• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Domenico said timidly, “At least we sold some stage-effects.”

“That,” said Uncle Umberto crushingly, “is just what I’m complaining of.”

Tonino and Paolo looked from one to the other, wondering what had depressed them so.

Old Niccolo noticed them looking. “Guido Petrocchi wished those disgusting daughters of his to be present while we conferred with the Duke,” he said. “I shall not—”

“Oh good Lord!” muttered Uncle Umberto. “One doesn’t listen to a Petrocchi.”

“No, but one trusts one’s grandsons,” said Old Niccolo. “Boys, old Caprona’s in a bad way, it seems. The States of Florence, Pisa and Siena have now united against her. The Duke suspects they are paying an enchanter to—”

“Huh!” said Uncle Umberto. “Paying the Petrocchis.”

Domenico, who had been rendered surprisingly bold by something, said, “Uncle, I could see the Petrocchis were no more traitors than we are!”

Both old men turned to look at him. He crumpled.

“The fact is,” Old Niccolo continued, “Caprona is not the great State she once was. There are many reasons, no doubt. But we know, and the Duke knows—even Domenico knows—that each year we set the usual charms for the defense of Caprona, and each year we set them stronger, and each year they have less effect. Something—or someone—is definitely sapping our strength. So the Duke asks what else we can do. And—”

Domenico interrupted with a squawk of laughter. “And we said we’d find the words to the Angel of Caprona!”

Paolo and Tonino expected Domenico to be crushed again, but the two old men simply looked gloomy. Their heads nodded mournfully. “But I don’t understand,” said Tonino. “The Angel of Caprona’s got words. We sing them at school.”

“Hasn’t your mother taught you—?” Old Niccolo began angrily. “Ah, no. I forgot. Your mother is English.”

“One more reason for careful marriages,” Uncle Umberto said dismally.

By this time, what with the rain ceaselessly pattering down as well, both boys were thoroughly depressed and alarmed. Domenico seemed to find them funny. He gave another squawk of laughter.

“Be quiet,” said Old Niccolo. “This is the last time I take you where brandy is served. No, boys, the Angel has not got the right words. The words you sing are a makeshift. Some people say that the glorious Angel took the words back to Heaven after the White Devil was vanquished, leaving only the tune. Or the words have been lost since. But everyone knows that Caprona cannot be truly great until the words are found.”

“In other words,” Uncle Umberto said irritably, “the Angel of Caprona is a spell like any other spell. And without the proper words, any spell is only at half force, even if it is of divine origin.” He gathered up his gown as the coach jerked to a stop outside the University. “And we—like idiots—have pledged ourselves to complete what God left unfinished,” he said. “The presumption of man!” He climbed out of the coach, calling to Old Niccolo, “I’ll look in every manuscript I can think of. There must be a clue somewhere. Oh this confounded rain!”

The door slammed and the coach jerked on again.

Paolo asked, “Have the Petrocchis said they’ll find the words too?”

Old Niccolo’s mouth bunched angrily. “They have. And I should die of shame if they did it before we did. I—” He stopped as the coach lurched around the corner into the Corso. It lurched again, and jerked. Sprays of water flew past the windows.

Domenico leaned forward. “Not driving so well, is he?”

“Quiet!” said Old Niccolo, and Paolo bit his tongue in a whole succession of jerks. Something was wrong. The coach was not making the right noise.

“I can’t hear the horses’ hooves,” Tonino said, puzzled.

“I thought that was it!” Old Niccolo snapped. “It’s the rain.” He let down the window with a bang, bringing in a gust of watery wind, and, regardless of faces staring up at him from under wet umbrellas, he leaned out and bellowed the words of a spell. “And drive quickly, coachman! There,” he said, as he pulled the window up again, “that should get us home before