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This comes after The Night Before The Wedding.

Boscailo Littori escorted his wife, children, mother-in-law and two unmarried sisters-in-law into the Chapel of St Mark in the Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola at half eleven on Friday morning.  For once he was not wearing motorcycle leathers, instead he wore an immaculate, dark gray suit.  After all, not only was it a wedding but he was escorting the mother of the bride.  He appeared imperturbable.  The adult women were nervous and wore pinks and reds.  The three children, all under six, were merely excited.  His mother-in-law, despite being a short woman, looked every inch Countess Strefagi in a silk, two-piece suit and an antique family brooch.

Desiderii sergeants acting as ushers gravely escorted the Countess Strefagi and her party to the front right hand pew.  The left hand side of the chapel was full of Desideri and their dependents: the other children of the late Count Orazio, both legitimate and not, their spouses and children; the late Count’s sister, Domitilla Marostica, and her husband come all the way with their children and grandchildren from his estate up in the hills; the children, grandchildren and a widow of the late Count’s brothers; and senior members of the Desiderii organisation and their wives.  The Desiderii enforcers, the men who worked directly to Rodolfo, and their wives sat on the right hand side, starting in the third pew from the front.  Behind them sat various business connections whom it was politic to invite.  The empty second pew behind the Strefagii seemed like an enormous gulf though Signorina Francesca Littori, age eighteen months, did her best to flirt with everyone in the third pew.

The bride was not expected for fifteen minutes after they arrived, Boscailo having allowed for accidents and delays in his planning, and the Strefagii women had expected to talk among themselves but they were not ignored.  The usher had no sooner left them alone when a tall, blonde woman in her mid thirties rose from her place in the front Desiderii pew and walked over to the Countess.  Holding out her hand to the bride’s mother she said, “Countess, you probably don’t know me but I’m Luciana Zanetti, Rodolfo’s eldest half-sister.  We didn’t meet the other day because clothes aren’t my thing.”  The Countess took her hand and they shook.  “I realise that this might not be quite the time to discuss it but I was wondering if, given the outrageous manipulation of events by my brothers that brought us all here today, you might be interested in giving your patronage to a group I’m organising to campaign for the repeal of the last of the female financial asset laws?  After all, we can own property and run businesses in our own right, we can vote and stand for election; why should we be considered property ourselves at any stage of our lives?  As we can’t,” her eye twinkled, “Be appreciated or depreciated as assets on our fathers’ tax returns any longer, why should any of the ‘women as money’ laws remain in place?”

Sextia and Octavia were listening with interest.  “You’re an activist?” Sextia asked brightly.

“Of course,” Luciana returned.  “It runs in the family - Mama was an anti-vivisectionist.  That’s how she came to bring Rodolfo’s mother home with her.”

Octavia asked cautiously and, perhaps, imprudently, “Your mother brought your father’s mistress into the house?”

“Yes,” agreed Luciana, “But it wasn’t quite the way that sounds.  Mama was being driven home from some event one night when Rodolfo’s mama jumped out of a second storey window and landed on all fours almost beside the car.  She was wearing a hospital gown and a lot of medical leads.  Mama opened the car door and told her to get in.  She did.  Papa didn’t get involved until we had to lie about how long we’d known her.”  Luciana paused, “And he was the one who got in the shower to help her scrub off the marker pen.  I was too young to realise it at the time, but she’d been marked off with cutting lines...”  She stared off into the distance.  “Mama and her driver knew their number plate had been seen.  While Papa was scrubbing off the marker, Mama and the other grown-up women were making it look like she’d been living with us for months.  Everything else was to make the lies we told the police true.”  She visibly took herself in hand.  “That leads into an important side effect of the female financial asset laws.  Did you realise that ninety percent of human transgenics produced in this country are female because the female financial asset laws make it easier to regain custody of them if they escape or are released?”

“The police would have taken Rodolfo’s mother back to be cut up?”  Octavia, a generation younger than the events in question, was shocked.

“In those days, yes,” her mother confirmed, while Luciana nodded in agreement.  “I remember signing the petition to strengthen the anti-vivisection laws the Bishop had in every church in the diocese and the Episcopal Guards finding evidence of corrupt collusion with corporate laboratories when they raided police stations on diocesan property.”

“Mama felt that the Police Commissioner’s public apology for the actions of her officers was one of her greatest triumphs,” reminisced Luciana.

“I suppose,” offered the Countess Strefagi hesitantly, “That Rodolfo’s mother died...  I’m so sorry,” she reached out her hand towards the other woman, “But I swear that Terrence and I didn’t know...”

“Oh, we’ve always known that,” Luciana patted the offered hand kindly.  “Our enforcers had your house under surveillance and your phones tapped that night, or so they told us in the aftermath.  Count Amato managed to blindside and insult so many people with the attack on my father the night before your father-in-law’s funeral, it’s a wonder he lived as long as he did afterwards.  Of course, if Count Terrence had been involved, I doubt Rodolfo would be marrying your daughter today.”

