It was better she kept busy, and she did so, avoiding every opportunity to be asked to dance. Besides, everyone wanted a dance with the bride so, in the end, the satin bag, la borse, that was hung from a ribbon around Cettina’s neck, was given to her for safe keeping. The weight of the enclosed coins in her hand mocked her.
She thought of the man she met yesterday, Jonathan Afua.
He was not the first African she had seen – Sicily was, in some respects, as much a part of Africa as it was Europe. Their island was the jewel in the crown of many an empire – dating back to the Ancient Greeks.
Reminders of its history were everywhere – the landscapes that shaped the Greek myths of Persephone and Hades, Roman ruins, Byzantine and Norman architecture, the Arabic and Ottoman artistic flourishes found in the glazed tiles that brightened just about every building in the city. Almost every house featured large flower-filled pots designed in the shape of faces, some white, some black – all colorfully turbaned and dressed.
Afua was handsome. There was something in the shape of his eyes, almost cat-like, that seemed to see more than they should.
The memory of yesterday’s meeting brought a ghost of a smile to her face. Nobody had ever rushed to her aid before. That must have been the reason why he appeared in her dream last night. It couldn’t have anything to do with his imposing physique and the air of authority that clothed him although he was dressed as a common sailor.
And he may be able to help. She pushed down the little voice that whispered hope.
“My back aches; I want to dance with someone closer to my height,” said Carmelo.
She laughed in spite of herself. “Take pity with an old maid then, I thought you were looking for a younger bride.”
His face dropped a moment before brightening. “Dance with me once, Morwena. At the rate we’re going, it will be the only wedding dance we’ll have.”
As Carmelo swept her around the room, she caught a glimpse of her father, slumping low into his chair, his head back, grey hair disheveled, mouth open mid-snore. He might be a handful getting home if he was too inebriated.
After the dance, Morwena and Carmelo strolled outside in the cool of the evening. A breeze had sprung up from the harbor.
She looked at her childhood friend and attempted a smile at the young man who had trailed along after her older brother in hero worshipping zeal and who had tried his hardest to be a big brother to both her and Nico after Pietro left. Friend, “brother”, confidant… the only thing Carmelo wasn’t was a lover. The very thought of that seemed ludicrous in her mind.
“I miss Pietro and Nico,” she said.
“I know. I do, too,” he said. “I wish Nico could have been here tonight. I see him at the docks occasionally, but it’s not the same since…”
The rest of the sentence was left unfinished. He slumped down on a low wall. Morwena sat beside him.
“Why do things have to be so hard?” he asked, almost to himself.
“What is it? I know I haven’t been much of a friend – Father, the shop, they take up all of my time, but if you’re upset, well, I’m still your friend.”
“You are, aren’t you, Wena?”
Carmelo swooped in and dropped a kiss on her lips. A sweet, chaste kiss, as though at the last second he remembered he was promised to another. This kiss, brief though it was, tasted of regret.
“Wena, I wanted to apologize for what happened between us. My father announced the arrangement between my family and Veru’s before I had a chance to speak to you. I know we thought we’d… I thought… will you forgive me?”
Morwena swallowed. She should be feeling something, surely. She had been jilted, the promise of marriage that should have been hers was now withdrawn. How odd that her own emotion was a vague sense of relief.
“Is it because of my brothers? Is that why your family…”
Carmelo shrugged. “Perhaps, some… and your father, he’s not been the same since your mother died and Pietro left.”
“I know that. I know that better than anyone.” She found her voice strangled with emotion. “He has his good days and bad.”
She found herself enfolded into Carmelo’s arms.
“My poor Morwena,” he murmured. “You will always be my first love you know.”
It was the very worst and the very best thing he could have said. She didn’t want to be “poor” Morwena – not by any definition – she would have no one pity her, least of all her childhood friend.
She nodded, to herself mainly. The way forward now was clear. Her future was to be one of her own making – for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer…
No! She would not go there, not tonight – tomorrow will have troubles of its own.
Her spirit now settled, she took a deep breath and pulled away.
“Veru will be good for you. I approve.”
Carmelo’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I mean it,” she continued. “You and I have known for a long time there is no romantic love between us. You will always be my in-between brother.”
“You do not hate me?” he asked, clearly unable to believe the audience he had obviously dreaded so much should conclude without drama.
She shook her head, afraid that if she did more, she would fall to tears. She couldn’t allow that – not on Cettina’s wedding day.
And she found herself in Carmelo’s arms again and, this time, it felt like relief.
She allowed him to take her hand and walk her back into the hall. Somehow, she managed to force her troubles aside for the rest of the evening – what was the saying? Don’t borrow trouble?
Toward the end of the night, the band performed a flourish, attracting everyone’s attention.
“Our bride and groom are about to bid us a bono notti…” said the band leader. Cheers and ribald comments were called out to the couple who blushed beet red. “… but before they go, we have one last duty to send them off into their married lives – The Tarantella!”
Cheers went up from the inebriated crowd and they all rushed around the couple. Morwena returned the bride’s purse to Cettina with a kiss on each cheek. The poor girl looked rather overwhelmed. Her hair was beginning to come loose from its pins and there was the beginning of dark circles under her eyes.
