Her eyes were fluttering closed when a face appeared in the window like a tintype, backlit by the moon. Too stunned to scream, she rolled off her cot and onto the floor. She jumped to her feet to run out of the room when she turned back to look. The shape of the head was familiar, round like a hazelnut, with a point to the chin. The black curls on his head blended into the scrollwork of the Figliolos’ wrought iron fence across the street, making it hard to see. The boy stepped into a shaft of light.
Domenica knelt on her cot and opened the window.
“Did you have any supper?” Silvio whispered.
“I am not allowed any supper until Sunday. They’re trying to starve me to death.”
“Here.”
Domenica unwrapped a cloth. The sweet fragrance of vanilla and butter filled the air. The puffy pastry was drenched in sugar. “How did you get these?”
“Mama went to the feast.”
Domenica took a bite. She chewed slowly, savoring the buttery sweetness of the dough and the sugar as it melted on her tongue. “Have one.” She held the pastry out to Silvio.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“My stitches hurt when I chew. Pretucci must’ve tightened something up.” Silvio demonstrated by baring his teeth like an orangutan and attempted to move his bared teeth up and down. Domenica laughed.
Aldo snored loudly and turned over in the next room.
Domenica climbed out the window. She sat down next to Silvio on the stairs.
“Go back inside. You’ll get in more trouble,” Silvio warned her.
“Once you’re in trouble, it’s too late to get in more trouble.”
“Is that true?”
“It’s common sense.” Domenica finished the first bombolone. She carefully picked the sugar sprinkles off the cloth and licked her finger. “That is the most delicious treat I ever ate. Ever. Thank you.”
“Prego.” As hungry as Silvio was, it made him happier to see his friend enjoy the pastry.
Fortified by a full stomach, Domenica presented a new scheme to her friend. “We don’t need that stupid map. Aniballi can keep it in his dusty library. We can find the treasure without it. We will work our way through the pine forest. I have a hunch the pirates left it close to the canals.”
“Are you certain?”
“That would make the most sense. They would have to make a fast getaway. We’ll go tomorrow! When the sun comes up. After I’ve fetched the water.”
“I won’t be able to help you find the treasure.”
“Well, perhaps not right away. We have to let Aniballi’s curse wear off. He has it in for us.”
“No, I mean I won’t be here. We have to leave Viareggio tomorrow.”
“Where will you go?”
“We are going to my aunt’s in Parma.”
“Not her!” Domenica remembered Zia Leonora, who had airs. She had the unlined brow and high hair of an aristocrat. Zia visited the seashore in August. Signora Vietro had to wait on her like a maid. They called her Zia Regina behind her back. “She’s awful!”
“I know. But I have no choice. I’ll have to do my chores and behave myself. That’s what Mama says.”
“How are you supposed to do anything when boys throw rocks at you?”
“Maybe they don’t have rocks in Parma.” Silvio tried to smile, but it hurt his face.
“Who will protect you? I don’t like the idea of Parma at all. But I don’t like this town either. I don’t have anything nice to say about Viareggio. You almost lost your eye.”
“I shouldn’t have turned. If I had listened to you, I wouldn’t have been hit.”
“There are always more rocks and there are always more boys to throw them.” Domenica patted his hand. She and Silvio sat on the step for a long time as the white moon flickered in and out behind the clouds. “Silvio, listen to me. When you get to Parma, don’t tell them about your name.”
“They find out anyway.”
“Not if you have a better story,” Domenica offered.
“What do you mean?”
“You have to talk about your father before they assume you don’t have one. Something like this: Signore Birtolini was a great man, a sea captain who battled pirates. He saved a treasure belonging to the Holy Roman Church, on a ship that was burned at sea.”
“But that’s not true.”
“It doesn’t matter! It’s your story. You make it up! Say this: Your father jumped off the ship with the precious relics, into a small fishing boat. He held on to the relics through hurricanes and blight and starvation and delivered them back into the hands of the pope himself, who went to anoint him in front of all the cardinals when Signore Birtolini . . .”