buy you something pretty next time we go to the market. Come, eat up your soup, it’ll be getting cold.’
Trying to smile, Pascalina served the soup, and Alessandro cut the bread and passed it around, giving Margherita a large dollop of soft cheese and olive oil. She could not eat, laying down her spoon and putting her left thumb in her mouth.
‘And look, we have oranges for you. We know you love them. And I’ve made you a new dress.’ Pascalina unfolded a simply made frock of dark green wool, with a sash of copper-coloured ribbon, exactly the shade of Margherita’s hair. It would have been cut down from a gown bought at the second-hand dealer’s stall in the market and carefully sewn together to hide any stains or darns, but Pascalina must have been working on it for weeks in secret. ‘And Papa has made you a mask of your own. Look, it’s just like a daisy’s face.’
Margherita stared at the mask. It was painted bright yellow and marked with little copper-coloured circles to suggest florets. White petals streaked with gold radiated out in all directions. Long golden eyelashes fringed the eye slits, and the mouth was painted as a big happy smile. ‘
La sua bella
,’ she whispered, her lisp more pronounced than ever.
‘You’ll be able to wear it to the Festival of Ascension in a few weeks’ time,
topolina
,’ Alessandro said.
Once, Margherita would have danced about in joy, wearing the new dress and the mask, singing jubilantly. Now, she said, ‘Thank you,’ in a subdued voice.
‘Don’t you like them?’ her mother asked anxiously.
Margherita nodded and conjured a smile, as much a mask as the constructions of papier mâché down in her father’s studio.
THE SORCERESS
Venice, Italy – April 1590
The next day, Margherita saw the sorceress again.
The woman with the eyes like a lion’s looked in through the shutters of the shop and spoke to Margherita as she sat sorting beads and feathers at her father’s bench.
‘Good morning, Margherita.’
Margherita did not answer, though her hand jerked and silver beads spilt across the wooden benchtop.
‘You must be ready to come to me.’
Margherita shook her head.
The sorceress frowned. ‘What do you mean? Has your mother forgotten her promise?’
‘I … I didn’t tell her,’ Margherita lied instinctively, her face growing hot.
‘Well, tell your mother I’ve not forgotten her promise and neither can she. I expect her to honour it.’
Putting her thumb in her mouth, Margherita nodded. As soon as the sorceress had walked away, she ran to find her parents. She heard the angry sound of their voices as she hurried up the stairs.
‘She’ll never agree.’ Pascalina was crying.
‘I have to try. Surely she cannot have a heart of stone?’
‘A heart of ice!’
‘It’s worth a try. What can she want with a little girl? In seven years,
chiacchere
will be practically a woman grown. I’ll go and find a letter-writer in the market. He’ll know all the best phrases …’
‘A letter? Madonna have mercy, as if a letter would sway that cold heart. Alessandro, I beg you! We must get away from here.’
‘She will find us wherever we go.’ Alessandro’s voice was sharp and angry. ‘She’s a witch, remember. We cannot hide from her eyes.’
‘But we cannot give her our
piccolina
.’
‘Mama, what do you mean?’ Margherita ran into the kitchen and to her mother’s side, throwing her arms about her legs.
For a moment, a strained silence. Then Pascalina bent and embraced her. ‘Do not fear, my darling, my daisy. Papa will make everything all right, won’t you? Alessandro?’
Margherita’s father looked at her with eyes filled with grief and something else. To her dismay, she saw it was fear. She did not tell her parents that she had seen the sorceress again, but put her thumb in her mouth and leant against her mother, her hand gripping a twist of Pascalina’s skirt.
Alessandro squared his shoulders and stood up. ‘I’ll go
Trying to smile, Pascalina served the soup, and Alessandro cut the bread and passed it around, giving Margherita a large dollop of soft cheese and olive oil. She could not eat, laying down her spoon and putting her left thumb in her mouth.
‘And look, we have oranges for you. We know you love them. And I’ve made you a new dress.’ Pascalina unfolded a simply made frock of dark green wool, with a sash of copper-coloured ribbon, exactly the shade of Margherita’s hair. It would have been cut down from a gown bought at the second-hand dealer’s stall in the market and carefully sewn together to hide any stains or darns, but Pascalina must have been working on it for weeks in secret. ‘And Papa has made you a mask of your own. Look, it’s just like a daisy’s face.’
Margherita stared at the mask. It was painted bright yellow and marked with little copper-coloured circles to suggest florets. White petals streaked with gold radiated out in all directions. Long golden eyelashes fringed the eye slits, and the mouth was painted as a big happy smile. ‘
La sua bella
,’ she whispered, her lisp more pronounced than ever.
‘You’ll be able to wear it to the Festival of Ascension in a few weeks’ time,
topolina
,’ Alessandro said.
Once, Margherita would have danced about in joy, wearing the new dress and the mask, singing jubilantly. Now, she said, ‘Thank you,’ in a subdued voice.
‘Don’t you like them?’ her mother asked anxiously.
Margherita nodded and conjured a smile, as much a mask as the constructions of papier mâché down in her father’s studio.
THE SORCERESS
Venice, Italy – April 1590
The next day, Margherita saw the sorceress again.
The woman with the eyes like a lion’s looked in through the shutters of the shop and spoke to Margherita as she sat sorting beads and feathers at her father’s bench.
‘Good morning, Margherita.’
Margherita did not answer, though her hand jerked and silver beads spilt across the wooden benchtop.
‘You must be ready to come to me.’
Margherita shook her head.
The sorceress frowned. ‘What do you mean? Has your mother forgotten her promise?’
‘I … I didn’t tell her,’ Margherita lied instinctively, her face growing hot.
‘Well, tell your mother I’ve not forgotten her promise and neither can she. I expect her to honour it.’
Putting her thumb in her mouth, Margherita nodded. As soon as the sorceress had walked away, she ran to find her parents. She heard the angry sound of their voices as she hurried up the stairs.
‘She’ll never agree.’ Pascalina was crying.
‘I have to try. Surely she cannot have a heart of stone?’
‘A heart of ice!’
‘It’s worth a try. What can she want with a little girl? In seven years,
chiacchere
will be practically a woman grown. I’ll go and find a letter-writer in the market. He’ll know all the best phrases …’
‘A letter? Madonna have mercy, as if a letter would sway that cold heart. Alessandro, I beg you! We must get away from here.’
‘She will find us wherever we go.’ Alessandro’s voice was sharp and angry. ‘She’s a witch, remember. We cannot hide from her eyes.’
‘But we cannot give her our
piccolina
.’
‘Mama, what do you mean?’ Margherita ran into the kitchen and to her mother’s side, throwing her arms about her legs.
For a moment, a strained silence. Then Pascalina bent and embraced her. ‘Do not fear, my darling, my daisy. Papa will make everything all right, won’t you? Alessandro?’
Margherita’s father looked at her with eyes filled with grief and something else. To her dismay, she saw it was fear. She did not tell her parents that she had seen the sorceress again, but put her thumb in her mouth and leant against her mother, her hand gripping a twist of Pascalina’s skirt.
Alessandro squared his shoulders and stood up. ‘I’ll go
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