A Hidden Fire
Page 72I spoke with Signore Andros when he returned from his visit with you in Fiesole.
Signore Andros ...she searched her memory and flipped through her notes until she spotted it. Signore Niccolo Andros, who had the fascinating library in Perugia where Giovanni had recovered with the young boy after his time in jail.
Could that be the connection to Giovanni’s books? Were they really the property of this Niccolo Andros? Did Giovanni steal them? And what did all this have to do with her father? She flipped through her notes again to see what kind of books Signore Andros had and frowned. Why would her father be researching books about Eastern mysticism?
Beatrice took notes on the seventh letter, convinced that there was some piece of the puzzle that was just out of her grasp. She needed to study them together, but she could not waste any more time at work. She quickly made the copies, and walked back out to the reading room to see Dr. Scalia already poring over the newest letter with Dr. Christiansen.
“—and the progression of Savaranola’s extreme ideas coinciding with Pico’s apparent depression seems to be one of the most fascinating aspects. Along with the mention of his poetry. I believe the sonnets mentioned would be those Pico wrote to the wife of one of the Medici cousins. It was quite a scandal at the time, and caused his first imprisonment, but these letters certainly indicated they continued their relationship, at least through correspondence.”
“What’s so special about the sonnets?” she heard Charlotte ask.
“We knew Pico had written poetry, but we thought it was destroyed by Savaranola in the bonfires, or that Pico had destroyed it of his own volition as an act of penance. This seems to indicate that Poliziano—who was a poet himself—was trying to get them for safekeeping. It’s all quite fascinating.”
“What about the rest of Pico’s library?”
Dr. Scalia frowned. “What library?”
“Well, the letters mention books and stuff, right? Didn’t he have all sorts of mystical texts, too? Along with his own papers? All these nobles and philosophers had personal libraries, right? What happened to Pico’s? Maybe the sonnets are there.”
Dr. Scalia nodded. “Yes, from all reports, Giovanni Pico did have a very extensive library, though we don’t know what happened to it. He had no heirs, you see. And when he died—”
“When did he die? How?”
The professor looked slightly shocked at her interruption, but only smiled a little and shook his head.
“We don’t know exactly. We know Giovanni Pico died in Ferrara in 1494, but there is no record of him leaving an extensive library at his home, and he died under rather mysterious circumstances. As he had no heirs, it’s probable that his library was taken by his family, the Mirandolas. It would have been theirs unless Pico had made other endowments.”
Beatrice nodded, even more confused. “Thanks…sorry, Dr. Scalia. I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just…”
She saw Charlotte watching her with narrowed eyes and was glad her shift would be over soon. As she walked back to check the dehumidifier, her mind whirled, more confused than ever by the pieces of a puzzle that seemed stubbornly jumbled in her mind.
She was heating a can of soup on the stove when Giovanni entered the kitchen that night. He was wearing a black shirt and jacket with a pair of pressed black slacks. As always, he looked amazing and Beatrice looked away, trying to ignore the instant reaction she always had to him.
“Good evening, Beatrice.”
She smirked. “Going for the real inconspicuous ‘no, I’m not a deadly creature of the night’ look, are we?”
“Pardon?”
She raised an eyebrow and glanced back, looking him up and down. “It’s Friday, right? Dinner time? Do chicks dig the whole man-in-black thing?”
He looked at her and cocked his head. “Do you really want to talk about this?”
“I have to go out.” A small smile teased the corner of his lips. “Unless you’re offering, of course, then I could just skip the clubs. Much more convenient.” He winked at her as he put his keys in his pocket.
She rolled her eyes and looked down at the stove, surprised and amused by his unusually flirtatious mood. “See this? It’s soup. Soup is food.” She looked back at him. “See me? I’m me, and I’m not food. Any questions?”
He smirked and looked her up and down. For a minute, she wanted to blush at his frank perusal. The appreciative look in his eye almost made her reconsider, but then she remembered the vicious bite marks on her grandmother’s neck, and decided to stick with her first answer.
“Oh, Beatrice, I have many questions, but I’m not going to find an answer tonight, am I?”
It was far more suggestive than she had come to expect from him, and she figured it must have something to do with his hunger. She really didn’t want to think about it all that much.
“You’re in some kind of mood, aren’t you?” she muttered, trying to ignore the flutters in her stomach as she stirred the pot on the stove.