John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. Her mother tried to soothe her with tales of romance and love, of all the fineries that she would enjoy in the Palazzo, but all Lucia could do was cry until her cheeks twitched and her forehead ached. “Yes, John. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. The Dawn Pearl.
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