There was a slightly embarrassed silence from all the Strefagi women which made Luciana hurry on, “All of us have told Bartolo and Rodolfo what we think of their behaviour.  Seraglia,” she indicated one of two feline-looking blonde women in third left-hand pew, seated with husbands, children and a man their age with cat-like ears, “Gave them a tongue lashing I wouldn’t have dared, but then, she’s pregnant again.”  She added, “None of us can see why, if Rodolfo liked her, he couldn’t just introduce himself and invite her for coffee.”

Sextia offered drily, “Perhaps it was the whole feud thing with our uncle killing your parents after your father turned our grandfather into a slowly dying invalid, and so on, back who knows how many generations?”

“There is that,” admitted Luciana soberly, “But I still think my brothers have behaved badly.”

Outside, a black limousine pulled up at the kerb in front of the main entrance to the Basilica.  Inside, in the back seat, a dapper man with grey hair turned to the young woman beside him and said, “Are you ready, Astanthe?  If you don’t want to marry my godson and you’re only doing this because you think you have to, just tell me and we’ll work something else out.”  He smiled kindly.  “As his godfather it is my job to keep an eye on him and stop him going astray.  He’s not too old for me whack him up the back of the head and tell him he’s got it all wrong.”

Astanthe smiled back.  “Thank you, Signor Patrelli, but I do want to marry Rodolfo, very much.”  She blushed.
He patted her hand.  “Very well then.  Shall we make our entrance?”

Back inside the Chapel of St Mark an usher walked briskly down the right wall to knock on a door tucked to one side.

“She’s here already,” Luciana commented in surprise.  “I’d better get back to my seat.  I’ll see you again at the reception.”  She hurried back to her place beside her husband.

Her veil hanging over her face now she was in the Basilica and her free hand holding up her skirt to ensure she didn’t step on it, Astanthe made her way to the entrance of the Chapel of Saint Mark, allowing herself to be guided by Rodolfo’s godfather.  They paused in the Chapel’s entrance while the congregation stood, and then two of them genuflected.  Astanthe would have moved forward straight away but Michele Patrelli put his hand over hers and said quietly, “Wait a moment for the hymn to start.  Let them look at you.  This is your moment.”

Without turning her head Astanthe quietly replied, “I didn’t expect him to be so beautiful.”

The older man chuckled quietly.  “You’re the bride.  You’re supposed to be the beautiful one.”

“Yes.”  He could hear the laugh in her voice.  “But I’m allowed to think the groom is beautiful, aren’t I?”

Deaf Zia Lynetta, the widow of Count Orazio’s second brother and the only survivor of her generation, whispered more loudly than she realised to Shiloh, her foreign-born daughter-in-law, “That can't be the bride, can it?  Ah, well, at least she’s not pretending nothing happened and I do like what she’s done with it.  Silly boys!”

Outside in the Piazza Sant’Erasmo da Specola a taxi entered from the east, down the Via Ordinal.  In it Helena Strefagi fumed.  The Strefagi had no drive, no aggression; she’d had to show them what needed to be done for years.  And how dare that accountant’s daughter strike her?  Well, she was going to lead by example.  Terrence might have pushed her into a tiny apartment in her own home, he might have cut her funds, but she would still show the Strefagi that she knew how to advance their best interests.  It would help if those boys turned up, seventeen was quite old enough for them to stop being school boys and start being foot soldiers, whatever foolishness Terrence had in mind but they’d seemed curiously reluctant on the phone.  At least she had the weapons, her hand rested on the long heavy bag beside her on the seat of the taxi.  She had been right to keep those caches secret.

Inside the Chapel as the congregation began the first hymn, Signor Patrelli and Astanthe began to progress down the aisle towards the altar, Rodolfo and Bartolo his best man, and the presiding priest, Monsignor Failo, who was Rodolfo’s other godfather.

This follows on from Bits.


Early in the predawn a beautifully hand addressed envelope was dropped into the mail slot at Terrence and Julia’s home.  The inscription read “Julia, Countess Strefagi.”

Rodolfo, three of his half sisters and Astanthe, who had been Septima, had taken over part of the wedding dress salon.  Rodolfo, dressed in a slightly archaic style that made the blond queue hanging down his back look like the perfect finishing touch, was seated erect in a leather armchair, both feet firmly planted on the ground and his rod of office grounded between them with his hands folded on top of it.  From his position he could see the door to the change room his little Starflower was using, the entrance to the store and the promenade in front of the mirrors.  His sisters, all of them tall blondes with excellent taste, were married and experienced in the travails of wedding dress shopping.

“Not the dress Silvana had,” Gloriana was saying in a practical tone, “Astanthe’s a good foot shorter – anything like that will look like the attack of the snow beast.”

“We should avoid that,” Astanthe gravely agreed, “My cousin Mariucca on my mother’s side...”  She shuddered.  “The photos could be posted as a public warning.”

Stephana patted her shoulder reassuringly.  “Your wedding won’t be like that, we promise.  Despite my brother’s heavy handed methods of courtship.”  She sent Rodolfo a cutting glance.  “Style isn’t the only issue though, there’s colour too.  After all, there’s white and there’s white.”

