Property of Blood by Magdalen Nabb Page A

the hope of distracting her from the idea of her mother’s being already dead, he said: ‘That’s a beautiful photograph of you on the wall. They all are. We’ll soon have you relaxed and smiling like that again, you’ll see. Is this you on the horse?’
    ‘Yes. I don’t ride anymore. That photograph there in my ballet dress is my favourite. It was taken last year. I had to give up dancing because of the demands of university.’
    ‘It’s a very striking picture of you. Signed, too, I see.’
    “Yes. By the photographer. Gianni Taccola’s very well known in Florence. He used a set of photographs of me in an exhibition of his and gave me this one as a present. He used the word you used—striking—and he said it was lucky I had no ambitions to be a model like Olivia because nobody would use me. People would notice me instead of the clothes. A model has to be quite good-looking but she’s got to be a mobile coat hanger more than anything. I did a litde modelling to help Olivia out but I really didn’t care for it—We can’t manage! We won’t be able to manage without her!’
    ‘No, no, no. You won’t have to manage without her. We’ll bring her home. Try and keep calm now. You’ve been doing so well and we’re going to need your help.’ So much for trying to distract her. ‘And now I need you to give me a piece of her clothing, something worn rather than laundered. Will you do that?’
    ‘Certainly.’ She rose and went towards the bed head, where she pressed a bell. After a moment, the Filipino maid tapped and came in.
    ‘Yes, Signorina,’ she said, sniffing loudly. Her cheeks were still wet and she made no effort to control or conceal her weeping.
    ‘Take the Marshal to my mother’s room and give him what he asks you for.’
    The Marshal frowned. ‘It might be better if you came, too.’
    ‘I want to see how Leo is.’
    ‘Of course …’
    There was nothing to do but follow the weeping maid, who led him to the end of a polished dark red corridor and up two grey stone steps into the end bedroom. As he expected, it was a room full of light and air. Here, too, there were photographs, a wall almost entirely covered with them, in silver frames and all of them of Leonardo and Caterina. There was one of the two of them together as small children. The Marshal examined it closely. He had never in his life seen such beautiful children. It was little wonder the Contessa had had them photographed so often. A black-and-white enlargement stood out among all the colour. The daughter in a gauzy ballet frock, her slippers and coiled plaits of hair shining, the rest as insubstantial as a shadow. It couldn’t have been taken that long ago, either.
    ‘Is the signorina a dancer?’
    ‘Long time she is dance. Stop now. Must study exams. University.’ The maid pulled a face through her tears.
    ‘Yes, it’s a shame,’ he agreed, looking once more at the lovely photograph, ‘but, of course, these days all young people need qualifications …’
    The maid, if she had understood him, didn’t answer.
    The winter sun shone in between high muslin swags, and the big, new bed had a pale, silky cover. Perhaps the smooth emptiness of that bed so long unslept in was too much for the maid, because she burst into even louder howls.
    ‘My signora! My signora! Oh, what will happen to me now?’
    She was so small that, with her short, straight hair, she seemed more a little girl than the young woman she must surely be, and the Marshal automatically placed a comforting hand on her head and stroked it.
    ‘Come on now, come on. It’s going to be all right.’ He had enough experience with such things to check at once. ‘You’re not worried about your documents and so on, are you? If you are, I can try—’
    ‘No!’ She all but screamed at him. ‘My signora do everything for me and do my work permit. Everything! I cries for my signora because they kill her!’
    ‘No, no … We’re going to bring her home. Now listen to