Angelo Sample

Chapter One

Peony Cottage

It took a while to walk there.  This was a place where no vehicle would be welcome.  It wasn’t the rutted track nor the closeness of the trees which shadowed the hardpack trail that made travel difficult.  It was the tradition of the first occupant that would be forever kept: no cars or scooters at Peony Cottage.

The man walked through a well-oiled gate under a grape arbor and into a lush front garden.  As he walked, he let his hand catch the dew-laden heavy blooms.  This action helped the peonies to shake free of the morning dew and release their individual scents.  His mother had insisted on planting them more for the aroma the flowers would give off than the color.  This gave the white blooms of the Duchesse de Nemours dominance.  Their spicy scent mixed well with the lavender La Perles.  The pink and red peonies were squeezed in almost as an afterthought.  They were gifts from his father.  They were the living postcards brought back with him to ease the tension of his long awaited, and frequently delayed, return to her.

Angelo stopped, letting the scent wrap around him.  With each breath, he opened his mind to the memories of the woman who had served him thick slabs of homemade bread and sweet butter purchased from the farmer down the lane.  Alessandra Conti Michaels wasn’t a cook nor a baker, but she would always be remembered for her beauty, height and devotion to her husband Matteo and son Angelo.

“Mama,” escaped from Angelo.  It sounded more like a sigh than a whisper.  He knew his call would not be answered, not by the living nor by spirit.  Alessandra had abandoned the earth long ago, leaving a grieving son and a devastated husband.

He took the heavy key from his pocket and walked towards the door of the cottage his father had built for Alessandra.  It was tucked deep into the Michaels property, far from the olive groves and sweeping villa.  It was a place Alessandra could find peace from the demanding social schedule of being the wife of a man whose vast estate survived decades of wars and occupations.  In the neighboring towns, there had been whispers of the unnatural luck of the Michaels family.  Matteo’s forebearers were followers of the Catholic Church and chose their name from God’s mightiest archangel, so witchcraft was never mentioned.  It was assumed that their good fortune came from Heaven, a reward for their devotion to the church of St. Michael and taking care of all who lived and worked on their land.

Since Alessandra was a tall woman, the doorways and windows were sized accordingly.  The shutters had been opened by the caretaker.  They hugged the cottage, breaking up the white plastered façade with their pale-green hue.  The reflection from the freshly washed windows startled Angelo.  Who was that tall dark man with the soulful brown eyes staring back at him?  He chuckled at his mistake.  Did he expect to see his younger self staring back at him?  The obedient child who knew from trial and error when to bounce around and when to move on tiptoes when his mother was visited by one of her many migraines.

Angelo instinctively pulled a comb out of his pocket and ran it through his thick dark-brown hair.  He wore it neat, trimmed, to be combed back from his noble Italian face.  He saw both of his parents in his face, his mother’s full mouth set above his father’s strong chin.  He was a handsome man dressed in expensive clothing.  It was hand tailored to fit his massive shoulders and legs.  The ease and richness of the material hid most of the athletic body beneath the starched collared shirt rarely worn without a tie.  The suitcoat needed no padding in the shoulders nor did his trousers need ease at the waist.  His handmade Italian shoes were polished to bring out the richness of the leather.

He was a beautiful man dressed for the world of business, standing in the wet trimmed lawn staring in the window of a country cottage.  The contrast was extreme but not unpleasant.

The key turned easily in the lock.  He pushed the door open and stood there a moment.  He heard her voice in his head.  “Now, Angelo, if you’re going to cross this threshold, and be welcomed within, you must leave your problems on the porch.  I only allow laughter and happy smiles inside.”

“Yes, Mother.”

He felt her cool soft hand on his face.  “Mother is for the outside world.  Here you will call me Mama.  For the greatest joy of my life was when you first called me Mama.”

“Why can’t I call you Mama at the villa?”

“The villa and your father’s life demand formality.  There I am Mother.”

“Yes, Mother… Mama.”  The little boy searched his mother’s eyes for approval.  She gave it with the twinkle in her eyes and the twitching of her lips.  Alessandra only fully smiled after she had time to decompress from the world of Matteo Michaels.

And so Angelo stood there on the porch filing away the olive blight, the demands of the aerie, and the problems of the world.  He took a step into his mother’s refuge, stopping only to slide off his shoes and open his collar.  He hung his jacket on a hook to be retrieved on his way out the door.  He felt the smooth tiles through his socks.  He opened the painted wooden chest and found his slippers waiting for him.  The caretaker had pulled out the protective stuffing and placed the slippers on top of the box that normally held them safe from any insect invaders.

