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11

Mari

Friday, April 20, 1821

F our days passed, and still Dante had not returned from Naples with news on Lia.

It had been a disheartening few days, filled with difficult conversations. Everyone in the village now knew about Lia’s abduction, though Mari and the other streghe had kept the story very simple.

It wasn’t the first time the Mazzas had kidnapped someone, but usually it involved a ransom. Lia’s family wasn’t wealthy or renowned. Why, the villagers asked, would they have gone after her?

There was no mention of teaching the girls magic.

There was no mention of the brother Mari had killed, his body now at sea.

Mari did, however, warn the villagers of Matteo’s intent to return. They must have something against us , a few of the men surmised.

The village vowed to remain vigilant, difficult as it would be: Mazza-owned vessels were all over the area. They traversed the waters offshore every day.

Further, the Mazzas’ men might not even come by sea. They might take the overland route, just as they’d done the day they kidnapped Lia.

Evading the Fratelli Mazza seemed an impossible task, so the village men kept themselves well-armed.

During this time, Cleila and Paola were an unexpected source of support, encouraging Mari not to wallow in remorse. “You couldn’t have known they would follow you when you took the girls out,” Cleila reassured her one morning.

Mari kept silent, too ashamed to mention the shadow she’d seen on the dock the week prior.

If she’d heeded her instincts, none of them would be in this predicament.

***

On Friday evening, Mari lay in the olive grove for more than an hour. In the darkness, the sea was hidden from view; she could almost trick herself into believing it was not the sea at all but instead an expanse of dark land, void of lamps and villas, stretching indefinitely into the distance.

She looked up at the stars, tracing shapes in her mind, just as Holmes had taught her to do on the nights she could not sleep for anxiety or grief.

Inhale , he’d taught her, and count five or six stars. Imagine they form a shape, that they are something altogether different than stars. Just as you are different than your feelings, your pain. They do not make you who you are.

For all the effort Mari had put into pushing aside her sadness over the years, nothing had been so effective as Holmes’s counsel. He reminded her that few were as intimate with sleepless nights as men who sailed the sea, and he had used this method many times himself.

Now Mari counted stars and imagined they formed owls or towers or swords. Her pulse slowed, her breathing calmed. She marveled at what he’d taught her—the ability to exit her own tumultuous thoughts and turn to imagination.

It was one reason she’d fallen in love with him. Holmes had softened Mari, peeled back the hardened layers of her heart. At times, he even unburied a childlike spirit within her.

She smiled in the darkness, thinking of the time they snuck into the domed church at the base of the village. It was last fall, on a night when the temperature had dropped quickly. They managed a way in through an unlocked door at the back, giggling as they made their way through the darkened nave.

Mari eyed the delicate-looking sculptures situated throughout the church. “We shouldn’t be here,” she said. They could easily break something—a sculpture or any number of rules posted outside the building.

Holmes ignored her. “Dance with me,” he whispered with a mischievous smile.

Mari had only ever danced with Sofia when they were girls. “I don’t know how to dance,” she objected, “and we have no music, anyhow.”

A clavichord sat at one end of the altar. Holmes walked toward it, clumsily pressing on a few of the keys. The resulting noise was shrill, discordant, and so loud Mari felt sure an angry clergyman would arrive any moment. She’d never been so nervous in all her life, and yet the thrill of doing something improper made the tips of her fingers tingle.

She clasped her hands over her ears, laughing. “That is not music at all.”

Holmes left the altar and approached her in one of the pews. “Then, we will dance without it,” he said, wrapping his arms around her lower back.

Mari couldn’t resist. She leaned into him, tucking her head against his chest, breathing in the earthy, salty smell of him as they swayed back and forth in silence. Once, she caught him eyeing the low, flat pew beside them. She knew what was on his mind. She chuckled, giving him a little shake of the head.

Not yet , she remembered thinking, but soon .

Now, as Mari lay in the olive grove, she decided she wanted to walk to the church. She wasn’t tired yet, and perhaps that same back door would be unlocked. She liked the idea of standing in the exact place where she and Holmes had danced. Maybe it would make her feel closer to him.

She stood, wiping off her skirt, but before she could make her way down the hill, something dark caught her eye on the watery horizon—a shadow, something even blacker than the sea.

A ship.

It shouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary, except that it was very close, it was the middle of the night, and—most alarming—the vessel was enormous, the size of a fregata .

