3

The ballroom is brightly lit. The crystal Murano chandeliers stain with gold the moldings around the doors, the mirrors above

the French consoles, and the ivory damask curtains; against the walls, couches and ottomans await the guests, who are expected

shortly.

Of the two ballrooms at the Olivuzza, Franca has elected this one, partly because it is in the older part of the house and

is larger and more richly decorated. The first ball of Palermo's 1895 season will not be her and Ignazio's first, but it may

be the most important because it will serve as the benchmark for all those to succeed it.

Franca's footsteps barely echo on the polished herringbone parquet, drowned out by the small orchestra tuning up: they will begin with a waltz, and she and Ignazio will open the dance. Servants in livery stand upright by the French doors leading to the garden, like a royal guard. Franca looks up at the light-colored ceiling, framed by gilded plaster cornices, and remembers how small she felt the first time she walked into this lavish room, and how thrilling it was to see torches illuminating the garden beyond the large glass doors.

She goes out onto the terrace. Long tables with refreshments have been arranged under the wrought-iron gazebo, covered with

a white tarp. There are already Baccarat and Bohemian crystal carafes filled with lemonade and fruit juice laid out, as well

as champagne and white wine in silver buckets so large you could bathe a baby in them. Large, gleaming trays mirror finely

decorated glass coupes.

Franca nods to herself, then heads for the buffet hall, which was painted with frescoes by Antonino Leto when her father-in-law

still lived. Here she finds Nino talking with the regular sommelier. The waiters have nearly finished setting bottles of Casa

Florio's best marsala wine, as well as cognac, port, and brandy, on the tables.

Across the room, a waitress is laying out silver cutlery beside the Limoges dishes and cups. When she sees the mistress of

the house, she blushes and gives a quick bow. "I'm done, Signora," she mutters apologetically before practically scurrying

away.

Franca swallows a sigh of annoyance as she watches the young woman head downstairs. The servant women must stay in the kitchen during balls, partly because they have a lot to do, since, unlike other aristocratic households, the

Florios don't just have a monsù with a handful of assistants but an entire battalion of cooks, who also take care of the baking. For this evening, Franca

ordered fruit tartlets, mille-feuilles with chantilly, savarin and cream cakes, as well as Bavarian and sponge cakes. There is also gelo di mellone —the traditional Sicilian jellied watermelon pudding—various sorbets, and chalices brimming with candied fruit.

Furthermore, on the large table stand antique Neapolitan silver coffeepots with ebony and ivory handles, which she picked out from the large number of sets kept in the big cabinets and dressers at the Olivuzza. She strokes the linen of the blindingly white Flanders tablecloth, which has a satin runner with long tassels that brush against the floor, and smiles to herself, pleased, before motioning to Nino. "I gave instructions for the baskets of party favors to be decorated with lilies from the hothouse. Have you seen to it?"

The butler nods. "It's been done, Donna Franca. We've put the flowers in the ice room to keep them fresh, and at the right

time we'll add them to the gifts for your guests."

"Good. As soon as the room is half filled, start serving the champagne. I want the guests to enjoy themselves and dance right

away."

She says goodbye to the man, then walks through a series of rooms to the crimson salon, where, in agreement with Ignazio,

she has had various gaming tables set up and arranged for an abundant supply of Tuscan cigars. A waiter is placing bottles

of brandy and Florio cognac into a drinks cabinet, inlaid with tortoiseshell, ivory, and mother-of-pearl. Above hangs an Antonino

Leto painting of boats with unfurled sails.

Next door, the drawing room reserved for the ladies is ready. Chinese and Japanese porcelain vases filled with flowers from

the garden adorn the shelves, and lamps, covered with printed oriental silks, gently illuminate the beautiful paintings, including

works by Francesco de Mura, Mattia Preti, and Francesco Solimena, that Franca has especially curated for this room.

Here, in the half-light, Franca finds Giovanna sitting on a couch, a black figure against the pink velvet. Her mother-in-law

looks her up and down and smiles. "You've done everything so well," she says and holds out her hand.

Surprised, Franca takes it and sits down beside her.

