WHILE SHE STILL WENT TO CHURCH, Caterina preferred to sit in the back row of the pews and observe other churchgoers. One could easily draft a persons character from the way they behaved in such an intimate setting of a prayer, when one is supposed to open their soul, take off the masks their presented to the material world and expose their hearts.
The old preacher would stand behind the altar, arms outstretched like a shrivelled, white and gold crow, spinning the tales of martyrdom and pain, and death.
It's always seemed to her that Christianity revolved around death.
It was much later that she realised that people never truly took their deceptive masks off, not truly, and no amount of confession would purify the black tar that started to collect on her soul. Somewhere along the line, she stopped her Sunday visits until they turned into occasional wedding or a funeral.
The smell of incense burned deep in her nose, crawling into her lungs, suffocating like an invisible hand of guilt squeezing her pale throat. "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return," rung ominously in her head.
Every victory was equally bitter and sweet, but on the day set for burying the one woman who was more than a mother figure for her brought only emptiness and cold.
The service was held on the first of June, the day after the Darby, on the St. Andrews church graveyard. It was hardly a grand affair, for Maria had no direct family still living, but all her fellow workers, employees of Cardinale Import congregated in the churchyard, waiting to say their last farewells.
Caterina stood aside while they exchanged smalltalk with the priest, eyes unfocused and simply nodding every time someone dared to come over and shake her hand in condolences. Most of the time they avoided her, the black veil concealing her face, and equally well hiding her red rimmed eyes away from the public.
Her legs had gone numb from standing on one spot for a while now, lightheadedness creeping up her spine, but enough knock her off her feet.
A woman was trekking determinatedly towards her. Caterina could vaguely remember her as one of the office workers of the Company.
"She gave her whole life to your family and this", she poked her chest with her bony finger, eyes alight with tears and unspeakable rage, "this is how you repay her. Cardinale pezzonovanti, the lot of you. I nostril figli morivano per te."
Our sons die for you, she said, I am the one asking them to lay down their lives for my cause. The woman retreated, still throwing dirty looks over her shoulders for a good measure.
The graveyard emptied quickly, and still she stold there, staring at the cold, stone slab. There was a piece of folded paper she kept in the left coat pocket, and she unfolded it with shaky hands. There were old tear stains marking the edged still, the paper turning yellow from age.
Per il fiore della mia vita,
I don't fear death.
I remember how frightened I was in that plane, bound to drop us off in the middle of nowhere, the marshy trenches of Gallipoli, squeezing my rifle close to my chest until my hands turned white. While I write to you, I can hear the gunshots in the distance - a nightly attack, partisan and deranged in every strategic way, and yet they seem to be having an upper hand.
I don't fear death because it is inevitable, mia carissima, and Im afraid that will never change. But I've seen what we are fighting for, I've heard the cries of freedom and Ive seen the good and the terrible a man can do with his hands and his mind, and Im proud of what we are fighting for.
In hopes for this letter to find you in good health,
Il tuo fratello, Alessio
It would be the last letter she would receive from her brother, and it arrived but two days before the official telegram bearing the news of his death, and the rest of his regiment with him, in a surprise attack of their camp.
Taking a deep breath, pushing back the tears in her eyes, she stuffed it back in to her pocket, near her heart. Memento mori, remember that you are mortal. Remember that you are nothing and that you shall become nothing.
And still, she wanted everything.
IT WAS THE RATTLE on the front doors of her London home that startled Ada Thorne out of her midday nap. Taking the gun she had hidden behind the mantlepiece, she creeped down the hallway, weapon poised to shoot. She could see the lock turning, and then a figure stepping into the house.
Immediately lowering her weapon, she fixed the other woman with a glare. "Why do you have the key?" It was Caterina that stood on the other side of the door, dressed head to toe in black, looking mildly confused as to why Ada was pointing a gun at her.
"Thomas gave me the key," she explained casually, allowing Ada to snatch them out of her hand.
"I took his key–the bastard, he is," Ada huffed, stuffing it into the front pocket of her dress and leading her through the hallway into the drawing room. "I should've bloody known he had a copy made."