Marcu, too, looked exhausted. For all the expectations being heaped upon the bride and groom tonight, Morwena was pretty sure all that would happen in the marital bed tonight was sleep.
Morwena felt her hand grabbed, and she was dragged into the circle. Carmelo held her hand on one side with Veru on his other. She flashed the girl a smile and, after a moment’s surprise, received one in return.
The music started slowly and some sweaty second cousin on the groom’s side gripped her left hand in his meaty fist. The dancers stepped clockwise, a change of beat and the revelers went counterclockwise. Then the music picked up tempo as they danced around and around. They changed directions once more and the music was faster and faster still until the first of the dancers tumbled, either dizzily or drunk, bringing down dancers on either side. Everyone laughed. Those who could remain on their feet stumbled toward the couple to give their best wishes before herding the bride and groom to the door of the taverna.
Morwena spotted her father stumbling in her direction, bleary-eyed, worse the wear from drink. He patted her on the cheek.
“You’re a good girl, such a good girl to your old papa, eh? Such a good girl…”
“Papa, I think it’s time to go home,” she said, despite her stomach churning.
“No! No! It’s time for young people to dance! Carmelo! Carmelo! Make sure my daughter gets home safely, eh? Ah, Carmelo, you’re like a son to me, you know that?”
Carmelo caught her eye and winked.
“Si, Papa Gambino,” he said gravely. “Soru Gambino is safe with me.”
The old man grunted his approval and made his way weaving toward the door.
Veru approached and slipped her arm around Carmelo, n
ot so subtly restaking her claim. Until now, Morwena hadn’t given a thought about how awkward the poor girl must feel, knowing her intended had planned a serious and possibly dangerous conversation with another woman, a former sweetheart no less.
Veru had been another of Cettina’s demigelles and, even though it was now midnight, she seemed as freshly presented as if it were morning. Her brown hair remained pinned in place, and she didn’t look like she had sweated once. Her olive skin simply glowed.
Morwena, on the other hand, knew her hair was a mess. Her gown felt damp with perspiration.
“A group of us are heading toward the gardens,” Veru said, nodding toward where a couple of young men were surreptitiously taking wine bottles and slipping out the door. “You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
Whatever inner turmoil the pretty girl had experienced tonight with respect to Morwena and her betrothed’s history, she had offered the hand of friendship.
The instinct to refuse was powerful, the excuses Morwena had used to beg off activities with her friends over the past year had always been the same – too many responsibilities, no time for leisure. One part of her mind urged her to go home, to be a responsible young woman. Another part rebelled. What are you going to do? Lie in your bed all night sick with worry about when Papa discovers your lies and deceptions? You will not be able to sleep anyway...
“I will go, too!”
Carmelo grinned and threw his arms around both of them. They headed to the door.
The streets were quiet, even though it was not too late. Loud singing was quickly shushed as they headed in the direction of Porte Felice and the promenade that led to the public gardens.
At the intersection that would take them by the docks, Morwena glanced down the street where Nico had his room.
“Is that where he lives now?” Carmelo asked.
“I haven’t seen him for a week.”
“You see him?”
She nodded. “Don’t tell Papa. He still won’t let his name be heard in the house.”
“Let’s go pay him a visit. He can join us and it will be just like old times!”
No! She was still furious with Nico and knew if she saw him, she would beat him for being such an idiot. What did he think he was doing paying only one month’s rent on the warehouse?
But by the time she had argued with herself, she had been dragged around the corner into the little piazza.
“Where does he live?”
Silently and reluctantly, Morwena led the way until they arrived at the door. The one small window revealed the room was in darkness.
“Hey, Nico!” Carmelo pounded at the door. There was no answer. Morwena peered through the window where just enough light caught the angrily scribbled note she left on his table. It was there, exactly as she left it first thing yesterday morning.
Where on earth was the wastrel?
“I suppose he’s not in,” Carmelo said needlessly. “Oh well, his loss.”
He grabbed her and Veru’s hands once more and headed toward the sea front. Morwena looked back, the cauldron of simmering resentment cooled. Had something happened to her brother?
They avoided the taverns populated by harassing drunkards and skirted by the ships at dock. Most of them were silent, but here and there they heard sounds of music and from one, a lively tune played on guitar and violin.
The Terpsichore.
Morwena caught a glimpse of the name in passing. Jonathan Afua’s ship. Perhaps, she should shock all her friends and invite him to join them in the gardens. Perhaps, tipsy from too much wine and a little drunk on the momentary freedom from responsibilities, she readied herself to call out, when a movement in the shadows before them caught her eye.
Veru let go of Carmelo’s hand and tugged hers instead. “Let’s go, I don’t want to stay here any longer. I don’t think it’s safe.”
Morwena shared her disquiet and urged Carmelo on but, as they passed, she glanced toward the warehouses where she had seen the figure. Now, illuminated by moonlight, she saw him, lounging against the wall, bringing a pipe up to his mouth. Although she could not see him clearly, she felt an instinctive recognition.
