rot, and toss that crippled mother of yours to a dank asylum.” Giuseppe glared at Mari so to better burrow his words into his stepdaughter’s head. “Rest assured, what I lose in coin, I will gain in title.” Then he stepped off the stairs, letting his right hand trail behind him, catching the lip of the olive jar with his index finger and insouciantly tipping it over.

Mari watched the olives and liquid spill and splatter onto the floor.

“A little salty,” said Giuseppe as he made for the barn door.

Mari heard the door swing shut.

“Fix the step,” she heard Giuseppe say as the iron bolt slid into place. She was locked in.

In which We Learn

of Rivers, Oceans & Sauce

Better to a nunnery, thought Mari as the first rays of sun shone through the windows and she heard the dead bolt slowly slide open and the mill door creak. It had been a long and angry night on a dusty floor. Yes, she fixed the third stair (she was not a stupid girl), fixed it perfectly, so perfectly that Giuseppe would hardly think to check the fifth stair, which Mari made certain would surely come apart in the near future. She would be damned if she would marry a monster of Giuseppe’s choosing. Better to a nunnery, better to Davido—much better to Davido. I too will have my recompense, thought Mari, as she readied her bucket and waited for the door to open. Ten years of abuse has been enough.

Davido had hardly slept. It was a word and a wagonful of excitement that kept him awake. Tomorrow, that was easy enough to understand. At the olive mill, yes, he knew where that was. With bated breath. Oh, mio Dio, to think that Mari was waiting for him with such eagerness was itself overwhelming. But morning, that was the part of the note that confused him. What did she mean by morning? Morning is made of many hours, especially for a farmer. Was Tuesday not a work day, he thought? Will I not be seen by a dozen millworkers? Can I really take such a risk? How can I not? For her, how can I not?

Thank heavens, at least, thought Davido, Nonno had gone off to Pitigliano on Monday for an overnight stay and had not been present when the fool dropped off the wine and note. To visit with a Cristiano village girl, Nonno would have none of it. Just the idea that a village girl had the temerity to write such a note and have her servant deliver it could have very well meant a year in Florence for Davido and certain marriage to that skinny-ankled girl. But morning, what did she mean by morning?

All night the question plagued Davido, right up until this very moment as he approached the olive mill. He had chosen early morning. Actually, it had chosen him. He could not sleep; he could not stand the wait, so he put on his monk’s robe, laid the heavy cross around his neck, mounted a donkey and trotted off with the first hint of sunlight. The morning air was cool and crisp, but underneath the heavy robe Davido’s stomach was aflutter with butterflies and he could feel the drops of nervous sweat gathering in his armpits. The anxious perspiration carried with it a stink too, a body odor that added to Davido’s nerves. He fanned fresh air into the robe every few minutes and even pulled some cypress needles from a tree as he strode by and rubbed the rough green and fine-smelling fur under his armpits—anything to smell better for her.

The mill was empty—grazie Dio!—but the door was bolted shut. Why, thought Davido, is she not here? Is there another entrance? Let me just have a look inside. Madness, yes, I know. Nonno would not approve. But how can I not? For Mari. Dear sister in heaven, bless me, he told himself as he slid the bolt and pulled the door ajar, just enough to peer his head inside. And then, out of the shadows, it came! Panic-stricken, Davido inhaled and sucked the burning oil right into his mouth. It blinded his eyes and burned down his neck. I am dead, he thought, I am dead!

Mio Dio, Mari gasped, I have done it a second time. She dropped the empty bucket of oil and ran to him with a purpose even greater than that which she’d heaved the oil. Ran and jumped into his oil-drenched arms. Pressed