Excerpt from The Curse of Pietro Houdini by Derek B. Miller, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The old man arrived a few minutes later dressed in the black robes of the other monks. He must have been eighty years old. Two other monks flanked him, their hands clasped inside their long sleeves.

Pietro said something in Latin, or what I assumed was Latin because it wasn't Italian and it involved monks. The abbot responded in kind. Pietro handed the abbot a letter, which had been sealed. The monk opened it and read it immediately. It looked very official and had many stamps. When the abbot nodded, Pietro introduced me in Italian as Massimo (no family name) and then christened me a second time that day by giving me a title: assistente del maestro di restauro e conservazione—assistant to the master of art restoration and conservation. This is how I was introduced to the monks—a teenager, my eyes black and swollen, two blue handprints around my neck. One by one they shook my thin hand and welcomed me to this house of God with not a question asked.

Such were the times:

Assistente.

Maestro.

I thought it was a joke but the monks accepted it, and after my needs were met and I was fed, I was led to a room where I then slept for more than twelve hours.

Maestro Houdini kept his other promise and put me to work the next day, rising at seven in the morning, long after the first prayers by the monks.


SO BEGAN A PERIOD OF peace and healing and exploration.

But also delay.


ON THE VERY FIRST DAY Pietro came into my room and saw that I was fed, washed, and rested, he said, "Stay here. You will have work to do soon enough. Before that I must prepare my tools and establish my authority and presence here so whatever I choose to do later will not be questioned. Magic, my young friend, is all about preparation. And illusion is about drama. More on this another time. Now I must go."

Five minutes after he left, so did I. Who wouldn't?

There was no map of the monastery. No guide. It was not a shape that one can easily describe and its layout lacked the symmetry one expects to find in a great cathedral. No, this was a place unlike any other place. As I snuck out of my room and ventured into the halls and corridors, archives and basilica, along the outer walls, and deep into the labyrinths below—some of vaulted gray stone and dust and others of mosaics of blues and golds—I came to imagine the place as a mighty ship.

Unfortunately, the only mighty ship I knew by name was the Titanic.

Imagine a ship on a sea of green grass at the highest point of a mountain with nothing else surrounding it. From its decks one could see all around without obstruction; the village of Cassino below, the road that snaked its way up and down, the fields and flowers outside, the tiny goat paths leading to further mysteries in the hills and forests beyond.

The ship itself was made of white stone except the lower parts of the walls where the foundations flared outward like a fortress and the glimmering abbey above gave way to ten million stones below. The roof was made of reddish and orange tiles, even the basilica in the middle and toward the prow. The two exceptions were the green domes: one above the church and the other near the outer walls.

On either side of the nave—all safe within the walls—were two cloisters with green parks in the middle and archways that led to walkways around them. At the entrance to the basilica itself was a massive stone patio with a fountain in the middle. Leaving it behind, I would walk under the porticos and come to the top of the enormous staircase; a staircase as wide as the church itself that went down toward the back of the ship, passed between the statues of St. Benedict on one side and his sister, Scholastica, on the other, passed the fountain from which the monks still drew water, to my favorite outside spot: the archways that looked westward and over the rolling hills that masked any sign of human life.

Excerpted from The Curse of Pietro Houdini by Derek B. Miller. Copyright © 2024 by Derek B. Miller. Excerpted by permission of Avid Reader Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.