He walked into the front room, and for a moment, a vision caused by the early afternoon sun coming through the window stopped him.  It wasn’t an image of the past but from the one thing Angelo brought with him into the cottage, hope.

Hope was never an emotion Angelo dealt much with when he was a child.  Most children of his acquaintance hoped for toys and books.  Angelo simply learned to ask politely and his mother would supply the item.  He never had a tantrum; there simply wasn’t a need.  “Alessandra, you’re spoiling the boy,” Matteo warned.

“Spoiling him is my job,” she answered back.  “He is a dream child, Matteo.  He’s smart, funny, and he loves us.”

“Still, the bow and arrow could wait until Christmas.”

“Why?  He won’t want it then, he wants it now,” Alessandra reasoned.  “You run the groves and the Michaels empire.  Leave raising Angelo to me.”

Matteo stroked his jaw.  He had waited too long to settle down and begin a family.  He didn’t want to spend his days arguing with his young wife.  The woman he chose was beautiful, intelligent, human, and spoiled.  Alessandra Conti was the youngest daughter of the Conti family.  Her father, an industrialist, pushed the two together whenever Matteo visited his bottle factory.

Hugo Conti would insist his best client stay in the family apartments.  There Matteo could not help but see Conti’s daughter, posed at the piano in the music room or sitting across from him at dinner.  Matteo remembered fondly coming across Alessandra unexpected in the library.  She was sitting curled up in a large chair by the fire, absorbed in a novel.  He started to say something, and she shushed him.  He sat down in the accompanying chair with his newspaper and watched her read.  She slammed the book down in her lap.

“I take it you do not like what you are reading,” Matteo observed.

“On the contrary, I love this book.  I hate what’s happening, that’s all.”

“I notice you’re reading in English.”

“Yes.  I’m very accomplished in reading English.  I have to be to read what I want.  This is a Gothic novel.  My mother thinks I’m reading about deportment.  She thinks this Rebecca is an English school of manners.  She doesn’t read English.  I opened the book and tapped Manderley, and she assumed it was English for manners.”

“And how do you feel about deceiving your mother this way?”

Alessandra’s face flushed scarlet.  She picked up the book and went back to reading.

This was Matteo’s first lesson.  Alessandra didn’t explain her actions to anyone.  The second lesson came fast and furious.

“What business is it of yours what I’m doing.  I’m not a bottle to be inspected.”

Lesson two, Alessandra loathed to be judged.

“Are you poor?  Can’t you afford your own rooms?  There is a hotel for workers on Avenue…”

“I assure you I’m here on your father’s invitation.  I can afford my own rooms.”

“Sorry, that was rude.  I think the book has put me in a mood.”

Matteo was just about to ask her to elaborate when she did.

“You see, the heroine is young and insecure.  She fawns over her husband.  Panics when he is angry.  Everything is about his comfort.  She measures her worth on the stick that is up his butt.”

Matteo raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“He is older than her.  That is the excuse he gives.  I will never marry a man older than myself.  I don’t care how wealthy or interesting.”

Matteo relaxed.  “Well, I’m glad to hear this.”

“You are?” Alessandra asked.

“Yes.  I thought I was asked to be here to size you up for my bride.”

“Impossible.”

“I know that now.  But you always seem to be in my way.  Posed on the piano bench studying the music…”

“Reading a magazine.  American.  Better Homes and Gardens.  It tucks neatly into my lesson folder.  I love to read about America.  They call their front gardens lawns and their back gardens their backyards.”

“I’ve been to the United States recently.”

Alessandra turned her whole body and gave Matteo her rapt attention.

He told her about buying the distribution rights for his olive oil to be sold and the cities he visited in the United States.

“Which city is your favorite?”

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.  I’d rather be home.”  He saw boredom cross her face.  He said quickly, “Chicago.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t as old as the cities here.”

“America is a baby.  Nothing is as old as Italy is,” Alessandra said.

“But Chicago burned down, or most of it did.  And most of the buildings aren’t older than seventy-five years.  They build them high.  You can see the lakeshore from my apartment there.”

“What lake?”

Matteo got up and spied an atlas.  He drew it out of the shelf and placed it on table.  He waved Alessandra over and showed her where in the United States Chicago was and then pointed out the Great Lakes.  “Lake Michigan,” he announced.  “It’s like an inland sea.  Look at how each lake connects with the next great lake.”

“Lake Michigan, Lake Superior, Lake Huron, Lake St. Clair, Lake Erie, Lake Ontario,” Alessandra read.  She tapped Lake St. Clair and frowned.  “It’s not great like the others.”

“But without it, how are the ships going to get to Chicago?” he asked.

