rix_scaedu | Entries tagged with astanthe

This leads on from Wedding Day (2).

The Commissario sat neatly in the chair. The Bishop had chairs that were big enough for him. “A Class A firearm, sir. One of three in the bag.” The Bishop gave him all of his attention. “In addition, there were a number of Class B firearms that appear to be unregistered. The Public Prosecutor has already been advised of the matter and I understand that the paperwork to bring the matter before the preliminary investigative judge may already be underway.”

“I was privileged to see the kick that young man made that felled the woman in question,” Bishop Riccanio moved on. “Normally one would deplore deliberately hitting someone in the head with a kicked football, but under the circumstances I feel the young man did the right thing. Is he involved in a team? I can always pass his name on to a few people.”

“He tells me he is in the Calcio development program and hopes to be selected for the next Primavera competition.” The Commissario paused. “All three boys are the sons of Strefagi foot soldiers whose fathers died in recent years. Apparently Count Terrence is paying their school expenses and encouraging them to pursue both their educations and their interests.”

“I believe,” the Bishop said slowly, “That we should put them on the list of diocesan bursary applicants, in the civic and social category if they qualify for nothing else.”

“As they left school without permission to attend to this matter,” the Commissario spoke delicately, “I intend to write to their headmaster and thank him for their assistance today.”

“Do that,” the Bishop nodded in agreement, “And I will write to him commending his school for instilling the students with the courage and discernment to act in the common good to their own disadvantage. It should spare them some of the consequences they would otherwise suffer. In my profession and position I believe that good deeds should be rewarded, not punished, despite the cynical comment in vogue these days.”

“As you say, sir,” the Commissario agreed. “Will there be anything else?

“I will write to their mothers and thank them for their sons’ assistance, of course, and let their parish priests know that I will be happy to give each of them a character reference but I think that will be everything concerning the boys. Are there likely to be any impediments to the investigation and hearing?” The Bishop added the question almost as an after thought.

“Helena Strafagi needs a defence attorney before she can be interrogated,” the Commissario admitted slowly.

“I would have thought her brother-in-law would see to that.” The Bishop raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Ah. As to that, sir,” and the Commissario began to explain more recent events to his superior.

At much that moment, a gentleman of middle years was being shown into the police cells where Helena Strefagi was fuming.
“Baiardo! You came, thank God!” Her exclamation echoed off the walls of the cell. “Terrence has refused to pay for a defence attorney for me, even though he knows I have to have one to get out of here.”

“You’re my sister, Helena,” he replied quietly, “When you ask for my help from a police cell, I should at least give you the time of day.”

She stood against the bars and rested her hands on them. “You have to get Terrence to change his mind. Perhaps if you remind him of his duty and responsibility towards me?” She paused. “If he’s so lost to the requirements of his position that he still refuses, perhaps you could fund my defence?”

Marchese Baiardo Fraccelli looked quietly at his sister for a moment. “Count Terrence spoke to me before he told you he wasn’t paying for your defence attorney,” he admitted.

“What!” Helena was genuinely shocked. “And you didn’t-“

“Helena,” he interrupted, “You chose to involve yourself in House Strefagi business. There are rules. You were happy to dish out orders and throw your weight around, but you failed to hold discipline and obey orders when you didn’t get your own way.”

“But he was just rolling over and letting them dictate to us,” she protested. “Despite being the chief enforcer, he’s always been the softest but none of them, not even the old man or Amato, ever had Father’s drive. I’ve had to keep showing them the right way to do things for years.”

“Father’s way,” commented Marchese Baiardo, “Would have had the Fraccellii in much the condition the Strefagii are in, if we had continued with it. The world has changed, Helena, and it is Count Terrence’s job to recognise that and chart the House a course through new waters. You disobeyed his orders and that puts you off on a frolic of your own. You broke the bond that entitled you to his protection.”

“But he’s doing such foolish, wasteful things,” she objected forcefully, “Higher education for foot soldiers’ sons, coddling their widows and orphans, and encouraging someone who should be looking to be taken on as a foot soldier himself to play football! That’s what comes of marrying a flunkey’s daughter. Sheer foolishness.”

“He seems to be repositioning House Strefagi around its foreign investments,” commented Baiardo, “Which makes sense, they are what’s keeping the House afloat. Growing his future foot soldiers into men who can read balance sheets makes sense in that context. As for over supporting House relics, I thought you don’t like the changes he’s made to the support he gives you.” He took in her expression and added slyly, “You are one of those widows he ‘coddles’, after all. And as for the soccer player, well if the boy is as good as I hear and has some luck in the next few years, there could be considerable prestige accruing to the patron who encouraged and supported him in developing his talent.”

