third stair. Next to him rested a bucket-sized clay jar of olives. He was looking into the jar, poking around with his fingers.

“Amazing,” he said, a twinge of menace to his tone, “the things one can find beneath a broken step.” Giuseppe plucked an olive and popped it into his mouth.

Mari felt her body flush with rage. Giuseppe was defiling the very olives she had spent the better part of a year curing, the ones she wished to share with Davido. Mari did her best to ignore Giuseppe and strolled through the mill in silence as if she had a specific reason for being there.

“You have no greeting for me, daughter?” Giuseppe spit the olive pit out of his mouth and onto the floor.

Mari was silent. She busied herself with the straightening of some equipment in the corner; a broom, a long, stiff-bristled brush for cleaning the olive press. It was all she could think to do.

Giuseppe clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth; his fingers picked another olive from the brine. “What is it with mine women, I do beseech, that hath so withered their organ of speech? Your mute mother has excuse at least, as it’s only language that distinguishes women from beast.” Giuseppe popped the olive into his mouth. “Ah, but perhaps a good beast could put my womanly woes to end,” he said whilst obnoxiously chewing on the olive, “for ’tis true what they say, that dog be man’s best friend. And gladly I to suffer some shit and piss upon the floor than endure such silent barking a second more.”

“A dog?” shot back Mari. She could not help herself. “T’would think Benito was more than ‘nuff the mutt.”

Giuseppe spit out the olive pit. “And he doth have such puppy dog eyes for you.”

The comment irked Mari. “What do you want, Stepfather?”

“Funny you should say that.”

“Say what?”

“Step,” said Giuseppe as he looked between his legs at the broken third stair. Giuseppe leaned to his right, lowered his hand and knocked over a board, mallet and a dozen nails that rested against the side of the stairs.

Mari felt her throat tighten.

“Do not,” Giuseppe looked directly at Mari for the first time, “embarrass me. I am all that stands between your mother’s penury and you in a nunnery.”

Mari scowled. “Are you threatening me?”

“Goodness no, daughter, I am merely stating the reality of the situation.”

“The reality,” repeated Mari, “is that you’re a fiend who does little more than repossess that of others, including their land and their mothers.”

Giuseppe clucked his tongue remonstratively. “To think such ill thanks you bequeath and reduce my gesture to common thief?”

“Oh, no, far more evil than petty thief is he who preys upon a widow’s grief.”

“Watch your tongue, you ingrate girl,” said Giuseppe, obviously trying to control his temper. “Lest you forget: you and your mother’d be destitute had I not married that crippled mute. A widow and her impish daughter with not a coin in hand. Po and the church would have scoffed up this land.” “Your kindness is lost on me, sir.”

“Be that as it may, my fury is not. Do not embarrass me.” “One cannot embarrass the shameless,” Mari sneered. “You will not,” repeated Giuseppe severely, “embarrass me.” “Good God, Stepfather, of what do you speak?” “I have housed and fed you for ten years—” “Upon land fattened by another,” Mari interrupted. “Shut up, girl!” Giuseppe yelled. “’Tis bad enough I have to waste a dowry on you.”

“What?” Mari flushed with panic. Does he know of Davido? “I will have my recompense.” “For what?” shot back Mari.

“For the bread my labors have fed you. For the roof and shelter I’ve afforded you. For the dowry I am forced to give.”

“Bread I have always baked, a roof my father tarred and shingled. And as far as a dowry, I would not assume so much of you.”

“Shut up, you insolent girl!” Giuseppe violently stomped his foot upon the bottom stair. “You are of marrying age. I have been in contact with suitors, older men of wealth and means; fine, fat, rich and boring. Men whose blood runs blue.”

Mari glared at Giuseppe. She felt her life was being drained from her. “I would sooner take a knife to my heart.”

“Then best you whet your blade.” Giuseppe stood up. “You will marry whom I command, when I command, and you will go to your wedding bed a virgin. Blood will mark your nuptial sheets or I will pitch you to a nunnery to