Vittoria dipped a spoon into the mixture, stirred vigorously, then tasted it before pouring a generous glass for me. She swiped the bottle of limoncello and motioned us up the stairs.
“Hurry, Emilia, before anyone wakes up.”
“Where were you earlier?” I quietly shut the bedroom door behind us. “Nonna was one step away from using all of our olive oil to see if evil entered Sea & Vine, and probably the rest of the island if she could.”
Vittoria collapsed onto her mattress, bottle of limoncello in hand, and grinned. “I was summoning the devil. An ancient book whispered its secrets to me, and I’ve decided to take him as my husband. I’d invite you to the wedding, but I’m pretty sure the ceremony takes place in Hell.”
I gave her a sharp look. If she didn’t want to tell me the truth, fine. She could keep her secret romance with Domenico to herself for however long she liked. “You need to stop drawing so much attention to yourself.”
“Or else what? The Malvagi will come and steal my soul? Maybe I’ll just sell it to them.”
“Or else things will end badly for our family. Two girls were murdered last week. Both were witches. Antonio said people in the last town he visited were talking about shape-shifters. Now isn’t the time to be joking about the devil. You know how humans get. First it’s shape-shifters, then demons, and then it’s only a matter of time before witches are targeted.”
“I know.” Vittoria swallowed hard and looked away. I opened my mouth to ask what she’d been doing at the monastery, but when she turned back around, her gaze sparkled with mischief. “So. Have you had any special wine or spirits lately?”
I let my interrogation go. “Special wine or spirits” was her code for “supernatural witch sense.” She often used code to discuss topics we wanted to hide from humans, or nosy grandmothers. I nestled against my pillow and drew my knees up. Before I told my story, I whispered a spell of silence to cover the sound of our voices. “Well, the other night I dreamed about a ghost . . .”
“Wait!” Vittoria set her limoncello down and grabbed her diary, pen in hand and ink pot at the ready. “Tell me everything. Every last detail. What did the ghost look like? Did you see any shimmering outline or shadow, or was it more like a thing you sensed? Did it speak to you? When did this happen, right as you fell asleep, or later in the night?”
“It was closer to the morning. I thought I was awake at first.”
I sipped my drink and told her about the strange dream—the disembodied voice whispering too low to hear anything other than what sounded like the nonsensical language of dreams—believing it had only been my overactive imagination at work, and not the first signs of the horror to come.
Three
I quickly broke down fish carcasses for stock, ignoring the muffled crunch of bones. We were already deep into prepping for dinner service when I realized I’d forgotten my basket at the monastery. Since it was a holy day and crowds were already out en masse, I had to wait until Sea & Vine closed to retrieve my things.
Maybe it was a blessing from the goddess. Since the brotherhood would be out celebrating La Santuzza—the Little Saint—I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Antonio. I really didn’t want to run into him after Vittoria’s mortifying charades last night. She could get away with being bold and brazen, and people adored her for it. Unfortunately, it was a skill I hadn’t mastered.
I looked over at my sister who’d been unusually quiet all morning. Something was troubling her. After I told her about my dream last night, she seemed on the verge of confiding in me.
Instead of talking, she’d set her diary aside, turned over on her mattress, and went to sleep. I wondered if she’d gotten into a fight with her secret boyfriend. Maybe she was supposed to meet him in the monastery and he didn’t show.
“I know we’re going to be busy tonight,” Vittoria said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts, “but I need to leave a little early.”
Nonna scooted past my mother—who was making espresso to serve with the dessert—and hoisted a wicker basket full of tiny snails up onto the island, and nodded to my twin. “Here. Boil these for the babbaluci.” She swatted at my twin’s hand. “Not for too long. We don’t want them turning to rubber.”
I raised my brows, waiting for Nonna to forbid my twin from leaving. She said nothing. While Vittoria quickly boiled a few handfuls of snails at a time, Nonna minced garlic and set a pan of olive oil on the fire. Soon we were all in a rhythm, and I pushed whatever was bothering my sister aside in favor of mastering my fish stock. I’d make her tell me everything later.