“You’re not going to help me, are you?” Helena’s hands dropped to her sides in disappointment.

“No,” agreed her brother, “I’m going to support Count Terrence’s decision. You will either have to pay for a defence attorney from your allowance or ask that the Public Prosecutor appoint one for you from the list.” He put up a warning hand as she went to speak. “And before you say anything more about duty, you might like to consider who it was who refused to allow an ill man to be nursed through a long terminal decline in his own home, foisting his care onto her sister-in-law, and who was found carrying a grenade launcher with grenades in the centre of town this morning.”

Monday morning, about half past ten, Rodolfo strolled into the garage in Razagettone where Terris kept his racing vehicle. It was a light industrial area, full of workshops, and slightly run down so rents were cheap. Terris and his mechanic friend were working on the racer. Noting the hip width under the overalls bent over under the bonnet, Rodolfo wondered if Count Terrence knew that his son’s mechanic was a girl.

“Ahem.” He coughed to announce himself. The girl straightened and turned from under the bonnet, a heavy wrench in hand, a pretty thing with a fat braid of reddy-brown hair pinned up around her head. Sensible too, if the wrench was any indication.

Terris pushed himself out from under the vehicle on a trolley, dark hair all skew-whiff and a drip of something oily on his face. “Oh. Um.” Rodolfo thought, with some amusement, that the boy wasn’t sure what to call him. “I suppose you’ve come to see the signage?”

“Yes.” Rodolfo allowed his amusement to show through. “You can call me Rodolfo. We are brothers-in-law, after all. I’ve come to have a look at the signage on your racer.”

“Rodolfo,” Terris made introductions, “This is my mechanic, Loren Piccolo. Loren, this is our very generous sponsor and my new brother-in-law, Rodolfo Desideri.”

The girl looked slightly taken aback but extended her hand with a smile and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” She shot a look at Terris and added, “Terris is right. You have been very generous. I haven’t dared tell my father or brothers what you’ve let us install or they’d be all over the place down here and I’d be out of the team.”

“Let’s see what Terris can do with them, shall we?” Rodolfo shook her hand, nice and firm he noted, then said, “I need to talk to Terris about some family stuff, Loren.” He pulled a couple of five ruspone coins from his pocket, held them out to her and asked, apologetically, “Would you mind go and getting coffee for the two of you while I have a quiet word with him?”

Loren flashed a glance at Terris, then put out her hand and said, “Sure. The usual, Terris?”

“That’ll be fine. Thanks.” Rodolfo caught the nervous undertone but didn’t think the mechanic did.

The two men watched her as she bounced out of the garage and round the corner in her work boots and loose, blue overalls.
“She seems nice,” commented Rodolfo, “You could do a great deal worse,” and caught Terris completely off guard when he surged towards him then lifted the younger man single handed by the throat and held him pinned against the back of a concrete supporting pillar, completely hidden from the street outside. “Now I have your complete attention, Terris,” Rodolfo went on calmly, “I would like to make it very clear to you that you will never, ever again use any female relative as collateral for a financial transaction.” Terris was certainly fixated, aside from being treated like a trapped rabbit, he was realising how strong his brother-in-law must be to do what he was doing. “Not your remaining unmarried sisters. Not your presumably as yet unsired daughters. Certainly not your eventual granddaughters. If I ever,” Rodolfo gave him a gentle shake, “Hear that you that you have done such a thing I will see to it that you disappear and that the body is never found. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes,” it was croaked as much as spoken. Once it was said, Rodolfo put him down and dusted his hands off.
“Your sisters have all been extraordinarily lucky,” Rodolfo added, “But it’s best that it doesn’t happen again. Now, all of this started because you wanted to win some races. I’d better leave you to your work so you can get that done.” He smiled at Terris again.

This comes after The Night Before The Wedding.

Boscailo Littori escorted his wife, children, mother-in-law and two unmarried sisters-in-law into the Chapel of St Mark in the Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola at half eleven on Friday morning. For once he was not wearing motorcycle leathers, instead he wore an immaculate, dark gray suit. After all, not only was it a wedding but he was escorting the mother of the bride. He appeared imperturbable. The adult women were nervous and wore pinks and reds. The three children, all under six, were merely excited. His mother-in-law, despite being a short woman, looked every inch Countess Strefagi in a silk, two-piece suit and an antique family brooch.

