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It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights. “We are Mr. Do you understand?” “I do not,” he answered. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. He seemed to stay away from her because she was so cold and formal towards him, addressing him as Mister McCloskey as if she were an Irish maid. Had he come to see her to find if she needed something? No. We aren’t afraid; we don’t bother.
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