Squinting in the dark, Mari made out a few of the ship’s details. Three masts. Two gun decks. And—to Mari’s horror—the cannons were pushed out, ready to fire.

This ship looked ready for war.

With the church forgotten, Mari ran for the house. Inside, she went to Paola’s room and began to hammer on her bedroom door. Paola opened the door, eyes bloodshot. Cleila was behind her; the two often shared a room because Mari’s father snored so loud.

“A ship has arrived,” Mari whispered, lantern swinging in her hand. “They are anchored just offshore. Their guns are out.”

Cleila covered her mouth with her hands, anguish in her eyes. “Do you think the Mazzas have come back already?”

This was exactly what Mari feared, and she said as much.

Paola turned, began to gather a few things. “Who knows how long they’ve been anchored. They could be creeping through the village now. Should we hide? Gather the others and leave?”

Mari glared at her. “ Leave? For all we know, Lia is on the ship. I…” She felt unable to believe what she was about to say. “Well, I intend to go to them. You can do whatever you want, but I intend to confront them. I will turn myself over if they will give Lia back.”

“You cannot go alone,” Cleila said. “I won’t let you go alone.”

Mari felt a rare surge of affection for her stepmother.

As the women slipped out of the house and made their way down the hillside pathway, Mari listened closely for the sound of footsteps, in case men sent by the Fratelli Mazza—or even Matteo himself—were already dispersed through the village. But to Mari’s surprise, it wasn’t a man they encountered, it was—

“Pippa,” Mari hissed, spotting her on the road a short distance from Pippa’s house. She was wearing canvas breeches, her hair tucked into a flat cap. It was safer, she probably thought, to disguise herself as a man if she intended to go for a late-night walk. “What are you doing out here?” She felt a moment of irritation with her younger friend: yesterday, she’d warned her against leaving the house.

Pippa’s eyes grew wide; she’d been caught. “Mari,” she said. “Please don’t tell my mother. I snuck out. I was—” She stood fixing a few loose strands of hair. “Well, I have not been able to sleep since Lia was taken. I was only taking a walk.”

For this, Mari could not blame her. “There’s a ship anchored off the beach.” She nodded at Cleila and Paola. “We don’t know who it is, but we’re going to find out. Perhaps they have Lia.”

In an instant, Pippa’s face turned hard. “I’m coming with you.”

“ No, assolutamente no ,” came a man’s voice behind them. They all turned to see Leo rushing forward with a scowl. “Where have you been, Pippa?” He looked her up and down. “Are those my clothes?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she blurted out.

A moment later, Vivi ran up. She and Leo had both been out looking for their daughter. Relief crossed her face, and she bent over, breathing hard. “You had us terrified,” she told Pippa. “We thought they’d come for you.”

Briefly, Mari told the newcomers about the ship.

“We’ll go,” Vivi said, nodding to Leo. “Pippa, go straight home. Now.”

“No,” Pippa said. “I’m old enough. I’m seventeen. Mari is only three years older than me. And Paola, only two years older.”

“You haven’t a choice,” Leo said. He pointed at their house, a short ways away. “Go.”

Pippa huffed, saying nothing more, and headed for home.

Together, Mari and the others raced their way through their village, making their way down the steps on the fastest route to the beach. The village was empty, shutters pulled closed over windows.

Leo ran in front, taking steps two or three at a time. There were countless winding routes down to the beach; after a few moments, the women lost sight of him. He was faster, more agile. He also had a small revolver on him, though this didn’t give Mari much comfort. The men who’d arrived would undoubtedly be better armed.

Moving quickly down a narrow set of steps between buildings, Mari steadied herself with her hand on the stone walls either side of her.

A sudden gunshot rang out ahead, around the corner of a building. Mari, Cleila, and Paola froze in place, but Vivi let out a cry. Either Leo had just shot someone, or someone had shot him…

“Leo!” Vivi shouted. She jumped the last three steps and cried out in pain when she landed. “Leo!”

“Viviana, no,” Mari hissed. None of the women knew what lay around the bend. But Vivi raced ahead, continuing to shout her husband’s name. Mari was tempted to run after her, but to do so could be a death sentence. “In here,” Mari said, grabbing Paola’s and Cleila’s hands and pulling the women into a recessed doorway. They tested the doorknob, finding it locked. Together, they huddled in the corner, breathing hard.