Desiderii sergeants acting as ushers gravely escorted the Countess Strefagi and her party to the front right hand pew. The left hand side of the chapel was full of Desideri and their dependents: the other children of the late Count Orazio, both legitimate and not, their spouses and children; the late Count’s sister, Domitilla Marostica, and her husband come all the way with their children and grandchildren from his estate up in the hills; the children, grandchildren and a widow of the late Count’s brothers; and senior members of the Desiderii organisation and their wives. The Desiderii enforcers, the men who worked directly to Rodolfo, and their wives sat on the right hand side, starting in the third pew from the front. Behind them sat various business connections whom it was politic to invite. The empty second pew behind the Strefagii seemed like an enormous gulf though Signorina Francesca Littori, age eighteen months, did her best to flirt with everyone in the third pew.

The bride was not expected for fifteen minutes after they arrived, Boscailo having allowed for accidents and delays in his planning, and the Strefagii women had expected to talk among themselves but they were not ignored. The usher had no sooner left them alone when a tall, blonde woman in her mid thirties rose from her place in the front Desiderii pew and walked over to the Countess. Holding out her hand to the bride’s mother she said, “Countess, you probably don’t know me but I’m Luciana Zanetti, Rodolfo’s eldest half-sister. We didn’t meet the other day because clothes aren’t my thing.” The Countess took her hand and they shook. “I realise that this might not be quite the time to discuss it but I was wondering if, given the outrageous manipulation of events by my brothers that brought us all here today, you might be interested in giving your patronage to a group I’m organising to campaign for the repeal of the last of the female financial asset laws? After all, we can own property and run businesses in our own right, we can vote and stand for election; why should we be considered property ourselves at any stage of our lives? As we can’t,” her eye twinkled, “Be appreciated or depreciated as assets on our fathers’ tax returns any longer, why should any of the ‘women as money’ laws remain in place?”

Sextia and Octavia were listening with interest. “You’re an activist?” Sextia asked brightly.

“Of course,” Luciana returned. “It runs in the family - Mama was an anti-vivisectionist. That’s how she came to bring Rodolfo’s mother home with her.”

Octavia asked cautiously and, perhaps, imprudently, “Your mother brought your father’s mistress into the house?”

“Yes,” agreed Luciana, “But it wasn’t quite the way that sounds. Mama was being driven home from some event one night when Rodolfo’s mama jumped out of a second storey window and landed on all fours almost beside the car. She was wearing a hospital gown and a lot of medical leads. Mama opened the car door and told her to get in. She did. Papa didn’t get involved until we had to lie about how long we’d known her.” Luciana paused, “And he was the one who got in the shower to help her scrub off the marker pen. I was too young to realise it at the time, but she’d been marked off with cutting lines...” She stared off into the distance. “Mama and her driver knew their number plate had been seen. While Papa was scrubbing off the marker, Mama and the other grown-up women were making it look like she’d been living with us for months. Everything else was to make the lies we told the police true.” She visibly took herself in hand. “That leads into an important side effect of the female financial asset laws. Did you realise that ninety percent of human transgenics produced in this country are female because the female financial asset laws make it easier to regain custody of them if they escape or are released?”

“The police would have taken Rodolfo’s mother back to be cut up?” Octavia, a generation younger than the events in question, was shocked.

“In those days, yes,” her mother confirmed, while Luciana nodded in agreement. “I remember signing the petition to strengthen the anti-vivisection laws the Bishop had in every church in the diocese and the Episcopal Guards finding evidence of corrupt collusion with corporate laboratories when they raided police stations on diocesan property.”

“Mama felt that the Police Commissioner’s public apology for the actions of her officers was one of her greatest triumphs,” reminisced Luciana.

“I suppose,” offered the Countess Strefagi hesitantly, “That Rodolfo’s mother died... I’m so sorry,” she reached out her hand towards the other woman, “But I swear that Terrence and I didn’t know...”

“Oh, we’ve always known that,” Luciana patted the offered hand kindly. “Our enforcers had your house under surveillance and your phones tapped that night, or so they told us in the aftermath. Count Amato managed to blindside and insult so many people with the attack on my father the night before your father-in-law’s funeral, it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did afterwards. Of course, if Count Terrence had been involved, I doubt Rodolfo would be marrying your daughter today.”