The Italian settled into one of the embroidered armchairs, throwing her coat and gloves on the tea table while Ada fetched the teapot and cups from the kitchen. She took a moment to take in the decor of the room, the warm colours making it more homely than she expected, the drapery certainly funded by the sizeable sum Tommy forced her to take a couple months back.
Ada was back minutes later with a tea tray and some files tucked beneath her arm.
"These are the files I managed to swipe from the archives. Don't ask how, why I do these things for you is beyond me," Ada threw her hands up, exasperated. "And, honestly, I don't see what you can do with these Old Bailey cases, most of them are clear and closed. What are you even looking for?"
Caterina hummed in agreement, not directly answering the question while she skimmed through the papers. "Keep up with the good work and I just might steal you away from Thomas. Ada Thorne, a consigliere, si?" She raised her head to throw her a wide grin.
Ada snorted slightly before lowering the cup on its saucer. "As probable as you abandoning the murky business." Caterina scoffed in retaliation.
"You miss it, but you won't get off your high horse because of your damn principles. I respect that, I really do, but I also miss you back home. Will you at least give it a thought?"
A sound of feet running through the house snapped them from their talk, a tiny body flying through the doors and throwing their arms around Caterina's neck, nearly knocking her cup out of her hands.
"Karl, my darling!"
"Aunty Cat, Aunty Cat!" She would rather die than admit how her chest constricted every time he called her that. "Thank you very much for my birthday present." The young boy beamed like a sun, smile stretching out over his little face.
"Why of course, my darling," Caterina grinned, tapping his nose in affection. It was a lovely, hand painted picture book, with picturesque knights and warriors from all the ages, an interest she noticed in him a while ago. She hoped she could persuade Ada to send him to one of the private boarding schools, a place where he could possibly thrive with his bright mind.
"You're spoiling him," Ada admonished her with a smile, heart warming at the sight of her friend in better spirts.
"I know, that's my job."
"Ada, they didn't have any more copies of–"A figure rounded the corner and stumbled into the room, the mop of hair on his head sticking up on all sides from the recent rainfall. He stopped, startled, trying to regain his composure. "–shit–hello. Um..."
"This is Caterina, I reckon you already figured it out," Ada told him smugly.
The other brunette chuckled, getting up from her armchair, taking her gloves and coat. "I should probably be off now. Consider my words, dear. And scrap Tommy, I need you in Birmingham, yeah?"
"I'll think about it," Ada stressed, the two exchanging brief kisses on cheek. Just as the Italian turned to the doors, she took one glance at James, lingering by the doorway.
"Step outside with me for a moment," she instructed, long strides taking her through the hallway. A nervous look passed the young man's features, blinking worriedly at Ada before rushing after Caterina.
Cat wanted to laugh – he surely wasn't much younger than herself. When they were out of the door, she stopped, taking a pack of smokes out of her coat. "Tommy's told me all about your little act at the distillery," she admitted.
The curly haired man relaxed slightly. "Did he also tell you how he didn't really know if it would work or not and, we could've died at the hands of some angry Jews?"
Caterina let out a genuine laugh. "James. I like you, James. D'you need a job perchance?"
"Ada would most definitely castrate me, and then shove my balls down my throat if I even thought about working for her family," James deadpanned, entirely serious, and entirely correct in his assumptions.
Cat gave his words a short thought before she shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. You know, a couple years back she begged to be introduced to family business, while the boys were on the front," she paused, chuckling slightly. "Love does wonders to a persons character and interests, wouldn't you say?"
"I might know a thing or two about that," huffed out the poet, rummaging through the pockets of his worn out suit for a smoke.
"I could be a patron of artists. Apparently the aristocrats dig that," she explained jokingly. "You could write about the rise of one working family from the slums of Birmingham to the elite of the British industrialists. Very, ah, socialists wouldn't you say?"
"Would it be any good?"
Caterina cracked a slight smile, taking a puff of her smoke. "Think it would."
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ
well hello there