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Turi began to shake, and Mafalda put an arm around him. “Caterina, Mariana, everyone, Turi feels terrible. It wasn’t his fault.”
Caterina shouted back, “He saved only himself!”
Mariana chimed in, “He could’ve done something!”
Liliana shook her head, sobbing. “Heshouldhave!”
“Ladies, no!” Father Benvolio scurried over, round as a meatball in his black cassock, waving his stubby arms. “Ladies, gentlemen, be calm. We’ll have none of this discord, not in front of Madonna del Lume. She wouldn’t want this, she loves us all.”
Mafalda felt grateful. “Father, thank you, my Turi is heartbroken. People shouldn’t blame him.”
“I know.” Father Benvolio placed an arm on Turi’s shoulder. “Turi is our brother. This terrible disaster was not his fault. We mustn’t harbor ill will against him.”
Turi hung his head, sniffling, and Mafalda noticed Concetta making her way toward them in her black dress, a strange expression on her face.
“Concetta, I’m so sorry—”
“Shut up, Mafalda!” Concetta pointed at Lucia. “I blame thatthingyou hold! You got that baby in exchange for our husbands! You made a deal with Satan! You couldn’t conceive before, we all know it! That’s why the baby’s unnatural!”
“What?” Mafalda asked, shocked. “Concetta? What are you saying? You know I didn’t—”
“The calamity struck the night she was born! That’s why Turi lived and not our husbands! That baby’s amonster! Look at her!” Concetta yanked the blanket from under Lucia, causing the baby to fall from Mafalda’s arms.
“No!” Mafalda caught Lucia a split second before she would have hit the cobblestones. The baby cried, and everyone got a good look at her. Gasps circulated, eyes flew open, and fingers pointed.
“Look at thatthing!” Concetta shouted. “Has anyoneeverseen a baby like this? She’s aspecter! She’s an omen, she’s bad luck!She’sthe reason our men died!”
“No, no!” Mafalda cradled the crying Lucia, horrified. “She’s an innocent baby, an angel—”
“No, adevil! She’s nothuman!”
Mafalda edged backward. Angry villagers encircled her, advancing. Father Benvolio tried to hold them back, but they pushed past him. Turi tried, too, but they weren’t after him anymore. They wanted Lucia.
Mafalda felt a bolt of sheer terror. She turned away with the baby, ran from the piazza, and raced home. She was almost there when she realized something.
Turi hadn’t come with her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Alfredo ambled down the sunny cobblestone street in Mussomeli with Beatrice, his donkey. She clip-clopped beside him, carrying packets of cheese in her side baskets. She was cute and chubby with large eyes and long ears with black tips. Her coat was a soft grayish brown with a black line down the back. Alfredo loved her, but he considered her a cousin rather than a daughter.
A few people walked on the street, and he kept his head down by habit. No one greeted him, nor did he greet them. He passed small stone houses with rough wooden doors, and he could hear people talking as they had their breakfast, a nice sound.
The street sloped steeply downhill, and at the bottom was the Madonna dei Miracoli church and the piazza with the open-air market. The other vendors were already selling from tables piled with oranges, lemons, plums, peaches, peppers, broccoli, squash, grapes, and nuts. Lupini beans and olives soaked in briny tubs.
Alfredo was last to arrive because he lived out of town. He didn’t get a table because no space was ever left, so he sold his cheese from Beatrice’s back. He was surprised to see a line forming in his customary spot, with Signora Tozzi at the front.
She waved excitedly when she spotted him, but Alfredo only blinked. The other vendors were friendly with their customers, but he wasn’t.He didn’t speak unless someone asked him a question about his cheese, which rarely happened. There were only so many questions one could ask about cheese.
“Ciao, Signor D’Antonio!” Signora Tozzi called, still waving.
“Ciao,” Alfredo finally called back. The vendors lifted eyebrows and exchanged looks. He reached the piazza and walked past them, but before he got to his spot, Signora Tozzi and her ladyfriends clustered around him.
“Signor D’Antonio! I’m so happy you’re here! My husband feels much better. He thinks it’s the cheese.”
“It isn’t.”
“I’ve been telling my friends about your goats, too.” Signora Tozzi’s dark eyes danced. “Tell everyone how magical they are, with those horns!”
