now.’ He took off his leather jerkin and shrugged on his embroidered doublet, hanging behind the door. For a moment, he stopped, his hand on Margherita’s copper-coloured head. ‘Don’t worry,
topolina
, all will be well.’ Then he was gone.
After dinner, Pascalina took Margherita and tucked her up in her bed, a small ragged piece of pale-green material in her hand, the only surviving remnant of Margherita’s baby blanket. Pascalina had sewn the sage-green wool with white satin stars before Margherita was born, but only one star was left, framed by a halo of ragged fabric. Margherita called it Bella-Stella and had only recently been persuaded not to carry it with her everywhere in case it was lost.
With her thumb in her mouth, Margherita lay curled like a baby dormouse, while her mother sang her lullabies until Margherita’s tight grip on her mother’s hand relaxed, and she let herself slip towards sleep.
The next day passed slowly. Her father paced the floor, unable to work, his face haggard. Her mother sat with her sewing on her lap, her hands clenched, crushing the fine linen. No one spoke very much.
As the afternoon lengthened, Alessandro got to his feet. ‘She’s had plenty of time to read the letter. I’ll go and speak to her.’
‘Oh, my darling, be careful,’ Pascalina said. ‘Don’t lose your temper, don’t enrage her. Beg her … beg her to be merciful.’
Alessandro put on his best doublet and went out. Pascalina sat as if in a trance, till Margherita came and climbed into her lap, twining her arms about her neck. ‘Mama, why …’
Her mother stirred and stood up, putting Margherita down. ‘How about we bake a special pie for your father, just you and I? He’ll … he’ll be back soon. We’ll make him something delicious for when he gets home.’
Yet, when they went down to the cellar, it was to find that rats had been at the flour. Pascalina sat on the bottom step and drew Margherita onto her lap. Together, they stared at the spoilt sack. ‘Today of all days,’ Pascalina murmured. ‘Oh well, we’ll need to go to the market after all …’
‘No, please. Let’s not go.’
Pascalina chewed her lip. Her freckled face looked pale and weary. ‘I need to go. I cannot make bread, or a pie, or even soup without flour.’ She stood up.
‘I don’t want to go.’ Margherita clung to her mother’s leg, tears welling up in her eyes. Pascalina was silent for a moment, as if contemplating trying to go to market with a weeping girl clinging to her leg every step of the way, then said with a sigh, ‘Very well, you stay here, my daisy. I’ll go to the market by myself. I won’t be long. Don’t open the door to anyone.’
Margherita went up to her room, to play with her doll. Her room was small, with a low slanted roof. It had a little window, with a lovely view across the narrow alleyway into the garden on the far side of the wall. The garden was the most beautiful place Margherita had ever seen. In spring, it was a sea of delicate blossom. In summer, it was green and fruitful. In autumn, the trees blazed gold and red and orange, as vivid as Margherita’s hair. Even in winter, it was beautiful, with bare branches against the oldstone walls and green hedges in curves and curlicues about beds of winter-flowering herbs and flowers.
Margherita’s mother never liked to look down into the garden. She always kept the shutters closed, so Margherita’s room was dim all day long. Margherita needed more light to see her doll, though, so she opened her shutters and looked down into the garden.
The sorceress was sitting under a blossom tree, drinking from a jewelled goblet, her skirts spread out like the petals of a blue flower, her torrents of golden-red hair shining in the sunshine. She looked up and smiled at Margherita and beckoned. Margherita slammed her shutter closed and jumped into bed. Her heart was pounding against her ribs.
A little while later, someone banged on the door. The
topolina
, all will be well.’ Then he was gone.
After dinner, Pascalina took Margherita and tucked her up in her bed, a small ragged piece of pale-green material in her hand, the only surviving remnant of Margherita’s baby blanket. Pascalina had sewn the sage-green wool with white satin stars before Margherita was born, but only one star was left, framed by a halo of ragged fabric. Margherita called it Bella-Stella and had only recently been persuaded not to carry it with her everywhere in case it was lost.
With her thumb in her mouth, Margherita lay curled like a baby dormouse, while her mother sang her lullabies until Margherita’s tight grip on her mother’s hand relaxed, and she let herself slip towards sleep.
The next day passed slowly. Her father paced the floor, unable to work, his face haggard. Her mother sat with her sewing on her lap, her hands clenched, crushing the fine linen. No one spoke very much.
As the afternoon lengthened, Alessandro got to his feet. ‘She’s had plenty of time to read the letter. I’ll go and speak to her.’
‘Oh, my darling, be careful,’ Pascalina said. ‘Don’t lose your temper, don’t enrage her. Beg her … beg her to be merciful.’
Alessandro put on his best doublet and went out. Pascalina sat as if in a trance, till Margherita came and climbed into her lap, twining her arms about her neck. ‘Mama, why …’
Her mother stirred and stood up, putting Margherita down. ‘How about we bake a special pie for your father, just you and I? He’ll … he’ll be back soon. We’ll make him something delicious for when he gets home.’
Yet, when they went down to the cellar, it was to find that rats had been at the flour. Pascalina sat on the bottom step and drew Margherita onto her lap. Together, they stared at the spoilt sack. ‘Today of all days,’ Pascalina murmured. ‘Oh well, we’ll need to go to the market after all …’
‘No, please. Let’s not go.’
Pascalina chewed her lip. Her freckled face looked pale and weary. ‘I need to go. I cannot make bread, or a pie, or even soup without flour.’ She stood up.
‘I don’t want to go.’ Margherita clung to her mother’s leg, tears welling up in her eyes. Pascalina was silent for a moment, as if contemplating trying to go to market with a weeping girl clinging to her leg every step of the way, then said with a sigh, ‘Very well, you stay here, my daisy. I’ll go to the market by myself. I won’t be long. Don’t open the door to anyone.’
Margherita went up to her room, to play with her doll. Her room was small, with a low slanted roof. It had a little window, with a lovely view across the narrow alleyway into the garden on the far side of the wall. The garden was the most beautiful place Margherita had ever seen. In spring, it was a sea of delicate blossom. In summer, it was green and fruitful. In autumn, the trees blazed gold and red and orange, as vivid as Margherita’s hair. Even in winter, it was beautiful, with bare branches against the oldstone walls and green hedges in curves and curlicues about beds of winter-flowering herbs and flowers.
Margherita’s mother never liked to look down into the garden. She always kept the shutters closed, so Margherita’s room was dim all day long. Margherita needed more light to see her doll, though, so she opened her shutters and looked down into the garden.
The sorceress was sitting under a blossom tree, drinking from a jewelled goblet, her skirts spread out like the petals of a blue flower, her torrents of golden-red hair shining in the sunshine. She looked up and smiled at Margherita and beckoned. Margherita slammed her shutter closed and jumped into bed. Her heart was pounding against her ribs.
A little while later, someone banged on the door. The
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