"I feel as if I've stepped back in time, to when my Ignazio was alive, with all the rooms decorated and salons full of people dancing." Giovanna gives an uncertain smile. "My aunt, the princess of Sant'Elia, used to say that no parties could compete with ours." The memory of past joy softens her expression. She pulls her hand away. "Now go and welcome your guests."

Strolling across the last salon, Franca pauses in front of a mirror and brushes a lock of hair from her cheek. She is wearing

a low-cut peach gown, hemmed by ivory lace, designed for her by Worth. In her bejeweled hand is a fan with mother-of-pearl

inserts, while her beloved pearls encircle her neck.

Yes, everything is ready.

The Tasca di Cutòs are among the first to arrive: Giulia, now a dear friend of Franca's, with Alessandro, the young heir,

and her younger sister Maria. The Tasca di Cutò family are regulars at the Olivuzza, one of the few Giovanna receives with

pleasure, in memory of her friendship with Giulia's mother, Princess Giovanna Nicoletta Filangeri, who died a few months before

Ignazio.

Franca greets everybody, then takes Giulia's arm. "Where's Romualdo, my dear?"

She responds with a vague gesture. "My future husband stayed behind with Ignazio to welcome my brother-in-law Giulio and his

wife, Bice." She makes an irked grimace. "You know what it's like: when my sister arrives, they all fall at her feet."

Franca doesn't comment, but there's a flash of understanding in her eyes: Ignazio isn't immune to the charms of Beatrice Tasca

di Cutò, wife of Giulio Tomasi, Duke of Palma and future Prince of Lampedusa, either. After all, from what they say, Bice

is very skilled at "using her favors."

But Giulia is naturally pragmatic so doesn't pander to these thoughts. "I'd like to ask your advice about the dress for the civil ceremony... Would you accompany me to the dressmaker's tomorrow? You're the only one whose taste I trust."

Franca nods and gives her hand a squeeze.

"But right now I want to relay my father's regards to Donna Giovanna. Do you know where she is?"

"In the ladies' drawing room. Go on. We'll talk later."

She watches her vanish through the quilted velvet doors, then greets the other guests: first her sister-in-law, Giulia, and

her husband, Pietro, then another dear friend, Stefanina Spadafora, who looks her up and down before letting out an exclamation

of wonder at her elegant dress.

Franca smiles again. This smile, the dress, and the jewels are now her shield against fears, gossip, and envy—which resound

stronger than ever this evening. This is the first ball of Palermo's season, and it must be unforgettable.

***

Romualdo Trigona sits down next to his friend. "What's wrong, curò ? Aren't you having fun?"

Ignazio shrugs his shoulders. " Camurrie , you know. Troubles."

"Look over there... The ladies are all together. I believe they're crucifying us." Romualdo sniggers without waiting for

an answer. Then he snags a coupe of champagne on the fly and savors it with his eyes closed. When he reopens them, he sees

Pietro Lanza di Trabia watching him, amused.

"Perfect temperature! How many deliveries of ice did you have carted from the Madonie Mountains, Ignazio?"

But his friend hasn't even heard him. He looks lost in thought, his brow deeply furrowed.

Pietro laughs, soon joined by Romualdo. "Come on, Ignazio, don't tell me you don't like Perrier-Jou?t anymore! Oh, but perhaps I understand. You're sad because your wife's here and you can't ogle women."

Ignazio finally stirs. "No, it's not that." He hesitates. "I can't get that business of Laganà and his son out of my head."

Turning serious, Pietro shifts slightly to survey the room inconspicuously. There are couples dancing to the lively beat of

a mazurka, the clicking of their heels on the parquet so loud that it almost overcomes the music. "Not here. Let's go outside."

They step out onto the large balcony overlooking the garden, not far from the tables where cakes and ice creams are being

served. The grounds of the Olivuzza are a dark sea dotted with small torches to mark the paths. Here and there, strolling

couples can be glimpsed, trailed by chaperones.

"He's nominated his son Augusto to run for Parliament's lower house and is trying to secure a seat in the Senate for himself,"

Ignazio explains once he is sure they are far from prying ears. "He's scheming to enter politics, says he's entitled to more

because of how he served Casa Florio and the country." There is a blend of bitterness and irritation in his voice. "And then

he has the gall to come and demand the compensation money I owe him."

