her as it had when she had first stepped outside that morning. But this time, rather than drag her forward, it swung back and roped her into the water behind her. The shock of cold squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, she saw the metal grey sky through the water. It warped under the cascade of a wave, then a swathe of her hair soared across her vision, languid as melassa. Individual threads of hair came into view, bubbles stringing each strand like Mama’s glass bead necklace, each bubble bearing a miniature reflection of Sibilla’s face. The small Sibillas blinked in unison.
Just then, the sole of her foot touched the riverbed and instinct sent all her concentration into her ankle. She bent her knee and propelled herself up, hair streaming down with the force of her skyward dive. Her head broke the surface and she gasped for air but her mouth was stoppered. She shook her head until there was enough of a crack between the thick falls of hair to breathe, then grabbed at a branch and pulled herself out of the water. She felt her hair tugging her back in so she began hauling it towards her, lock by lock, before it tried to swim off or drown her.
When she had finally lugged it all out of the currents, she found herself kneeling on the shore of a tumbling river. This must be the Lanaro. Nonna had pointed out flashes of it from the cabin window. Sibilla parted her hair with shrinkled fingers to examine herself in its surface. The water was choppy but she didn’t notice the zigzag. She was mainly struck by how small she looked in her reflection. She didn’t feel that small from the inside.
* * *
When Adriana arrived home that day, she found her mother seated on a chair by the hearth and her daughter kneeling on the floor beside her. Giovanna was rocking and sobbing. Sibilla was silent, stroking her grandmother’s knee with a heavy-looking paw. And they were both surrounded by a muddy, gritty spill of hair, more hair, Adriana exclaimed, than she had ever seen, though in truth that was what she often said when she came home from a hard day at work.
Sibilla told the story in bursts like gunfire: the door, the wind, the boys, the river. The rest of the evening was consumed with washing the girl’s hair – with fetching water from the well with a tin can that bled drops from a hole in a fixed beat that counted the seconds till dawn. Guiltily, Adriana used the rest of the fancy soap to wash it. Sibilla and Giovanna both tried to help but the young girl’s fingers were too involved and the old woman’s too shaky. Eventually, they both fell asleep.
Adriana alone sat up late into the night with Sibilla’s hair across her lap, extricating pine needles and rocks and dead insects from it. By the time she was done, the hair was huge with handling, fluffy and grey as smoke. She felt an urge as strong as a contraction to reach inside and pull her daughter out. Instead, she watched through the window as the sun rose behind the mists of Alba. Then she woke Sibilla up, wrapped her in sackcloth, and took her to Villa Serra.
1948
The Signora’s green robe wafted gently over the threshold. She was calling over her shoulder down the corridor behind her. ‘I’ll be right back, Colonnello Corsale. I cannot imagine who is visiting so late. Or so early, rather,’ she chuckled. The Signora turned. ‘Oh, hello.’
‘Signora.’
‘But this is the front door—’ The Signora’s chin lifted. ‘And what have we here?’
Sibilla looked up through her hair at the women exchanging words and gestures over her head. Mama had been forceful on their walk here, but now that they had arrived, she seemed fearful. She kept plucking at the sackcloth covering Sibilla. Impatient and hot, Sibilla tossed her head to unhood herself, and blew a puff of air to clear her vision. The Signora started. Her eyes went green and wide, then black and thin.
‘I see,’ she said curtly. ‘Come on then.’ She spun and walked back into the house.
Adriana and Sibilla followed her down a corridor to a room the size of their entire home. This room was dimly lit – the curtains were drawn and only a few squat candles guttered in the corners – and it looked like a storm had passed through, knocking things