. We each had a notebook in G. Della Torre’s handwriting, as well as the notebooks of three other ancestors working at the same time. I liked reading G.’s notes the best, because they were the cleverest, and the funniest. He said things like, “Giovanni does not remember a thing about last night, which must count as a blessing; what a shame that everyone else will.”
Sometimes he gave me a more direct idea of who he was: “I felt as excited by this discovery as I did the day I snuck myfather’s copy of
Scienza Nuova
out from under his nose and read the whole thing in a night.”
Around ten o’clock, Anna Maria slapped the table and said, “Ah!”
“You found it?”
“I think so. Prince Georg. ‘A strong presence, easily detected by my assistants …’ ”
She paged forward, white gloves fluttering in the lamplight.
“Here. ‘I have elected to build a Second Door on the side of the palace; it took some time to convince the prince, for he did not easily understand the idea of a demon of place, Austrians lacking subtlety—or this one at least. Like every other client, he commanded us to make as little fuss as possible; this suits my instinct as a demon catcher, since I would avoid the fate of my great-grandfather.’ ”
She paused and looked up at me.
“I can’t remember who his great-grandfather was. We did get tried as witches, sometimes, you know.”
“What, like, burned at the stake?”
I think I must have sounded facetious, because Anna Maria replied, “Well, yes. That was if you survived the trial; they had some pretty harsh methods for testing people for witchcraft, you know.”
She frowned and went on with the notes. “ ‘The demon has certainly disturbed the palace with his antics, all of which show a ghoulish sense of humor: meals uncovered beforePrince Georg appear to be maggot-ridden, though they left the kitchen in perfect order; wine turns to foxglove on the palate, then to wine again, terrifying guests (many of whom already have reason to fear poison); sleepers wake to find corpses in bed with them, only to watch them fade into nothing.’ ” Neither Anna Maria nor I could figure out what about this demon made it a demon of place, except that it haunted the palace.
We learned that G. built a false balcony and
Who would guess that that face hid a mind full of history, or that she sometimes came to her photo shoots straight from an exorcism?
“Okay,” she said, pushing a pile of leather-bound notebooks toward me. “We need to look for these two names, or a variation on them. I know Nonno thinks I’ve got all this in my head now but I don’t. I’ve always been interested in the nineteenthcentury, not the eighteenth. Although I’ve often speculated about G. Della Torre, the one who founded our shop. These cases would have happened during his time, you know.
“Of course,” she added, “with some clients we had to use code names, particularly if they were nobles. So if you see some unusual name repeated, something that doesn’t look normal, note the page.”
She passed me a pad of what looked like very slender, cream-colored Post-its. “Use these,” she said. “Always. They are acid-free and won’t harm these old manuscripts.”
I nodded, opening the notebook on the top of the pile. The spidery, gorgeous cursive handwriting of our ancestors was hard to read. There were records of visits, like the one Nonno Giuliano and I had paid Signore Strozzi; detailed notes of exorcisms, with commentary on what had worked and what hadn’t. We wound up with a list of page references, with short notes beside them. The notebooks began to bristle with acid-free markers.
It may not sound all that interesting, but we had a good time. We each had a notebook in G. Della Torre’s handwriting, as well as the notebooks of three other ancestors working at the same time. I liked reading G.’s notes the best, because they were the cleverest, and the funniest. He said things like, “Giovanni does not remember a thing about last night, which must count as a blessing; what a shame that everyone else will.”
Sometimes he gave me a more direct idea of who he was: “I felt as excited by this discovery as I did the day I snuck myfather’s copy of
Scienza Nuova
out from under his nose and read the whole thing in a night.”
Around ten o’clock, Anna Maria slapped the table and said, “Ah!”
“You found it?”
“I think so. Prince Georg. ‘A strong presence, easily detected by my assistants …’ ”
She paged forward, white gloves fluttering in the lamplight.
“Here. ‘I have elected to build a Second Door on the side of the palace; it took some time to convince the prince, for he did not easily understand the idea of a demon of place, Austrians lacking subtlety—or this one at least. Like every other client, he commanded us to make as little fuss as possible; this suits my instinct as a demon catcher, since I would avoid the fate of my great-grandfather.’ ”
She paused and looked up at me.
“I can’t remember who his great-grandfather was. We did get tried as witches, sometimes, you know.”
“What, like, burned at the stake?”
I think I must have sounded facetious, because Anna Maria replied, “Well, yes. That was if you survived the trial; they had some pretty harsh methods for testing people for witchcraft, you know.”
She frowned and went on with the notes. “ ‘The demon has certainly disturbed the palace with his antics, all of which show a ghoulish sense of humor: meals uncovered beforePrince Georg appear to be maggot-ridden, though they left the kitchen in perfect order; wine turns to foxglove on the palate, then to wine again, terrifying guests (many of whom already have reason to fear poison); sleepers wake to find corpses in bed with them, only to watch them fade into nothing.’ ” Neither Anna Maria nor I could figure out what about this demon made it a demon of place, except that it haunted the palace.
We learned that G. built a false balcony and
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