She nodded.  “Good point.  I guess it only looks small on this map.  Size is relative.  When you said ‘size me up for a bride…’”

“Yes, I’m surprised you were listening.”

“Don’t be poopy.”

“Sorry.”

“As you can see, I’m a tall woman.  They took away my heels until after you leave.”

Matteo looked down at Alessandra.  “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“I’ve heard Mother and Father talking.  They say, ‘How are we going to get rid of the girl?  She is taller than all the men and twice as smart.’”

“Wear your heels.  As you can see, I’m much taller than you.  But we wouldn’t make a good match according to you.  I’m not your age.”

“How old are you?” Alessandra asked as she narrowed her eyes, sizing him up.

“Eight hundred, give or take a few years.”

“You look forty.  Maxim de Winter was forty-two when he married…”

“Who did he marry?”

“They never say.  Even though the story is seen through her eyes, she never gets a name other than the Second Mrs. de Winter.  I would never stand for that!”

“How young are you?”

“Twenty-four embarrassing years and still living in my parents’ home.  If I were in Chicago, I would be…”

“A captain of industry?” Matteo offered.

“Oh no, too stuffy.  I would be a writer!  Or a librarian…”

“You think librarians lead exciting lives?”

“How could they not?”  Alessandra kicked off her flats and climbed the library ladder and pushed off from the wall, and as she traveled haphazardly along the volumes, she shouted, “With all this adventure at my fingertips, how could it not be exciting!”

She hit the far wall.

Matteo anticipated this and was there to catch her as she fell off the ladder and into his arms.  He looked down at the imp who was roughly 775 years his junior and fell madly in love.

Alessandra, whose arms were wrapped around his strong neck, looked into his eyes and saw the eyes of her future son.  She waited, and when he wouldn’t dare to kiss her, she kissed him.

Angelo loved that story.  His mother told it frequently.  Each time, he pictured his father more gallant than he was and his mother stronger than the woman who walked with careful steps when she thought he wasn’t watching.

The couple honeymooned, traveling the cities of North America.  Alessandra agreed with Matteo about Chicago.  They spent the balance of their time there, conceiving Angelo in Matteo’s apartment that all but kissed the sky.

“When did he tell you about this?” young Angelo asked his mother, showing her the moving wings inside his wrists.  “When did he tell you that you married a birdman?”

“He didn’t have to.  I seemed to know.  You see, Angelo, the moment your father walked into our drawing room, I knew he was special.  I thought he was an angel come to carry me away to Heaven.  But he was better.  The first time he showed me his wings was when we were in Chicago.  I ran my hands down his wings, and I felt you stir inside of me.  I told him.  “I’m carrying your son.”

“Impossible, how do you know?” Matteo said.

“I felt him inside of me.  He is like you.  I would like to call him Angelo.”

“Why?  Angelo sounds like a girl’s name.”

“I hear his name in the breeze.”

“I had hoped to call him Ebo like my father.  If you promise me two more sons, we will call our firstborn Angelo.”

“You, sir, have yourself a deal,” Alessandro said.

Matteo gathered her up in his arms and took off into the night sky.  He climbed high enough so that they could see the sun set over the western part of the United States.  “At the dawn of time, we birdmen flew out of God’s hands.  We became birds to hide ourselves from our predators.  But when we love, we love as men and women.  I found you and knew I would love you forever and you would give me son.”

Alessandro rubbed her stomach gently and said, “And his name is Angelo.”

~

Angelo sat and read the note the caretaker left for him while the coffee stewed in the French press.  The scrawl was familiar.  Perhaps it was from reading many of these notes in the past.  Angelo came here when he needed to balance himself.  If the soothing atmosphere didn’t work, he would seek out his counselors.  He hated to bother the four sages.  Cato, Hilarius, Tacita, and Vita had their hands full watching the world right now.  He could confer with Ramiro and Sapienta, but he reserved them for talks regarding the dark things that crawled out of the shadows.  This duo also wasn’t happy with his present obsession.  They worried that he would fall into bad habits when he didn’t get what he wanted.

“Mama, I promised you to only bring joy here.  I’m sorry,” Angelo said.  “I wish you would have kept to your rules.”

Angelo pressed the coffee grounds and poured himself a large cup.  The aroma of the brew opened a treasure trove of memories resting just inside of Angelo’s mind.  He was young and his parents kept so much from him.  If he were honest with himself, he would do something similar if caught in the same situation.  But the wounds never really healed, so it was hard to look upon the last hard months of Alessandra’s life as anything but painful.

“What exactly is a spousal contract?” he heard his mother ask Matteo as they sat in the morning room.  Angelo had been organizing his soldiers quietly in the alcove when Alessandro brought up the subject.