When the shop door opened to admit a nervous looking middle-aged woman Astanthe was standing in front of the mirrors being critically examined in off-white taffeta.

“It’s too – apricot,” was Stephana’s comment.

“It makes your bust look like a liability, not an asset,” said Gloriana firmly.

“Stand on your toes like you were wearing heels, please,” asked Oriana from behind her.  “Thank you, relax.  No, this style of train just doesn’t work on you.”

“I do not care for the overall effect,” said Rodolfo, “She looks like she’s playing dress ups in someone else’s clothes.  We need to look at something else.”  He rose to his feet and walked to the newly arrived woman near the front of the shop.  “Countess Strefagi,” he gave a bow that would have been old fashioned in her father’s youth but went well with his clothes, “You got my note.  Thank you for coming.  Won’t you please join us?”  He offered her his arm and, when she tentatively took it, he led her up the few steps in the middle of the store to where the others were consulting with the assistant over the next dress to try on.  “Would you care to sit?”  He offered her the chair he had just vacated.

“Thank you, but no,” Julia was distracted.  “Septima?”

The dark haired figure in the wrong dress turned suddenly.  “Mum?!”  Relief and shame warred on her face.

“Astanthe,” Rodolfo said firmly in Julia’s ear, “Her name is Astanthe now.  Think of it as a wedding present from my brother or simply part of the whole getting married thing if that makes it easier.”

“Astanthe.”  Julia tried it on for size.  “How are you?”  Then sharply, “You are not seriously considering that dress, are you?  Not on you?”

Two dresses later, Rodolfo pointed at a Carnivale dress towards the front of the shop with his rod and said, “I would like to see that shape on her, please.”

“Rodolpho,” said Gloriana firmly, “That is not a wedding dress.  That’s fancy dress.  Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why shouldn’t a wedding dress be made like that?”  Rodolfo put his question in an ‘I’m being entirely reasonable’ tone.  “I would like to see that dress on Astanthe please.”  When the assistant hesitated he smiled and added, “Now.”

Less than five minutes later Astanthe was back in front of the mirrors wearing someone’s interpretation of a five century old fashion: near transparent pleated linen underdress visible above the bodice and through slashings in the sleeves; a boned and back-laced wide-shouldered bodice that, unlike the original version, proclaimed that the wearer had a bosom and invited the world to look; a heavily pleated skirt; and sleeves that weren’t joined to the dress all the way around the armhole and were slashed longitudinally in the tight upper arm section to allow the underdress to puff through them then finished in a loose lower section that finished above her wrist but trailed to her knee and was lined with a plain silk that toned with the brocade of the rest of the garment.  Rodolfo regarded the effect with satisfaction.  “Turn around, please,” he requested.

Astanthe complied, but paused half way round and looked back over her shoulder, “Like this?”

“Yes, you little flirt, exactly like that,” it was a warm smile between the two of them, “But this is a very autumnal colouring,” he indicated the pattern of vines and leaves in shades of brown and gold.  “Does this fabric,” he’d turned to the shop assistant, “Come in any other colours?”

It wasn’t quite the same pattern, but a brocade in dark green and blue with touches of silver won his approval.

“It’s not anything like white,” said Stephana thoughtfully.  “Is that going to be a problem?”

“It makes her look,” Rodolfo said calmly, “Like a great lady in an old portrait.”

“A very beautiful one,” Julia added then said, “And if you’re going to say ‘stuff the conventions’ then there’s no point in being coy about it, you might as well go for broke.  At the very least dear,” she smiled at her daughter, “None of the others would be able to say that you’ve copied their dress.”

“The blue and green should make up the same as the sample dress,” offered Oriana with the agreement of the assistant, “And your bum really does look good in this,” she added to Astanthe.

“Just a veil and we’re done then,” stated Gloriana with some satisfaction.

“You’ll be done, dear sister,” corrected Rodolfo, “I get to pay for everything.”

Astanthe suddenly looked worried, “This isn’t going to cost too much, is it?”

“No,” he smiled reassuringly at her, “And you’re worth every scuto.”

Julia and Stephana had wandered down the front of the salon and were looking in a locked cabinet.  Another assistant spoke to them, then unlocked the cabinet.  They and that good lady came back to the group with a cobweb of lace.  “This caught my eye while I was wondering what to do when I first came in.  I think,” the assistant handed one end to the taller Stephana and together they dropped it carefully over Astanthe’s head, “It will be just the thing.”  The first assistant, experienced in this, lifted the fall of fabric back up to cover the sample dress.
Six women breathed variations on, “Oh, yes...”  Astanthe was the only one who couldn’t see what she looked like.

“They’re right,” Rodolfo told her fondly.  “Now,” suddenly all business, “Astanthe needs to have measurements taken and get back in her own clothes, you ladies need to decide footwear and I have to deal with the business end of things.  She and I have an appointment to view a house in,” he looked at his watch, “Forty five minutes.”