When we die, our souls go back to the veil. Everyone tells me that like it’s as matter-of-fact as breathing and eating. No one seems bothered by the knowledge that we’re encased by a mysterious entity that could swallow us up at any moment. They say that the important thing is that we spend the time we’re given dedicated to our family and our traditions.
I… don’t ask questions anymore.
We slip into the cathedral through a side entrance, where Padre Busto is waiting, looking impatient and dour. Padre Busto had the privilege of counseling me in preparation for my marriage. He loved every second of it.
“Good evening, Donna Emanuela.” He dips his head politely, but his eyes linger on my gown. “I’m glad to see you took ample time to reflect on your walk over. My blessings on this most… holy of days. It is sure to be a… beautiful ceremony.”
The judgmental pauses are not lost on me.
“Thank you, Padre,” I say, curtsying. “You’ll be baptizing our first child before you know it. My family is known for our vigorous wombs.”
“For God’s sake, Emanuela,” Paola mutters, then remembers she’s in God’s house and cups her hands in apologetic prayer.
Padre Busto gives me the look of polite hatred he gives me whenever I speak crassly of my womb. I’m supposed talk about it with reverence, but if it wants to be respected, it shouldn’t cramp and revolt the way it did last week.
“When you’re ready, we’ll move to the prayer room,” he says, extending a very reluctant arm.
Paola starts to walk away. But then she doubles back and, faster than a blink, kisses me on the cheek.
“I know it’s time for you to become a lady and leave your old nursemaid behind,” she whispers. “But—”
“Yes, yes, I turned out wonderful in spite of you,” I say. “Don’t embarrass yourself, Paola.”
I talk over her before I can hear the end, because suddenly, I don’t want to hear the end. I pull away and take Padre Busto’s arm. As he leads me off, I tell myself not to look back. At the last second, I do. Paola is disappearing around the corner. Her hands are folded tightly over her apron and her head is bent toward the floor.
She’s nervous.
She has nothing to be nervous about. We have nothing to be nervous about.
The priest wordlessly brings me to the prayer room. I step inside, and he shuts the door at my back, leaving me in a tiny, dim space hazy with perfume. In front of me is a small altar smothered in burning candles. A copy of the Holy Book sits in the middle, its golden-edged pages already open to the appropriate passages. I kneel down in front of it with a creak.
Everything is going to be fine. I’m going to be fine. I’ve been fine for seventeen years, and I’ll be fine today.
I dip my fingers into the tiny glass bowl of sacred water. I’m supposed to take the smallest drop imaginable, but instead, I take several and use them to wet down the few loose hairs curling around my face. Then I turn to the gold screen at my side and attempt to peer through the tiny round holes. Now that I’ve solemnly reflected alone, I’m supposed to solemnly reflect with my husband-to-be. We’re meant to slog through pages and pages of prayers about our undying devotion to each other and our commitment to spawning as many small, pious Occhians as we can. The screen, of course, is to keep us from spawning any small Occhians before the ceremony is done. I rap on it.
“Alessandro, your wife is here,” I call. “Stop picking your nose and show some respect.”
There’s a startled thump on the other side.
“I’m not—” My future husband sputters. “Did you have to say that so loudly? What if the priests are listening?”
“You really should’ve thought of that before you blasphemed all over our meeting,” I say.
“I’m not blaspheming on anything,” he insists, taking my words very personally, as usual. “I was… Well, if you must know, I was praying. Like we’re supposed to.”
“How adorable,” I say. “You were asking God how you can someday be worthy of me, I assume?”
“I… suppose you could think of it that way. I was just—”
“Don’t bother.” I idly flip the tissue-thin pages of the Holy Book. “I’m beyond all human reach. Especially in my new gown. And even if you’ll never thirst for me the way you thirst for Manfredo Campana—”
He sputters again. “I don’t—”
“—I hope you can at least appreciate the fact that you have the most magnificent girl in Occhia on your arm.”
For a moment, there’s nothing on Ale’s side but flustered silence.
“I don’t thirst for Manfredo,” he says finally. “I admire him. You make everything sound so unromantic.”
“Ah, yes, forgive me for daring to presume I know better than you, the master of romantic gestures,” I say. “Every great love story begins with a boy stealing the used handkerchief another boy left on the card table.”
Ale goes deathly quiet. The stealing in question happened two nights ago at a dinner party. He thought I didn’t see him. But we’re best friends. I always see.
“I meant to give it back,” he says feebly. “But Manfredo was talking to all the boys from his calcio club, and they’re so intimidating—”
“Don’t tell me I’m going to step into your bedroom and find it covered in Manfredo’s snotty handkerchiefs,” I say. “My fragile constitution can’t take it.”
“It’s not about the snot, Emanuela—there was a cologne smell on it. I just like the…” His voice is rapidly