There was a slightly embarrassed silence from all the Strefagi women which made Luciana hurry on, “All of us have told Bartolo and Rodolfo what we think of their behaviour. Seraglia,” she indicated one of two feline-looking blonde women in third left-hand pew, seated with husbands, children and a man their age with cat-like ears, “Gave them a tongue lashing I wouldn’t have dared, but then, she’s pregnant again.” She added, “None of us can see why, if Rodolfo liked her, he couldn’t just introduce himself and invite her for coffee.”

Sextia offered drily, “Perhaps it was the whole feud thing with our uncle killing your parents after your father turned our grandfather into a slowly dying invalid, and so on, back who knows how many generations?”

“There is that,” admitted Luciana soberly, “But I still think my brothers have behaved badly.”

Outside, a black limousine pulled up at the kerb in front of the main entrance to the Basilica. Inside, in the back seat, a dapper man with grey hair turned to the young woman beside him and said, “Are you ready, Astanthe? If you don’t want to marry my godson and you’re only doing this because you think you have to, just tell me and we’ll work something else out.” He smiled kindly. “As his godfather it is my job to keep an eye on him and stop him going astray. He’s not too old for me whack him up the back of the head and tell him he’s got it all wrong.”

Astanthe smiled back. “Thank you, Signor Patrelli, but I do want to marry Rodolfo, very much.” She blushed.
He patted her hand. “Very well then. Shall we make our entrance?”

Back inside the Chapel of St Mark an usher walked briskly down the right wall to knock on a door tucked to one side.

“She’s here already,” Luciana commented in surprise. “I’d better get back to my seat. I’ll see you again at the reception.” She hurried back to her place beside her husband.

Her veil hanging over her face now she was in the Basilica and her free hand holding up her skirt to ensure she didn’t step on it, Astanthe made her way to the entrance of the Chapel of Saint Mark, allowing herself to be guided by Rodolfo’s godfather. They paused in the Chapel’s entrance while the congregation stood, and then two of them genuflected. Astanthe would have moved forward straight away but Michele Patrelli put his hand over hers and said quietly, “Wait a moment for the hymn to start. Let them look at you. This is your moment.”

Without turning her head Astanthe quietly replied, “I didn’t expect him to be so beautiful.”

The older man chuckled quietly. “You’re the bride. You’re supposed to be the beautiful one.”

“Yes.” He could hear the laugh in her voice. “But I’m allowed to think the groom is beautiful, aren’t I?”

Deaf Zia Lynetta, the widow of Count Orazio’s second brother and the only survivor of her generation, whispered more loudly than she realised to Shiloh, her foreign-born daughter-in-law, “That can't be the bride, can it? Ah, well, at least she’s not pretending nothing happened and I do like what she’s done with it. Silly boys!”

Outside in the Piazza Sant’Erasmo da Specola a taxi entered from the east, down the Via Ordinal. In it Helena Strefagi fumed. The Strefagi had no drive, no aggression; she’d had to show them what needed to be done for years. And how dare that accountant’s daughter strike her? Well, she was going to lead by example. Terrence might have pushed her into a tiny apartment in her own home, he might have cut her funds, but she would still show the Strefagi that she knew how to advance their best interests. It would help if those boys turned up, seventeen was quite old enough for them to stop being school boys and start being foot soldiers, whatever foolishness Terrence had in mind but they’d seemed curiously reluctant on the phone. At least she had the weapons, her hand rested on the long heavy bag beside her on the seat of the taxi. She had been right to keep those caches secret.

Inside the Chapel as the congregation began the first hymn, Signor Patrelli and Astanthe began to progress down the aisle towards the altar, Rodolfo and Bartolo his best man, and the presiding priest, Monsignor Failo, who was Rodolfo’s other godfather.

This carries on from Fresco.

“Domestic frescos are so rare,” Professor Verita explained. “People who had enough money sponsored works in churches or on civic projects, for the prestige. They only spent this sort of money at home if they entertained a lot for business or politics. Frankly,” he gave an expressive shrug and hand gesture, “I’ll be doing well to limit the involvement of the History and Art faculties to this. It doesn’t help,” he added darkly, “That in the late 1800s anyone who had money plastered over their frescos and redecorated in white and gold.”