“Birdmen and birdwomen bind themselves to a future together while their existing spouse still lives.”

“It’s an engagement?”

“Not quite.  If we’re not killed in battle, we live hundreds of years.  In our case, we know that your illness is going to take you in the next few years.  We’ve sought out every medical and magical solution to no avail.  We would be seeking out a birdwoman to come and take over for you socially when you pass on.  A spousal contract gives the next Signora Michaels the security of knowing that there will be a marriage when our mourning period is finished.”

“So Angelo won’t be motherless for long.”

“And I don’t have to think about it.  It will just be arranged.”

“So you’re not going to look for an emotional match?” Alessandra asked.

“My darling, there will never be anyone who could possibly take your place in my heart.”

“I feel sorry for the woman.  She will be the Second Mrs. de Winter, and my diseased body has cast me as Rebecca.”

“Considering who Rebecca was, I can’t see you taking on that role.”

“Of course not.  She was a monster.  Do I get to interview the next wife?” Alessandra asked.

Matteo looked uncomfortable.  “If you want to.  But already one has been proposed to me by the Council of Elders.”

“It sounds so cold and clinical.”

“I wish it weren’t necessary.  But the young birdwoman who was suggested to me needs to be protected.  Her nest was raided, and the male family members were killed.  I will set her up in a secure home.  She will be under the protection of the House of Michaels until…” Matteo’s voice broke.

Angelo heard his father’s quick footsteps followed by a sob.  He looked around the corner and saw Matteo’s head on Alessandra’s lap, and he was crying.  His mother stroked his head gently with her hand, but her eyes weren’t focused on her grieving husband.  She was looking at something neither he nor his father could see.  Alessandra was looking into the future.

“We need to go ahead with this soon.  I won’t last beyond the holidays.  Let’s make this a grand one for Angelo.”

“He could hardly be spoiled more,” Matteo said rising.  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes.

Angelo wished she would have been as accepting of her fate in private as she was in front of his father.  A few weeks later in the cottage, she had thrown all the ornamental figurines his father bought for her in the grate with such force that they exploded as they met their end on the stones.  “How could he!” she wailed, pulling at her long hair.

Angelo ran to his mother and encouraged her to lay down on the chaise lounge.  He looked at her hands, making sure none of the shards of glass and porcelain that flew back out had caught them.  He kissed them and tucked them under the cashmere throw.  He ran to the sink and brought back a cold cloth wrung out so no drips would fall upon her beautiful face.  He folded it so it was even and draped it across her hot forehead.

“Now you relax and let me read to you,” he instructed.

Alessandra looked at her perfect son and smiled.  “Forgive me.  Mama is upset with your practical father.  On one hand, I know he will miss me.  On the other, he has made sure my leaving you will not inconvenience his business.”

Angelo was careful to pick out a book written in English.  He read for a while until he saw her lids droop.  He set the bookmark and closed the book.

“Angelo,” his mother said softly.  “Don’t love your new mother.  I couldn’t bear it.”

“No, Mama, I could never love anyone but you,” he said.

Alessandra smiled and slept.

Angelo walked outside with a pair of clippers.  He knew which late flowers he could clip and which to leave be.  He brought an armful in and quietly arranged them in vases like he had seen his mother do.  He placed a crocheted doily down on the tables so there would be no water mark.  He surrounded her with her favorite blooms.

He then straightened up the cottage, moving slowly as to not wake her up.  He removed the logs and swept up the grate before he laid new logs for the evening chill.

“What’s this, am I already dead!” Alessandra called out.

Angelo ran over.  “No, Mama, I wanted to surprise you!”

Her eyes were wild and her hands shook.  “I’m sorry, dear one.  It’s just that, from my perspective, I look like I’m already lying in state.  Come and see.”

Angelo laid down next to her.  He looked around him, and it did look like the blooms one would surround a coffin with.  His eyes teared up at his mistake, but the vibration from the beginnings of her laughter stopped him.

“How could you know, my perfect son?  I see you have chosen correctly.  These are all my favorites.  I feel like I’m lying down in our garden flirting with the butterflies.”

“Do you remember the bright blue butterfly that used to visit in the summer?” Angelo asked.

“Yes, I believe we named him Bluebeard the Pirate.”

Angelo laughed.  “I looked him up, and he shouldn’t have even been on this side of the ocean.  His name is blue morpho.  He lives in the tropical forests of Latin America.”

“How did he get here?” Alessandra asked.

“Maybe stole a ride aboard a ship.”

“A pirate ship!  I knew it,” Alessandra said.  She pushed an errant lock from Angelo face.

