Page 64 of Skotos
Oddly,SignoraMarini didn’t bristle at the English, nor the female voice that offered a swift translation. Her eyes were fixed on Will, her heart filled with an endless age of emotion.
Thesignorareached for Will’s face with brittle fingers and cupped his cheek as though he was made of glass. “You always said you would take me dancing under the stars in Palermo.”
Will blinked but didn’t pull away. His eyes brimmed to fullness as he said, “And I will, my love.”
I stood a few paces back, my heart aching at the scene before me. There was something almost holy in the exchange, in the way the old woman smiled with her entire face and years melted off her like faded paint to reveal the girl beneath.
Will softened in ways I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen from my beloved man. His eyes glistened, nearly bursting, as he held her like she was the last piece of something good in the world.
She hummed a song under her breath, a slow waltz of memory, and rocked gently as though caught in a moment that never fully passed. It was beautiful—and deeply moving. Her fingers, once resting gently atop Will’s, began to shake. Then something shifted in her eyes, hardening into orbs of fear and . . . something darker.
“He said his neighbors were spies,” she muttered, her voice raspy and conspiratorial. “He buried theletters in the walls. They’re listening, you know, always listening.”
Will turned toward me, all color draining from his face.
I watched as her grip on his hand turned vice-like, her fingers twitching.
“There is blood on your collar,” she whispered. “It is not yours. It is his. It will never wash out.”
Her voice teetered between a sob and a laugh. I felt my own chest tighten.
She was slipping again—through memory or madness or both.
Her eyes darted around the room as though seeing shadows we couldn’t sense.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the storm passed.
Her eyes cleared.
She blinked rapidly, and her hands fell away from Will’s.
“Oh,” she said, voice small. “You are not him.”
“No, I’m Will,” Will said gently. “We are friends of your son, Lucien. We came to see how you were.”
Her brow furrowed. “Lucien?”
“Yes.” I stepped closer, fumbling for words that wouldn’t agitate the poor woman but might shed light on our path. “We . . . haven’t heard from him in a few days, and we’re trying to find him. Do you know where he might have gone?”
She looked out the window, the sunlight catching in the thin strands of her hair. “He always worried too much, even as a boy. Wouldn’t go to sleep until all his books were in order.” She coughed out a cackle, then wiped her mouth. “Those darn books were everywhere.”
I struggled to steer us back to the question at hand. “Did he mention anything strange recently? Any visitors? Anything that made him nervous?”
She was quiet a long time, then: “He said there were old things buried too long. He said someone wanted to dig them up.”
Will and I exchanged a glance.
“Did he say who?”
She shook her head slowly. “No. Only that he’d found something he wasn’t meant to see.”
“What did he find?” I asked.
“The Chapel of . . . of Saint Malachai, such a beautiful chapel. I loved it so much. Did he tell you that? How much I loved the stones and windows, the quiet of the countryside. It has been so many years since it stood proud, since I worshiped beneath its roof. How I miss its beauty. Would you take me there again, Luigi?”
Will’s eyes squeezed closed.
SignoraMarini’s eyes, suddenly cloudy again, turned back toward the window.