“We can hope,” added one of the earnest young people, a red haired girl in jeans and a checked shirt, “That no-one used a sledge hammer here, the way they did in the Palazzo Borghese in Fossi Piceno. If the picture is intact we could learn a lot about the man who built this house.” She smiled at Rodolfo and Astanthe as if she were offering them a treat.

“I already know as much as I need to about the mind of the man who built this house,” Rodolfo said suppressingly, “He built his foyer to be a killing zone with a false door to give the illusion of an easier way out of the trap.”

“Rubia!” Professor Verita spoke sharply to the student, “Don’t repeat that to anyone yet. Don Rodolfo,” he turned back to the engaged couple, “I don’t doubt your expertise on the subject of-,” he stopped, looking for a polite word.

“Ambushes,” supplied Rodolfo with a feral grin.

“Ambushes,” the professor graciously accepted the help, “But do you want to get more of my colleagues involved?”

“More?” Rodolpho looked around the room sceptically.

“These are a few of my own students plus some curating experts,” Professor Verita said dismissively. “I’m talking about more professors from different schools.” He paused, “Pure historians, political scientists, anyone at all with a theory on Pietro IV and condottori will want to come and look. Some of them,” he gave his words significance, “Can pull rank on me.”

“As the owners without let or hindrance,” Rodolfo smiled, “We can pull rank on all of you. Why don’t we talk terms?”

“Of course, Don Rodolfo.” Professor Verita smiled amiably. “I am happy to do so.”

“Rodolfo,” Astanthe tugged at his sleeve, “Can we talk for a moment in the next room, first.”

He looked down at her, a little surprised. “Of course, my dear.” He looked back at the other man. “Professor, excuse us for a moment please.”

“Of course.” The professor smiled indulgently.

A few moments later in the ballroom next door Rodolfo asked, “Well? The professor may feel you’ve given him the advantage by pulling me away just as we were about to start negotiations.”

“Tell him I wanted to make sure they’re going to bring their equipment in through the front door and not through my kitchen. Brush it off as my foible if you have to.” She looked apologetic and added softly, “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve made you lose face in front of the professor but,” her voice firmed, “I’ve listened to a few years’ of Skein’s dinner table conversation now. He says that the public museums and art galleries always try to get the householder to pay all their expenses in cases like this.” Rodolfo’s face sharpened with interest. “We want the top layer of plaster to come off to see how much of the fresco is still there and if it can be made presentable we’ll want it restored in situ, right?”

“I agree,” he nodded, “I don’t think we should pay for the time of the professor’s PhD students or for any other professors who come to research their theories.”

“On the other hand,” she suggested, “We don’t charge them rent, they don’t take over my kitchen, plus they stock the bathroom they use and clean it.”

“And we set their working hours,” Rodolfo grinned, “Not on weekends, not after five in the evening and not before nine in the morning.”

“And not this Friday at all!” Astanthe grabbed his lapels and pulled on them, then kissed him firmly when he leant forward in response.

“Definitely not.” He kissed her back for a few moments then they broke apart and he offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

She took it and smiled up at him, “Definitely.”

They swept back into the dining room. “Professor.” Rodolfo’s voice echoed in the room and everyone looked at him. “Interesting acoustics,” he muttered in an aside to Astanthe and then said to the Professor who was walking over to them, “Let’s start with your working hours.”

This follows on from Choosing a Dress.

The house Rodolfo drove them to was in one of the old quarters of town, within the walls and the loop of the river. The area was a mishmash of centuries’ worth of reconstruction but this block-sized house remained intact. Rodolfo parked the car as near as possible to the front door, they kissed after he’d wound up his window, then they got out of the red sports vehicle and locked it. A woman in a skirted business suit was standing at the foot of the steps to the front door.

“Signorina Belli,” Rodolfo extended his free right hand to exchange courtesies with her, his left firmly holding hands with Astanthe, “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting? This is my fiancée, Astanthe Strefagi. Astanthe, this is Luciana Belli, real estate agent extraordinaire and a god daughter of my late father.”

The two women shook hands and exchanged greetings then Signorina Belli produced the keys and opened the front door. “The house was originally built in the reign of Pietro IV,” she explained, “By one of the condottori captains he had under contract at the time. That does mean, of course, that all the plumbing and wiring have been retrofitted.” She flicked a light switch and the foyer was lit up by a chandelier, a third of the light bulbs blown. Three solid doors opened into the room: left, right and in front of them. Three stories of wide grimy windows faced them and above them two floors of internal balcony lined each side of the room.

