Free Lost in the City of Flowers (The Histories of Idan Book 1) by Maria C. Trujillo

honey, cinnamon, and walnuts.
    Twenty minutes later light crawled its way through the window as Zia and I ate our hot cereal. “How strange this is, Viola. Is this common where you come from?”
    “Very!”
    “What is it called?”
    “Oatmeal.”
    “O-mil-e?”
    “Close enough.” I smiled, painfully aware of what I must sound like in Italian.
    When our wooden bowls were empty, she urged me to dress. “We are going out soon and cannot be late.”
    This time around putting on all the layers and newly tailored dress was much easier. The sea green trim of the dress hid my Converse from sight. Although I was appreciative, it felt as if I was covering up Violet Menet for the sake of Viola Orofino. Chrysalises started to hatch in my stomach as the meeting with the workshop owner approached. Somehow, I knew that being close to Leonardo was key to getting back to my life.
    “Where are we going, Zia?” I asked as she twisted my hair.
    “To church, then to Andrea’s workshop. That reminds me, can you carry the goat leftovers while I carry the cannelloni?”
    In my head I was thinking “Gross!” But aloud, I said, “ Si, va bene .”
    With last night’s supper and a bag of intestines, we left for church. I had not been to any kind of church since I was very young. We were all still a family then. If I closed my eyes I could still see us walking together and feel the pain in my hand from the squeezing contests with Clara. Thinking about it made me sad, but I tried to recreate the memory all the same. The heavy swoosh sound of the bag’s contents against my dress drew me back to our walk. It had been about ten minutes when I asked whether we were going to the closest church to home.

    “Santa Croce is closer to home, but I know too many people there! When we arrive you will see how people gossip. If it were not for my piety, I might say that it is the only reason people go to the house of the Lord. To answer your question, no, I would much rather go to a church that is farther and away from busy tongues,” she said, balancing the leftovers as we walked.
    After a couple more minutes, Zia stopped abruptly in a narrow plaza teeming with vendors, gypsies, and church goers. In front of us was a jagged building made of pebbles and mortared with sticky mud. There were three wooden doors left, center, and right. Half a dozen elegant horses were drinking from a narrow stone basin propped against the church. We glided by a shoeless man attending to the steeds while Zia guided me to the door on the left.
    “This cannot be the church!” I bellowed. While entering San Lorenzo, I was shocked at the sheer grandeur of the church.
    “Hush! Nonsense, child, of course it is. What did you think of us Florentines? We may be quick to make a profit, but we put our money where our mouth is when it comes to the holy family,” said Zia with a proud countenance.
    Never would I have thought that behind the crumbly exterior was a palace of light suspended by columns, arches, and a golden ceiling. Savoring my amazement, Zia began to give me all the basilica’s juicy details.
    “San Lorenzo is a very old church but it was re-made into a basilica by a complete madman and genius named Brunelleschi. He has solved many problems that other men have scratched their beards raw over. It took a long time to bring it up to date, but they just finished the interior. Isn’t it heavenly?” I gawked in agreement. “Much of the renovation was paid for by the most powerful family in Florence.”
    “What is their name?” I asked.
    “You have already met one of them.”
    “Leonardo?”
    Zia held back a fit of laughter behind her shawl. After a moment she crossed herself and murmured, “No, Viola! Do you not remember the handsome young man, Giuliano Medici, who saved you from the stampede in Piazza della Signoria?”

    “Oh!” My eyes began to sift through worshipers searching for Giuliano’s fur cap and brown curls. On either side of the nave were