Free Death of a Serpent by Susan Russo Anderson

line again.”
    Serafina crossed her arms, closed her eyes, shook her head.
    “Just like your father. Listen to yourself. ‘My children need me.’ And who is Carmela?—a stranger? A child left, and you, the mother, heap shame on Rosa’s head for taking her in. Yet you, the mother, do nothing to find your child. Shame on our house. Yes, the guards can help, but you must find her first.”
    “Too much to do. It’s all a muddle. You make no sense.”
    “You must find her first in here,” she said, pointing to her heart.
    The vision faded, and Serafina sat, arms wrapped around herself in a cold, dark room.
    • • •
    The door opened and Rosa entered, her skirts swaying above stiffened hoops. She licked her fingers. “You look like a startled ewe. Scare yourself? Or do you dawdle as usual while I do all the work?”
    Serafina turned this way and that. She remembered the look on Maddalena’s face before she vanished. “My daughter?”
    “Still searching, the guards. Early, yet. They canvas the brothels in town. Next, they go to Palermo.”
    Silence, except for the wind outside.
    “You’ve asked the women she knew? Gusti? Gioconda? Lola?”
    “Of course.”
    Serafina looked beyond Rosa to the windows. All she could see were dark shapes. “There’s only so much I can do.” Maddalena’s words rang in her head. What would Giorgio say? She felt like pushing all thoughts of children back into a dim room in her mind, but she said, “Tell me when Carmela was here. No fantasy. The dates.”
    “Came to me she did in July 1862. Left in August 1863. No word since.”
    “She could be anywhere, or not,” and having said those words, Serafina felt a flash of something hot. Her cheeks burned. Her armpits moistened. Better not to think of Carmela. Better to let the thoughts fly away like birds. She rose, opened a window, waited for her lungs to fill themselves. She breathed in large draughts of air before she fastened the sash.
    “Tell me about the murdered women.” Serafina reached into her reticule for notebook and pencil. “I want to hear where they were born, their talents outside the bedroom, their families, their friends, their enemies, troublesome customers, where they went on their free evenings. I want to interview everyone who was in the house or who should have been here at the time of the murders. Details I want, anything that comes to mind no matter how small—a new shadow on the wall, a different scent in the air, an unsettled light in someone’s eyes.”
    “First it was Gemma, my poor darling Gemma. A country girl. Seldom laughed, my Gemma.”
    “A country girl from where?”
    “How should I know where Gemma was born, or any of my girls? A girl comes to the door. She wants to work. While she talks, my eyes move up, my eyes move down. Most of them I turn away. I seek hunger and stamina and a certain something in the eyes. Do I care if she’s from Palermo or Naples or Rome? Or beyond? No. Would she tell me if I asked? No.”
    Serafina waited.
    “She may have been from Enna. Sperlinga, I think. Why are you smiling?”
    “At you. Pulling the truth out of your mouth is harder than hoisting a net of tuna from the sea.”
    Rosa’s black curls shimmered. “Now, no more interruptions.” Her mouth twitched. “Seldom laughed, Gemma, but born turning tricks, that one, with a silky bottom and a wink that made customers beg for more. Earned more than any of the others, my Gemma, given a five lire gold piece by one of Garibaldi’s generals. Dead these three months, my darling girl.”
    Serafina ran two fingers up and down her pencil waiting for the madam to continue.
    “Next it was Nelli, Nelli with a doll’s face. A natural in the kitchen, our Nelli. Helped cook make the caponata , but slow to learn the trade, so clever Lola became a sister to her, showed her artistic twists.” Rosa twirled ringed fingers to illustrate ‘artistic twists.’
    Serafina scribbled. “Lola. Tell me about her.”
    “You