“The original owner being a condottori would explain why this room is built to be a kill zone,” commented Rodolfo drily.

“The door on the left takes us to the cloak room and then the garage,” Signorina Belli carried on, “The door in front of us leads into the courtyard, I’m afraid we don’t have a key for that particular door, and this door, “she opened the one on the right, “Leads us into the first of the public rooms. As you can see,” she ushered them through the doorway, “It’s a fine anteroom with a staircase to the two upper floors.” The treads looked like marble, the centres of them worn down from use. The real estate agent led them across the room to the next door. “This,” she said opening it with a flourish, “Is the receiving room or downstairs sitting room.”

Signorina Belli led them though the ballroom, dining room, kitchen and scullery, making three sides of the block, to the garage on the fourth side. “This”, said Astanthe thoughtfully, “reminds me very much of our-my parents’ house.”

“I suspect, my love,” said Rodolfo fondly, “That your father and I have similar ideas on domestic architecture.” He looked across the empty four car garage. “We wouldn’t have any parking problems with this in here, would we? So, Signorina Belli, the two upper floors?”

“And the cellars and the courtyard?” added Astanthe firmly.

It was over an hour later before they’d seen the entire house, including the attics under the roof. The parts the late owner had used until the time of her death were in excellent condition, some of the rest, not so much. In parts the fact that the last major work had been carried out fifty years earlier, was a problem. In some parts the last major work was the problem.

They were back in the foyer. Signorina Belli was looking at some paper work to one side while Rodolfo and Astanthe conferred privately in quiet voices. “It’s very big, for just the two of us,” Astanthe pointed out.

“My father had lots of children,” Rodolfo said practically, “Your parents have lots of children. Give us a few years, we’ll fill it up.”

“Can we afford to buy it and to do it up?” Starflower looked, he thought fondly, as if she was building herself up to ask something important. He’d seen her face during their tour of the house and he thought he knew what it was. “I know we haven’t talked about money and budgets and things...” She trailed off. “I should have asked about that on the way here in the car, shouldn’t I?”

“Perhaps,” he allowed with a smile, “But we wouldn’t be here if the asking price wasn’t in my budget. We don’t have to fix everything up at once,” he added cautiously.

Her next question was, “Could we have enough to go on with by the wedding?” She counted off on her fingers. “The kitchen seems sound, except for the fridge. The garage is okay. There’s that small bathroom on the second floor the last owner was using. That leaves only a bedroom for us.”

“Some of the doors need replacing,” Rodolfo added judiciously, “And I think we’d need the weather stripping on the southern section of the roof looked at, but do you want it?

“If you can afford it and all the inspections are okay,” she suddenly looked so eager he wanted to sweep her up into his arms then and there, “Could we? Please?”

This follows on from Bits.

Early in the predawn a beautifully hand addressed envelope was dropped into the mail slot at Terrence and Julia’s home. The inscription read “Julia, Countess Strefagi.”

Rodolfo, three of his half sisters and Astanthe, who had been Septima, had taken over part of the wedding dress salon. Rodolfo, dressed in a slightly archaic style that made the blond queue hanging down his back look like the perfect finishing touch, was seated erect in a leather armchair, both feet firmly planted on the ground and his rod of office grounded between them with his hands folded on top of it. From his position he could see the door to the change room his little Starflower was using, the entrance to the store and the promenade in front of the mirrors. His sisters, all of them tall blondes with excellent taste, were married and experienced in the travails of wedding dress shopping.

“Not the dress Silvana had,” Gloriana was saying in a practical tone, “Astanthe’s a good foot shorter – anything like that will look like the attack of the snow beast.”

“We should avoid that,” Astanthe gravely agreed, “My cousin Mariucca on my mother’s side...” She shuddered. “The photos could be posted as a public warning.”

Stephana patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Your wedding won’t be like that, we promise. Despite my brother’s heavy handed methods of courtship.” She sent Rodolfo a cutting glance. “Style isn’t the only issue though, there’s colour too. After all, there’s white and there’s white.”

When the shop door opened to admit a nervous looking middle-aged woman Astanthe was standing in front of the mirrors being critically examined in off-white taffeta.

“It’s too – apricot,” was Stephana’s comment.

“It makes your bust look like a liability, not an asset,” said Gloriana firmly.

“Stand on your toes like you were wearing heels, please,” asked Oriana from behind her. “Thank you, relax. No, this style of train just doesn’t work on you.”

