Thursday, March 24, 1870
Serafina gazed up at a baroque façade of soft limestone, topped with a blue copper dome rivaling the great churches of Palermo and Rome. Carved and curlicued lintels dripped with stone putti, vines, and roses. She estimated the main wing had about thirty rooms.
“Too fancy by half,” Rosa whispered.
“I could live here,” Renata said, brushing the dust from her cape. “And I’ve heard the kitchen is a magnificence and that the cook …”
“What about the cook?” Rosa asked.
“And that the cook doesn’t deserve it.” Renata blushed.
“Then you’d better make the desserts.”