By moonlight in the garden, the shadows of eighteen deadly sisters frolicked. By day, they traveled through Assisi, Siena, Perugia, Bomarzo, Orvieto, and Todi—without a thought of anything other than the romance of life.  Yet in the evening-time, they lived in nightmares and sweet dreams in tandem, for there were moments when the villa’s history seeped into the ladies in unexpected ways.  Some days it came in the form of a mysterious monk.  Other days it was a cheerful carousel horse with a cannoli bridle.  

After seeing so many picturesque frescoes, it was as if they were living in the walls.  There was a strange sense of being watched.  Was it the preternatural ghost of a living saint, disembodied from a basilica ceiling?  Or was it that fleeting grip of self-reflection so common in the face of a sheer paradise?