Patrick
Son of Ireland
Chapter One
Concessa Lavinia lived in fear of thieves carrying off her spoons. They were fine spoons. Each teardrop-shaped bowl was a masterpiece of smithery balanced on a long, elegant handle capped by a tiny Corinthian finial: eight in all, and older than Elijah. Our silver -- the spoons and matching plate, an enormous bowl, and two large ewers -- was old and costly; it had come from Rome sometime in the dusty past, handed mother to daughter longer than anyone could remember.
My mother's treasured silver held pride of place on the black walnut table in the banqueting hall: a large, handsome room with a vaulted ceiling and a floor that featured a mosaic depicting Bellerophon riding the winged horse Pegasus and killing the Chimera with a flaming spear. This scene occupied the center of the room and was surrounded by a circular braidwork border picked out in red, black, white, and brown tesserae and, in each corner of the room, a likeness of one of the Four Seasons.
On frigid winter evenings I would lie on my stomach on that wonderful mosaic and feel the delicious ... read full excerpt from: Patrick ebook