A few seconds passed in silence; Vivi had ceased her shouting. Mari leaned her head out and whispered Vivi’s name a few more times, to no avail. At least there were no shouts, no more shots. If Leo had been hurt, Vivi would be screaming now. Perhaps Leo had been the one to fire his gun, and now he and Vivi were taking cover…

Then, footsteps sounded above them, in the direction from whence they’d come. This could be anyone—a villager, or a man sent by the Fratelli Mazza. Fearing the latter, Mari darted back into the doorway, placing her finger over her lips as though to say Keep quiet . The footsteps grew closer, and Mari’s heart began to thud impossibly hard. Whoever was on the stairs would be passing their doorway in a matter of seconds.

Mari pressed her body against the wall, not daring to breathe as a shadowy figure flew past them.

“Could you tell who it was?” Mari asked the others, once the unknown person had gone.

Both Cleila and Paola shook their heads. The women held still a minute or two, listening for anything else. Finally, Mari could wait no longer. “Let’s go,” she said.

They tiptoed their way down the final staircase, approaching the beach. It wasn’t an open expanse—net-drying racks and wooden huts were interspersed throughout—but Mari managed to spot Vivi ahead. She and Leo stood at the waterline, engaged in what looked like tense conversation. Just beyond them, a smaller boat bobbed in the waves. “There,” Mari said, pointing. “She and Leo are there, just ahead.”

Suddenly, Cleila drew to a stop. “Mari,” she said solemnly. “That’s not Leo.”

Cleila was right—the man with Vivi was taller and heavier than Leo. And as Mari studied him, she realized that he and Vivi were not holding hands; instead, the man was restraining her.

Mari’s mouth went dry, remembering the gunshot.

Protected from view by one of the huts, the women began to run forward, but suddenly Paola fell to the side, crying out in pain. She’d stepped into a small hole, turning her ankle. She clutched it now, her eyes instantly welling with tears.

Mari glanced again at the men by the waterline. To her relief, they hadn’t heard Paola cry out. Nor had they spotted the women approaching in the darkness.

“Go with Mari,” Paola begged her mother, her voice thick with pain. She pointed to another nearby lean-to, a place the fishermen often congregated to eat lunch. “I’ll stay over there. As soon as the pain subsides, I’ll come help with—” She cut off, crying harder now.

Mari knelt down, feeling Paola’s ankle. It was hot to the touch, quickly swelling. Her pain wouldn’t be subsiding anytime soon.

Mari cursed under her breath. She wouldn’t let Paola remain alone. “Take her over there,” she said to Cleila, pointing to the lean-to. “You stay with her. Get her back to the villa as quickly as you can.”

Cleila gave a stiff nod. “Be safe, Mari.”

Then, alone, Mari ran for Vivi.

She hated this stretch of beach, tucked on the far east side of the village. It was a cursed place, the very spot where she’d lost her mother. Still, she pressed on, shoving memories aside in favor of courage.

As she got closer to the shoreline, she noticed a small tender fighting against the waves, making its way toward the enormous ship anchored offshore. In the boat, a pair of men rowed forward, but it was clear there were one or two others of smaller stature with them. Whether they were streghe or not was unclear, but they were most certainly women.

Mari kept running, but her feet sank into the sand, slowing her movement.

She was ten meters, five meters, from the water…

Suddenly, a body slammed against hers. She screamed and fell to the ground, getting sand in her mouth. She tried to push herself upright, but whoever had knocked her over was kneeling over her, his knee in her back. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head up. She turned toward him best she could, blood draining from her face.

It was Matteo.

“Where is she?” Mari cried. “Where did you take the child?”

He ignored her and instead shouted to his friend. “This is her,” he yelled, hauling her upright. Mari tried to writhe out of his grip, but he kept her arms pinned behind her back.

“Mari,” Vivi called out, her cheeks streaked with tears. “They shot him.”

Mari felt her throat tighten. “Leo?”

Vivi replied with a sob. “They took the Fontana sisters, too,” she said, nodding toward the tender rowing away.

The Fontana girls, both teenagers, occasionally worked along the shore overnight, scrubbing the filthy docks. Inevitably, each evening the docks were covered in dried fish guts left behind after the men cleaned their catch. It was a task that took a few hours, even with a pair of workers, but each week the fishermen pooled funds to pay whoever completed the unpleasant chore.

And there was one thing that made the Fontana girls stand out: though they weren’t streghe , they had naturally vibrant red hair.