Pietro looks first at him then at Romualdo. "Wait, that's something I'm not aware of. What's this about the Senate?"

Romualdo searches his jacket for his cigar case and matchbook. "It's the consequence for the mess your brother-in-law made

when he fired Laganà, or rather when he rudely ousted him from NGI. Now the man is seeking revenge." He wipes his mouth with

his hand. "Ignazio made a mess—that's what happened." He takes a puff and looks at the sky. "A real mess."

" E iddu ora voli i picciuli e va faciennu scruscio —now he wants the money, and he goes around gossiping," Ignazio says angrily to Pietro.

Romualdo looks at his empty glass and gestures to a waiter in the doorway of the balcony to bring him another.

Pietro puckers his lips in a disappointed grimace. Romualdo has been drinking a little too much of late, and it shows.

"I contacted various members of Parliament, who replied with a barrage of letters urging me to act ‘with caution.' Do you

realize he's trying to tell me what to do? I promised him compensation and he'll get it, but he'll have to sweat for it first.

Besides, I don't even have that kind of money in the bank right now."

"Who told you he's proposing his son?" Romualdo asks, ignoring what Ignazio has just said. "I mean... there's a rumor going

round, but I took it for speculation."

Ignazio puts his hands in his pockets and studies the perfect line of his English shoes. "Unfortunately not. Abele Damiani

confirmed it: Laganà went to see him, bad-mouthed me, and asked him to speak to Crispi so that he may personally handle the procedure to anoint him senator. Damiani was embarrassed about telling me all that."

Romualdo shakes a hand. "I can't picture Damiani being embarrassed, but—"

"Oh, stop interrupting me all the time!"

Pietro and Romualdo are startled. Ignazio never loses his temper. He smooths his mustache, then rubs his hands together.

Pietro recognizes signs of self-consciousness. "Laganà is a shark, Ignazio. You should have known." The reprimand is justified.

"This business about his entering Parliament is shameful," Ignazio hisses. " Iddu surci di cunnutto è —he's a sewer rat. He mustn't become a senator."

Romualdo downs all his champagne in a gulp. "What about his son?"

"Augusto Laganà? He's supported by Crispi himself."

Pietro glances around, takes two chairs, and offers one to Romualdo. "It's not in your interest to go against Crispi, Ignazio.

He's still Crispi."

"He was our lawyer, for crying out loud, so he should show some gratitude, but instead..." Ignazio tosses his head back

and is momentarily lulled by the sounds of the party, voices and laughter billowing out through the open French doors. A world

that belongs to him by right. He lifts a hand to block the light from the room, the night sky above him, beyond the volutes

of the gazebo. "But he's almost eighty years old now and his downward spiral started quite a while ago. Hitching a cart to

a dying horse is the best way to go nowhere fast. No, we need new energy, someone who wants to get ahead."

Pietro looks puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"He supports Laganà? Well, I'll support Rosario Garibaldi Bosco."

"The Socialist?" Pietro says, eyes open wide. "The one Crispi actually put in prison over the Fasci uprising?"

"Yes, him. Socialists have many sympathizers among the workers and sailors under my employment. We just need them to stir

things a little and put pressure on those higher up. I've thought of everything. Ca 'ti pari chi sugnu scimunito —do I seem like an idiot to you?"

Pietro still watches him, unconvinced. "You risk being labeled a Socialist, like that hothead Alessandro Tasca di Cutò."

Romualdo throws up his hands without comment.

"Me? Not at all. This isn't about political ideology but what's in the best interests of Casa Florio. Crispi and his friends are trying to impose certain rules on me, but it's an antiquated plan of action and their politics have been superseded by fact. Money and titles no longer are enough to have sway in Parliament. If my family's strength lies in its factories and the people who work in them, then I must look for support among those who are interested that these companies continue to operate and prosper." Ignazio has spoken deliberately and softly, to make sure the others understand he is not joking.

"In other words, the workers." Romualdo raises his glass to him.

Ignazio nods. "If politics is a market, then I can afford to choose whom to support."