He sat up, pulled a comb from his pocket, and combed his hair.  “Sorry, Mama, I know you like it neat.”

“I don’t know anymore.  To me, you could have crewed Bluebeard’s ship.  I may be partial to pirates now.”

They laughed and talked like pirates for a while.

“Angelo, I’m feeling a little weak.  Please pour Mama a sherry from the blue bottle.”

Angelo got up and found the sherry and then had to get a stool from the kitchen to reach the sherry glasses on the dresser in the small dining room.  When he came back, Alessandra was still.  A long rope of red blood trailed from her nose.  Angelo dropped the sherry and ran to wake her.  She wouldn’t wake.  He couldn’t call for help because his mother had outlawed phones in the cottage.  He ran outside and took flight and landed outside his father’s office at the villa.  He ran in crying for help.

Matteo put in a call and told Angelo to stay put.  But the boy disobeyed and slipped out the door and flew back to be with his mother.  Angelo stood and watched the ambulance bump its way to the cottage and the shaking of the doctor’s head.  Angelo didn’t remember his father insisting he carry her to the vehicle, nor the tender kiss he placed upon her lips.

“Farewell.  Take your journey in peace.  I will miss you, my darling,” Matteo said.

Matteo walked back into the house to see his son frantically cleaning up the spilt sherry.

“Leave that.”

“But the ants.  Mama would hate it if ants invited themselves in.”

“She would have named each one and, most likely, put them to work,” Matteo said, remembering something he would later try to share with his son, but it would fall upon deaf ears.  “Come, we must prepare.  Soon we will be descended upon by creatures who think they are doing God’s work.  The only good thing God ever did was create her.”

Chapter Two

Nanny Berta

Angelo moved in a daze.  He was a child barely out of the nursery when his mother became ill.  Boarding school had been postponed.  Instead, Angelo walked into the village and sat and had lessons with the other children.  He was bright and, with Alessandra’s coaching, he could read in two languages.  Father Gelli, the young priest of St. Michaels, gave Angelo religious training and furthered his math skills.  His needs were seen to by an indulgent mother and a father who could not deny his wife anything.  But she was gone now.  The funeral was private with just her family and the staff at the villa in attendance.  Matteo insisted that Alessandra be cremated, and he worked her ashes into the flowerbeds of the cottage himself.  He ordered the place to be locked.  The building and the grounds would be maintained, but Angelo was forbidden to go there unsupervised.

“Father, I don’t understand.  Mother would want me to be there.”

“No she wouldn’t.  Angelo, your mother would want the best for you.  You are a bright boy, but your education has been neglected.  That means more time studying, less time playing in the cottage.”

A temporary caregiver was brought in while Matteo mourned.  Nanny Berta, or Roberta to those who she deemed worthy, was a tall, stout, winged birdwoman of just under 740 years.  Her hair was a mix of the red of her Celtic ancestry and silver strands she earned from her years spent educating, caring, and bringing love to the young birdmen and birdwomen in her charge.  Her green eyes missed nothing.  She quickly sized up the situation at the Michaels villa and spoke frankly to Matteo.

“Your wife was your son’s whole world.  Give me time to settle him into his life without her before you send him away to school.”

“I don’t think he needs any more coddling,” Matteo said.

“Signor Michaels, I have been caring for the vulnerable for over seven hundred years.  The great Nicholai was one of my early charges.  Do you see any signs that he was coddled?”

Matteo, who had had a few run-ins with the newly retired general, agreed that Nicholai was the epitome of the warrior-class birdman.  “No, Roberta, I don’t.  I’m sorry if I appear to be difficult.  My Angelo is half human but with all the physical qualities of a full-blooded birdman.  Emotionally he is human.  Alessandra was everything to him…”

“And to you,” Roberta acknowledged.

“Yes.  I never expected to find love this late in my life, let alone with a human.  But now she’s gone, and I must move on for the sake of Angelo and the bird people I am responsible for.”

“Give yourself time to grieve.  In my experience, it’s not only the children who need time to adjust.  Alessandra was your light, and she has left you too soon.”

“She spoiled him, and me.”

“Crimes that she should be lauded for.  I see a caring sensitive child and a compassionate man.  I understand you took a spousal contract out with the Reiner girl, Petra.”

“Yes, she needed protection.  We knew Alessandra’s illness would take her.  We didn’t expect it for another few years.  Petra is still in university.  I promised Petra that her education would not be interrupted.”

“That is very wise,” Roberta said.  “Bringing this young birdwoman into your household too soon will cause a rift not only between you and your son but will cast a harsh light on her with the people who work here.  They loved your wife.”

“She will be missed.”