Nico? The man looked up at them as if she’d said the name aloud. And for once, his face was clear in the moonlight. That was not Nico. It was Pietro!
He seemed to hold her eyes a moment, offering a grin and nothing else, then he slipped down the darkened alley between two warehouses and disappeared.
“Morwena? You don’t look at all well? Do you want to sit down?”
She shook her head.
“We all need another drink, that’s for certain,” Carmelo announced, quickening his pace. “Come on, otherwise Giovi and Manfredi will have finished it all and left nothing for us.”
Morwena breathed in deep the smell of the sea, the tang of damp timber from the ships, and the docks. It cleared her head just a little. They passed beneath the ceremonial gate of Porte Felice and caught up with a clump of other wedding revelers. But she couldn’t help one more look back.
If Pietro is here, does Nico know? Was that why he was short of money to pay for the lease on the warehouse. Had he given it to Pietro? Where was Nico now?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Morwena woke out of her dreamless sleep conscious of a weight on her bed. She drew breath to scream when a hand clamped her mouth and nose, and another pinned her shoulder down.
“Shhh, Morwena, it’s me. It’s Pietro,” the harsh male voice whispered in her ear. It took her a moment to process the words and stop struggling. She stilled herself, hoping he would remove his hand and let her get some air.
“You won’t scream?”
She shook her head vigorously. The hand was removed and still Pietro had her pinned to the bed. His face was half in shadow, highlighting the sharpness of his features, the dark stubble on his chin.
She gasped in a lungful of air and breathed out questions. “What are you doing here? What if Father finds you? He will kill you, he has said so!”
“I don’t intend for him to find me.”
She started to struggle. “If you don’t get off me right now, I will kill you.”
Her threat only had the effect of making him angry. Pietro’s hands found her bare upper arms and they squeezed tight. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes until they watered.
Pietro whispered in her ear, “You won’t give me up, will you, Morwena?”
“No,” she answered reluctantly.
The pressure on her arms eased.
“I need money, Wena, and I need it now.”
Laughter born of fear bubbled from her lips. Perhaps she was hysterical.
“I have no money,” she said.
A sharp slap across her face silenced the giggles.
“Liar! You’ve been trading behind the old man’s back. I’ve been watching you for weeks, Wen, you cannot lie to me.”
Her heart pounded in her chest painfully a few beats before she could push words out of her throat.
“You’ve been following me? Why? Why didn’t you send a message? If you’ve been following me so closely, why didn’t you come to visit when Father was not at home?”
“I can’t! I’m in trouble. Serious trouble. I need money, a lot of it.”
Cold realization worked down her spine.
“You’ve seen Nico, haven’t you? He’s already given you money, hasn’t he?”
Pietro bowed his head a little. “It wasn’t enough, I need more.”
She found the strength to shove her elder brother hard enough to dislodge him. He got the hint and stood up from the bed. Under the blankets, Morwena straightened her nightgown and got up herself. She punched him hard in the shoulder.
“You bastard! The money Nico gave you was for my business and now I am ruined. I have had to take money from the shop to cover a debt that isn’t mine. And now you come here to demand more?”
Before she could punch him again, Morwena found herself in a bear hug, her arms pinned
to her sides, her brother’s harsh breath in her ear.
“They will kill me, Morwena. Do you understand me? These men are serious and they are dangerous. If they can’t get money out of me, they will come after you, and do you know what they would do to a pretty young woman? Hmmm?”
She heard the hammering of his heart against her ear in this parody of a fraternal embrace.
“I have already stolen from Papa. What do you think will happen to me when he finds out?” she answered harshly against his shirt. “What do you think he’ll do if he learns that you’re responsible for it?”
Pietro squeezed her tightly, her own arms pressing hard against her ribs. “Pray he never finds out.”
She attempted a kick to his shins, but Pietro anticipated that also, putting his leg between hers and leaning forward until her own limbs could not support her. He forced her back down onto the bed, laying his whole body on her, crushing her.
“I’m desperate, Wen, you do not want to know how much. I’d even risk a beating myself to tell Father of your little enterprise with his money and his reputation. Give it to me.”
“Are you so desperate that you would betray your sister?”
Pietro leaned in until his face was scant inches away from hers. She turned her face away. He surged forward and gripped her jaw in his hand and forced her to face him. His elbow dug into the ribs between her breasts.
“I’m so desperate I would even sell my sister.”
Their faces were so close she could see his pupils wide open with fear and, perhaps, something else. His breath smelled of tobacco, cheap wine, and desperation.
“I saw you down at the warehouse a few days ago,” he continued, loosening his grip on her chin but still holding it. “Get that buyer for your goods. Thirty gold ducats, that’s all I need.”
“I will give you nothing!” she hissed.
“Well if you will not do it for me, then do it for Nico.”
She stared at her brother for a moment, but his gaze was unwavering. The emerging dawn had brought grey light through the small window and, in it, she hoped it might reveal the brother she once knew; the one she and Nico and Carmelo and all the neighborhood children hero worshipped. He was not to be seen.
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