Free Angels of the Flood by Joanna Hines Page A

didn’t like what she saw.
    Right now, all she could see through the engulfing mist was that darn spot on the sleeve of her blouse. A grey blemish, shaped like a slug. She shook at it, to make sure it wasn’t just a scrap of fluff, then rubbed it with the tip of her bony index finger. It stayed put.
    ‘Nancy!’
    ‘I’m here, signora. It’s Giulia—’
    ‘Don’t cheek me, girl. See here, this shirt is dirty. Get me another.’
    ‘That’s just a fleck in the linen, signora.’
    ‘Look—don’t argue—look—a mark—there—see it!’
    ‘Yes, signora. Right away.’
    Annette Bertoni’s arms and shoulders were stiff with outrage as the girl’s broad hands removed the offending linen, then slid the pale silk on her body. She felt so mad and frustrated and helpless it was a wonder she didn’t spit sparks like a Catherine wheel and burn up with the rage. Ha, that would be the way to go. A shower of burning colours and then, phut, nothing at all. If only.
    ‘She’s ready now.’ That wretched girl was talking about her. Did they think she couldn’t hear?
    ‘I’m not ready! Don’t tell me I’m ready!’
    That patient sigh. Those huge brown eyes. It was like lashing out at some dumb cow. ‘What do you need, signora?’
    The question flummoxed her. What did she need? There must be something she needed, but just for the moment, she couldn’t think what it was. When she first came to Italy as a bride, there’d been strict rules about what young ladies should and should not have with them. Gloves at all times. Tissue paper for packing undergarments. And… Right before she set off travelling with a friend, just before a short journey from Verona to the south, there’d been that conversation with her mother in law. A young lady must always carry… what was it? What in darnation had been so important that…?
    She nailed the thought and smiled, remembering the reassuring feel of hard metal through embroidered silk. She struggled to get out of her chair. When the bovine young maid tried to help her, she shook her off. ‘I can manage!’ she said angrily, then gripped the back of her chair and reached out across the empty space to her dressing table. Two tottery steps and she was there. She hunched over the drawers, trying to make herself wider, so cow-eyes wouldn’t see what she was doing. Pulled open the third drawer on the right. A couple of chiffon scarves, smelling of lavender and stale face powder, then her fingertips touched heavy silk embroidery, pressed down to feel the smooth outline of the pistol inside. Did it still work? She must try it out some time. But not now. For now, it was enough to know it was there.
    She pushed the drawer closed and turned round, leaning back against the dressing table for support. ‘I’m ready now,’ she said. ‘Tell Dino I’m ready.’
    ‘Here, signora.’ He must have been waiting just outside the door. He crossed the room and took her by the arm. A lady must always go in to dinner on the arm of a gentleman.
    Ha! Not that Dino was any kind of gentleman.
    But he was reliable. A reliable peasant. That was the best that could be said about him.
    He didn’t smell right, though. His head was smooth and shiny as a billiard ball, and he was common as dirt. But he was good and strong. As was his smell.
    ‘Dino, don’t you ever take a bath? You stink like a barnyard.’
    He merely grinned. That Humpty Dumpty face of his was just made for grinning. Like a big round plate with a smile in the middle. Mind you, it was always possible he didn’t understand a word of what she was saying. She might have spoken to him in English. Sometimes she had a job to keep track of which language was which.
    It was hard work going down the stairs. She had to concentrate, but it was easier once she reached the flat and was headed into the dining room. Ah yes, there was company, and they were waiting for her. Let them wait. Mario—it must be the weekend again already—and Simona and…