Page 61 of The Island of Lost Girls

A dozen pairs of eyes snap in their direction. Mercedes cowers. She wants to cover her face with shame, that someone would speak so casually of their duke in public. Especially today, as he walks with the thousand-year-old broadsword with which his ancestor killed a hundred invaders held aloft before his face. Shush. Please shush. I can’t bear it.

She tries to shuffle away, put some space between herself and her employer, but Tatiana sticks to her like glue.

‘I’m thirsty! I still think you could do a roaring trade selling snacks and drinks,’ she continues, voice so loud it drowns out the praying. ‘Street food. It’s totally the coming thing, you know. I ate nothing else on Koh Samui.’

Mercedes feels her teeth grind together in the back of her jaw. Perhaps, she thinks, listening to Tatiana’s complaints is my own penance. They’re incessant. My feet hurt. It’s so hot. How much longer? How long is the service? God, these cobbles. They’re awful with flip-flops.

They pass the Princess Tatiana. Matthew Meade stands on the back deck, watching, cool drink in hand.

‘My mama has been walking since they left the church,’ says Mercedes. ‘Is not so bad.’

‘Can’t I go and grab a bottle from the boat?’

‘No,’ she says firmly. Once you’ve joined the procession, you don’t leave. It’s the rules.

As they pass the harbourmaster’s office, her father comes out with the other men, to watch them go by. Slightly unsteady on their feet but trying to hide it. They have sufficient respect for the Saint that they have at least left their glasses indoors, but only a fool would believe that the glasses aren’t there.

Were it not for the women, the great traditions of Kastellani life would have died out generations ago. The thought of all the dignified mothers and sisters and daughters, preserving history and passing it down, fills Mercedes with a strange, resentful pride. This is why we mark this day, she thinks: to mark the heroism of women and the fates of those who betray their duty.

Her father waggles his eyebrows at her as she passes, and she raises her chin and ignores him. ‘Is like this everywhere?’ she asks Tatiana, nodding in their direction.

‘What?’

‘The men drink grappa while the women do everything?’

Tatiana laughs. ‘Oh, lord, yes! Well. Obviously girls like me have choices, but generally speaking, yes.’

‘Choices?’

‘Money,’ says Tatiana complacently, ‘gives you choices. I can basically be anything I want. Live anywhere I want, do anything I want.’

‘And you chose La Kastellana!’ says Paulina Marino, sarcastically, from behind them. ‘Well, isn’t that fine!’

Mercedes and Paulina’s eyes meet over Tatiana’s head, just for a fleeting moment, and a conversation takes place. What are you doing, Mercedes Delia? Don’t judge me, don’t judge me. You’re not going to get too big for your boots, are you? Never, never. I’m Kastellani to the bones. You wouldn’t want the solteronas to notice you. That sister of yours is already attracting attention. Think of your mother. Think of her shame. Please. Don’t say anything. She’s not my fault. If you knew, you wouldn’t blame me.

Paulina sucks her teeth and turns away.

In the market square, Donatella slips from an alleyway and drops into step. Giggly and excited; the naughty girl thumbing her nose at the rules.

‘Don’t tell Mama,’ she whispers.

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Ana Sofia’s house. We’ve been hiding in her bedroom. Did she notice I wasn’t there? You won’t tell her, will you?’

Her pupils are large and she smells faintly of alcohol.

‘Have you been drinking?’ Mercedes hisses. Donatella gives her a little Mona Lisa smile. ‘I don’t believe you,’ hisses Mercedes, and Donatella smirks again. She’s wearing nail varnish. Just pale pink, almost the colour of her real nails, but Mercedes is appalled. Painting yourself, on a day like this. The solteronas will probably leave Tatiana alone, but if they spot this when Donatella comes up the church steps …

Tatiana, oblivious, starts up again. ‘So why is it all women, anyway?’ she asks.

‘You don’t know?’ asks Donatella.

‘Oh, hello. Where did you come from?’

‘Don’t know what you mean. I’ve been here all along,’ says Donatella, and suppresses another giggle. ‘You want to know why the women? Because it was women who helped St James. We killed them with pitchforks and ploughshares!’

She thrusts in the air with an imaginary pitchfork.