“You don’t want them,” Mari now told Matteo. “The Fontana girls, they only clean the docks, that’s it. They’re not like—”

“Quiet,” he said. Gripping her waist, he produced a rope and tied Mari’s arms behind her back. The knots pulled tight against the tiny bones of her wrist. She winced but refused to cry out.

She glanced toward the lean-to; on a nearby staircase, she could make out the dark forms of Cleila and Paola slowly ascending the steps. Paola was hunched forward, managing a slow hobble. Seconds later, they turned a corner, out of sight. Mari was glad for it: the situation on the beach was even worse than she’d imagined.

A shout rang out. “Matteo!” a man said. “I’ve got another.” Beside him, a young woman—gagged and blindfolded—stumbled along.

Vivi screamed.

It was Pippa.

“Found her a few minutes ago,” the man said, wearing a salacious grin. “She was coming down the stairs, over there…” When he pointed toward the west end of the village, Mari understood: it hadn’t been one of these men, nor another villager, who had rushed by when the women were hiding in the doorway. It had been Pippa, looking for them.

If only Mari had been braver, had dared to peek out of the doorway. She would have spotted Pippa, might have prevented her capture altogether…

This beach is cursed , Mari thought at once. This entire village is cursed.

“No, no,” Vivi was saying now, fighting hard against the man restraining her. “No, please no, take me, anyone but—”

“We’re taking all of you,” he snapped. “Red hair or not, I’ll get every woman in this pathetic village, if I can manage. Can’t trust the lot of you.”

Every woman. Mari bent forward, her stomach cramping. She thought of the Fontana girls, certainly confused and terrified.

“There are only a few of us.” Mari pointed at Pippa. “And she’s too young,” she lied. “Both she and the girl you took from me the other day, they can’t do anything. Take me instead. I can show you this very moment what we’re able to—”

The distant clang of a heavy bell interrupted her. Someone on the ship had just sounded it, and now, the men glanced uneasily at the vessel.

“We need to go,” Matteo shouted.

Vivi began to sob, while Pippa remained stoic, perfectly calm. Mari had never seen courage like the sort Pippa displayed now.

Quickly, the men with Pippa and Vivi forced them into the boat, while another man lifted the oars. Mari wanted to get as close as she could to the water and her friends, but Matteo remained in place, his arms tight around her torso.

“What is it?” the man with Pippa demanded.

Matteo hesitated. “This is the woman who killed Massimo.” He eyed the water, advancing and receding in steady, low waves. “I am worried about taking her on the water.”

Mari decided to use this in her favor, pointing at Pippa. “Let her stay, and I will cooperate. She cannot do anything, anyhow.” Then, with as much intimidation as she could muster in her voice, she added, “Otherwise, I assure you, you will be making a very grave mistake.”

The men eyed each other, and Mari caught a glimmer of fear pass between them. One of the men untied Pippa, removed her gag and blindfold, and pushed her out of the tender. “Go,” he said. “Get out of here.”

For once, Pippa obeyed. She was outnumbered, anyway, and the men were well-armed; for Pippa to use her magic now would be reckless—a death sentence for all of these women.

When Pippa ran off, Mari’s shoulders fell in relief. They put her in the front of the boat with Vivi toward the back. From the corner of her eye, Mari caught Vivi’s wrists and hands writhing in her binds. She was trying to loosen them, to escape. Mari hoped that Vivi’s cimaruta , hidden beneath her gown, would lend her extra dexterity as she aimed to work her way out.

Mari’s own binds were far too tight, and she could not shift her hands one bit, much less loosen the knot. She, too, still wore her cimaruta , but the necklaces weren’t cure-alls.

One of the men pulled at the oars, heading for the larger vessel anchored offshore. What—and who—awaited them there? Mari hoped Lia was somewhere on the ship. If nothing else, they could be reunited.

She lay on her back on the floor of the boat, a tear slowly crawling down her cheek. Her hands were twisted in a painful position, and one of the men pushed his knee hard into her shoulder to keep her supine.

Above her, Mari could see nothing but sky, studded with bright, blinking stars, the same stars she’d been gazing at just an hour ago in the olive grove. How safe they are , Mari thought to herself, year after year, hour after hour, while the rest of the world shifts and shudders.

She closed her eyes, too terrified to imagine any star shapes now.

She hadn’t any idea what the rest of the evening would bring. She only knew that here among these men, restrained and out of the water, her powers—her magic—were as good as dead.