Death of a Serpent

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Serafina Florio saw the soul leave its body, a shadow hovering over the corpse, sliding up the stucco before vanishing. “Poor woman,” she muttered. She swallowed hard.

She should have been used to death by now. Sicily was smothering in bodies. They rotted in the fields of war, swelled cholera pits, lined the streets after an uprising.

She heard Rosa’s sobs and wrapped her arms around her friend. Afternoon light freighted with the sea slashed the three figures.

The victim lay on the rear stoop facing upward, torso turned to the side. She was clothed in a traveling suit of fine wool detailed in velvet, not at all the costume of a prostitute. The coils of her chestnut hair were undone. Where were her gloves? Her hat? Her reticule?

In a face so still, the mouth was a rictus of surprise. There was a cut in the center of her forehead. A dark stain seeped through the bodice on the left side. One arm was flung outward, the fingers curled.

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