“I do not care for the overall effect,” said Rodolfo, “She looks like she’s playing dress ups in someone else’s clothes. We need to look at something else.” He rose to his feet and walked to the newly arrived woman near the front of the shop. “Countess Strefagi,” he gave a bow that would have been old fashioned in her father’s youth but went well with his clothes, “You got my note. Thank you for coming. Won’t you please join us?” He offered her his arm and, when she tentatively took it, he led her up the few steps in the middle of the store to where the others were consulting with the assistant over the next dress to try on. “Would you care to sit?” He offered her the chair he had just vacated.

“Thank you, but no,” Julia was distracted. “Septima?”

The dark haired figure in the wrong dress turned suddenly. “Mum?!” Relief and shame warred on her face.

“Astanthe,” Rodolfo said firmly in Julia’s ear, “Her name is Astanthe now. Think of it as a wedding present from my brother or simply part of the whole getting married thing if that makes it easier.”

“Astanthe.” Julia tried it on for size. “How are you?” Then sharply, “You are not seriously considering that dress, are you? Not on you?”

Two dresses later, Rodolfo pointed at a Carnivale dress towards the front of the shop with his rod and said, “I would like to see that shape on her, please.”

“Rodolpho,” said Gloriana firmly, “That is not a wedding dress. That’s fancy dress. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why shouldn’t a wedding dress be made like that?” Rodolfo put his question in an ‘I’m being entirely reasonable’ tone. “I would like to see that dress on Astanthe please.” When the assistant hesitated he smiled and added, “Now.”

Less than five minutes later Astanthe was back in front of the mirrors wearing someone’s interpretation of a five century old fashion: near transparent pleated linen underdress visible above the bodice and through slashings in the sleeves; a boned and back-laced wide-shouldered bodice that, unlike the original version, proclaimed that the wearer had a bosom and invited the world to look; a heavily pleated skirt; and sleeves that weren’t joined to the dress all the way around the armhole and were slashed longitudinally in the tight upper arm section to allow the underdress to puff through them then finished in a loose lower section that finished above her wrist but trailed to her knee and was lined with a plain silk that toned with the brocade of the rest of the garment. Rodolfo regarded the effect with satisfaction. “Turn around, please,” he requested.

Astanthe complied, but paused half way round and looked back over her shoulder, “Like this?”

“Yes, you little flirt, exactly like that,” it was a warm smile between the two of them, “But this is a very autumnal colouring,” he indicated the pattern of vines and leaves in shades of brown and gold. “Does this fabric,” he’d turned to the shop assistant, “Come in any other colours?”

It wasn’t quite the same pattern, but a brocade in dark green and blue with touches of silver won his approval.

“It’s not anything like white,” said Stephana thoughtfully. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“It makes her look,” Rodolfo said calmly, “Like a great lady in an old portrait.”

“A very beautiful one,” Julia added then said, “And if you’re going to say ‘stuff the conventions’ then there’s no point in being coy about it, you might as well go for broke. At the very least dear,” she smiled at her daughter, “None of the others would be able to say that you’ve copied their dress.”

“The blue and green should make up the same as the sample dress,” offered Oriana with the agreement of the assistant, “And your bum really does look good in this,” she added to Astanthe.

“Just a veil and we’re done then,” stated Gloriana with some satisfaction.

“You’ll be done, dear sister,” corrected Rodolfo, “I get to pay for everything.”

Astanthe suddenly looked worried, “This isn’t going to cost too much, is it?”

“No,” he smiled reassuringly at her, “And you’re worth every scuto.”

Julia and Stephana had wandered down the front of the salon and were looking in a locked cabinet. Another assistant spoke to them, then unlocked the cabinet. They and that good lady came back to the group with a cobweb of lace. “This caught my eye while I was wondering what to do when I first came in. I think,” the assistant handed one end to the taller Stephana and together they dropped it carefully over Astanthe’s head, “It will be just the thing.” The first assistant, experienced in this, lifted the fall of fabric back up to cover the sample dress.
Six women breathed variations on, “Oh, yes...” Astanthe was the only one who couldn’t see what she looked like.

“They’re right,” Rodolfo told her fondly. “Now,” suddenly all business, “Astanthe needs to have measurements taken and get back in her own clothes, you ladies need to decide footwear and I have to deal with the business end of things. She and I have an appointment to view a house in,” he looked at his watch, “Forty five minutes.”