“Until then, I suggest you let me start with Angelo.  Children with birdman genes tend to be a little selfish.  Their instinct is to take things.  They aren’t good sharers.  But all have a nobility that can be brought out.  Many of them, like Angelo, have reincarnated souls.  Birdmen who don’t die in battle live a very long time.  Your son is a hybrid, so he may not live as long.”

“This is why it has been recommended to me by the council that I continue to…”  Matteo stopped, his eyes filling with tears.

Roberta looked at the man a few decades her senior and felt his loss.  “Those thoughts are to be shelved for right now.  You’re not a machine.”

“Things are expected of me.  Since I retired my commission, I have worked very hard to create a safe environment for the bird people of this district.  Our association with Heaven has helped us but has caused suspicion as to how we survived the failed governments and invasions.  I can’t be chasing a boy around when I have groves to see to and oil to press.”

“That’s why I’m here.  I’ll only stay as long as it takes to acclimate Angelo to being without Alessandra.  Tutors can be brought in.  You can more than afford it.”

“I thought to send him to an education aerie.  Soren recommended one tucked in the Canadian wilderness.”

“That is too far from here.  And we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Yes, Roberta.”

Nanny Berta went in search of Angelo.  She didn’t want the child brought to her.  The cold formality of that kind of introduction was abhorrent to her.  There were times when that was unavoidable.  The birdmen of the royal lines’ idea of child-rearing was old world.  The wealthier the patron, the less they wanted to see and hear their children.  Because of this, the children grew up emotionally stunted.  She was pleased that this assignment was with a hybrid child who was loved by both parents; although, she suspected that Matteo and his wife clashed over parenting styles.

Angelo lined up his army.  He had taken over the morning room with his toys.  He was just about ready to deploy his cavalry when a dark shadow fell across his field of battle.  He looked up.

“Hello, Angelo, I’m Nanny Berta.”

Angelo stood up and smoothed his trousers and extended his hand.  “How do you do, Nanny Berta.”

Nanny held the child’s hand a moment, reading him.  Roberta had been gifted with the ability to read emotional memories.  She found it valuable when dealing with newly orphaned children, some whose language skills hadn’t developed yet.  Roberta noticed - as she read the child and experienced Angelo’s recent loss - the boy’s hands and nails.  They were clean and the nails recently clipped.  Most of her charges of this age had to be constantly reminded to wash their hands.  Nail clipping was unheard of.  She released his hand.  “I see you have quite a battle going on.”

“Yes, Nanny Berta,” Angelo said, wary of this large woman’s interest.

“I understand you read in English.  Can you speak it?”

“Mostly.”

“When we are together, we are going to speak English.  This will aid you when you’re helping your father with his western interests.”

“Yes, Nanny Berta.  Why are you here?”

“Your father has hired me to teach and look after you.  I’m not here to replace your mother.  I’m here to help you to manage without her.  But not to forget her.”

“We spent hours in Peony Cottage together.  My father won’t let me go there anymore.”

“He must have his reasons.  Angelo, why don’t you pick up your toys, and then we will walk around this grand house and find a better place for your armies to invade.”

“Yes, Nanny Berta,” Angelo answered.

Roberta watched as he not only picked up his toys but returned each piece to the box they arrived in.  He placed them in a steamer truck with wheels on the bottom.

Nanny examined the trunk which had been adapted for the use of Angelo’s toy soldiers.  “How clever is this.”

Angelo smiled.

“Did you think of this?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?” Nanny asked.

“Eight.”

“You’re very tall for eight.”

Angelo’s shoulders pushed back and he stood straighter.

“Because you are tall, people will mistake you for being older.”

“You’re tall too.”

“Yes, I am.”

“My mother is… was tall.”

“Do you have a photo of her?”

Angelo put his hand in his pocket and drew out a small frame he had wrapped in a clean handkerchief.  He unwrapped it carefully and handed it to Roberta.  “Her name is… was Alessandra, and she loved me.”

“No.  She loves you, not loved you.  Angelo, just because she isn’t alive doesn’t mean she has stopped loving you.  Love never dies.”

“Yes, Nanny Berta.”

Nanny held up the photo beside Angelo and compared.  “You have her coloring and mouth.  The rest is like your father.  What color are your wings?”

“Black like a crow’s.”

“Crows are very interesting birds.”

Angelo tilted his head.  This was a tell that he was interested.  Roberta took note of this and continued, “Crows are intelligent birds.  They nurture their young longer than other birds.  They learn from their and other crows’ mistakes.  After they are out of the nest, they stick around and help raise the younger birds.”

“They also make their own tools,” Angelo said.  “I watched one from my window.  He took a twig and took all the bark off before sticking it in the bird feeder to release the back so he could get in.”

“Why did he do that?”

“His beak was too large for the feeder.  Cook likes to feed the finches.  They have small beaks.  They are little birds but just as mighty.”

“How so?” Nanny asked encouraging the youth.

“Mama… Mother said that I need to be careful around little birds, not because they have little bones but because they are fierce when necessary.  She also said a little bird would play a pivotal role in my life.  Nanny Berta, why would a little bird be so important in my life?”

“I don’t know.  But I think you are wise to respect them.”

“Yes, Nanny Berta.”

Nanny offered to carry the trunk, but Angelo insisted that he could manage it.  She slowed her step and let him do just that.  Soon they reached the grand foyer and the main staircase.  “Where is your room?”

“Next to my father’s room.  I used to be down in the west wing, but the ghost there has been acting up.”

“Ghost?”

“He’s a Roman centurion.”

“How do you know?”

“I can see him, Nanny Berta.”

Roberta made a note that even though Angelo was a hybrid, he had yet another talent usually only associated with a full-blooded birdman.

“My mother could see him.”

“It’s rare that a human can, unless of course the ghost is a powerful one,” Roberta schooled.

Angelo looked around them and wiggled his finger.  Roberta leaned down.

Angelo whispered to her, “My mother had visions of the future.”

“Oh my,” Roberta whispered back.

“Father believed her in the end, but when they were courting, he thought she was a fantasist.”

“Now you’ve said a word I’m not familiar with.  Fantasist.”

“Someone who makes things up.”

“Like a liar?”

“No, like a visionary.  Visionaries see something and want to create it, so it becomes real.”

“Like a wish?” Roberta questioned.

“Maybe.  My mother wasn’t a fantasist; she had prophetic visions.  Prophetic means predictive,” Angelo said.

Roberta sat down on the stairs.  She was speaking with an eight-year-old child but with the mind of someone accomplished.  Someone older.  Could his soul already be integrated with his active self?  If so, she would have to rethink how Angelo’s education should be dealt with.

“Are you tired?” Angelo asked.  “May I get you a cup of tea?”

“That is very kind.  I’m not tired but amazed.  Angelo, I find you to be a very special boy.”

Angelo beamed.  He realized he was smiling and stopped.

“You can smile and laugh.”

“No!  Mother is dead!” Angelo cried and ran off, leaving Roberta with his trunk.

It took the help of two footmen to find Angelo.  He had secreted himself on the balcony in the unused wing of the villa.  Roberta was at cross purposes.  Should she discipline this child for his desertion or gather him in her arms and let him cry?

Angelo scowled when he saw her.

“You may go,” she said to the footmen.  “Angelo understands now he is to stay with me until I dismiss him.”

Angelo nodded.

When they were alone, Roberta sighed.

“I’m sorry, I should not have run away,” Angelo said in English.  “Mother said I was too impulsive.  In my misery, I find she was right about a lot of things.”

“Do you talk to her when you visit her grave?” Roberta continued in English.

“She’s not in a grave.”

“She isn’t?  I thought most humans were buried.”

“Father had her cremated and dug her ashes into the ground below her most beloved plants.”

Roberta continued to be startled by the words this child used.  She had raised children who were intelligent, but their words were never this advanced, especially in another language.

“I wonder why he did that?”

“My mother had an unnatural fear of necromancers.  Necromancers use dead bodies to summon spirits.  You would have to ask my father, but I believe he cremated her to protect her immortal soul.”

“How would your mother know about necromancers?  Did she ever tell you?” Roberta asked.

“No.  Maybe Father knows.”

“I’ll make sure to ask him.  Now where were we…  Angelo, your mother was a wonderful woman, so full of life.  She would want you to live your life in the same manner.  I expect she smiled and laughed.”

“Yes.  When we were in the cottage, she laughed a lot.  Here, not so much.”

“You will not disparage her memory if you laugh and smile when you feel happy.”

“Yes, Nanny Berta.”

“Next, we need to find you a place where you can have a war room.”

“What’s that?”

“A place where you can plan battles, using your toys.”

“I can do that anywhere as long as I pick up.”

“Ah, but then you have to put them out again.  Let’s get permission for you to use a room where you can keep your men in place until the next time you play.”

Angelo nodded.  “That would be easier.”

“I’ll present this to your father and ask him for his suggestions.”

“Maybe I should ask him,” Angelo said.

“That’s a better idea.  Do you mind if I go along just in case there needs to be a further explanation?”

“No, I do not mind.  I will have to talk with him in Italian.  He insists on speaking Italian at the villa.”

“Let’s go then,” Roberta said.  “There’s no time like the present.”

“We will need an appointment,” Angelo said.  “Let’s call Father’s secretary from the hall phone.”

“Do you always need an appointment to speak with your father?” Nanny asked.

“Yes.”

Roberta sighed again.  This time Angelo knew he was in the clear.

~

Matteo waited until Angelo made his case about the war room.  He raised a finger and picked up the phone and called the housekeeper.  “Signora Canali, do we have an empty room without furniture that Angelo could set up shop in?  Yes.  No, not in the west wing.  I think that is an excellent idea.  Let me confer.”  Matteo looked at his son.  What do you think about the nursery?  We could have the furniture put in storage.  It has a lot of floor space, and there is that ledge along the windowed wall, so you could walk along and look down at your battles.”

“Yes, Father, that would be nice.”

Matteo winked at Roberta and picked up the handset.  “Signora Canali, have the room cleaned out when it is convenient.  Let Angelo know when it is available.”  He hung up the phone.

Angelo stood, and Roberta did too.

“Roberta, please stay, I have something to discuss with you.  Angelo, it’s time for you to change into your dinner clothes.”

“Yes, Father,” Angelo said and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“He is a very obedient child,” Roberta said.

“But he still runs away when he is upset,” Matteo said.

Roberta frowned.  She wondered which footman told Matteo of having to search for his child.

“He’s eight.  He has lost his mother.  We need to make allowances,” Roberta stressed.

“Is it too soon to ask for your assessment?”

“I find him to be a very intelligent child with extraordinary language skills.  I think, with the right training, he could be a diplomat.  He also could be a great representative for the family business once he’s completed his schooling.  I would be very careful of where you ship him off to.”

“You’re very direct.”

“The school in Canada is for willful children with disciplinary problems.  Your son needs to be challenged.  He is a sweet child.  That school will turn him into…”

“You’ve said enough!” Matteo said.

Roberta would have walked out of the room if not for her responsibility for the child.  “Have an expert read him.  I think you’ll find that your son is very special.  A little cowed.  How you could see a problem child when he stands there clean and neat and looks you in the eyes when you talk to him is beyond me.”

“You have made your point.  I will ask Soren to read him.  If he finds as I do that Angelo needs to have a firmer hand, he will leave immediately for Canada.”

Roberta’s heart sank.  “It’s because he reminds you of Alessandra, isn’t it?”

The look on Matteo’s face said everything.

“Or do you want him gone so you can take another woman into your bed without guilt?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Roberta stood up, but instead of leaving, she said, “Yes, I can see he needs to leave here.  But if I’m right, he needs to go and study with the best educators we have and then on to a human university.  I pray that Soren will see beyond his prejudice and recommend him to study with the scholars at Lago Blue.”

“That is very expensive.  I cannot bear the cost.”

“Not and a new wife,” Roberta said acidly.  “Don’t worry, if Soren sees what I see, then the council will bear the cost.  I am disappointed in you Matteo.  I had heard that you and Alessandra had a fairytale love.”

Matteo’s eyes watered.

“Evidently, you loved her so much you had nothing left for her child,” Roberta said and walked out of the room without being dismissed.  She hovered outside the door until she heard Matteo pick up the phone and request an appointment with Soren.

Roberta walked to her room.  She looked at her suitcase and wondered if it was worth unpacking it.  It was obvious Matteo wanted rid of Angelo as soon as possible.  “Well, I fought for you Angelo.  Let’s hope my sacrifice of employment was worth it.”  She picked up the house phone.  When it rang through, she asked, “Signora Canali, could you arrange for someone to take me to St. Michaels?”

“I will arrange for a footman.”

“Make sure it’s not the spy,” Roberta said.

“Roberta, they are all spies here.  I will ask the gardener.  He had a sweet spot for Alessandra and her son.”

“Bless you.”

~

Roberta walked into St. Michaels.  The insides were awash with color from the large, expensive, stained-glass window over the altar.  It depicted the archangel Michael in armor.  Roberta wasn’t religious, so she hovered in the nave staring up at the window.  A young priest walked over.  “Welcome to St. Michaels.  I am Father Gelli.”

“I’m a visitor at the grove.  I have business with your saint.”

Father Gelli nodded.  “Come and sit.  I find if I cross myself or put my hands together, I feel connected.”

“Like dialing one for an outside line?” Roberta asked.

The young priest smiled.  “Yes!  May I use this in the future?”

Roberta, charmed by his request, felt the stress leave her.  She felt a prickling of tears but managed to not shed any.  She sat down and looked up at the window and prayed.

Father Gelli, assured that this woman was no threat to his church, left her in St. Michael’s hands.