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While he studiously ignored the tinny sound of a pot hitting the stone floor, I internally cringed. I could only imagine what Nonna might toss next.
“Most of the brotherhood won’t return to the monastery until later,” he said, “but I can help, if you’d like.”
Nonna’s hysterics grew louder. He was polite enough to pretend he didn’t hear her dire warnings of demons killing young women in Sicily and stealing their souls. I gave him my most winning smile, hoping it didn’t look like a grimace. “I’d like that very much.”
His attention slid behind me as Nonna’s cries reached us, a tiny crease forming in his brow. Normally she was careful around customers, but if she started screaming about the dark arts and protection charms where he could overhear her, our bustling family restaurant would be ruined.
If there was one thing humans feared as much as the Malvagi, it was witches.
TWO
When we entered the monastery, I wasn’t thinking about the devil. Or the wicked, soul-snatching demons Nonna swore were roaming the earth again. And while Antonio was undeniably pleasant to look at, I wasn’t distracted by the slight curve of his mouth. Or the flop of brown hair that fell across his brow whenever he glanced at me then quickly looked away.
Of all things, I was thinking about olive oil.
For some reason the corridor smelled faintly of burnt thyme, which made me wonder what thyme-infused olive oil might taste like lightly brushed across crostini. I started daydreaming about my own restaurant again—about the menu I’d perfect. The crostini would make a fantastic antipasto. I’d top the toast off with some sliced mushrooms sautéed with a pad of butter, garlic, and a splash of white wine. Maybe I’d even sprinkle a bit of pecorino and parsley to round out the flavors…
We entered the room where kitchen supplies were kept, and I tucked those thoughts into my mental recipe folder and focused on the task at hand. I removed two cutting boards and a large bowl from the cupboard, and laid everything out on the tiny table.
“I’ll dice the tomatoes, you cube the mozzarella.”
“As you command, signorina.” We both reached inside the basket I’d brought and Antonio’s fingers brushed mine. I quickly yanked the tomatoes out and pretended a little thrill hadn’t shot through me at the unexpected contact.
Cooking alone with Antonio—in a darkened chamber in a near-forgotten section of the building—was not a bad way t
o pass the time. If he hadn’t turned his life over to the lord, this might have been the beginning of something between us.
Now, unbeknownst to him, we were enemies.
He belonged to the church and I was a witch. And not just a human strega using folk magic against the evil eye and praying to Catholic saints. My family was something other, something not entirely human. Our power was feared, not respected. Along with twelve other witch families living secretly in Palermo, we were true Daughters of the Moon. Descendants of an actual goddess. There were more families scattered across the island, but for everyone’s safety, we didn’t interact with each other.
Our magic was a peculiar thing. While it only passed down the matriarchal line, it didn’t manifest in all women. My witch-born mother didn’t possess any supernatural abilities. Unless her baking could be counted, which I fully believed it could. Only someone goddess-blessed could craft desserts the way my mother did.
At one time there’d been a council made up of the eldest member of each witch family. Nonna had been the leader in Palermo, but the coven disbanded soon after Vittoria and I were born. Stories were a little murky on the exact cause of the coven’s collapse, but from what I’d gathered, old Sofia Santorini had invoked the dark arts and something went very wrong, leaving her mind fragmented. Some said she used a human skull during a scrying session. Others claimed it was a black mirror. All agreed on the end result: her mind was now trapped between realms.
Humans grew suspicious of what they deemed sudden madness. Whispers of the devil followed. Soon our world became too dangerous for real witches to meet, even secretly after that. So the thirteen families of Palermo adopted a strict code of silence and stuck to themselves.
Man had a funny way of blaming the devil for things he didn’t like. It was strange that we were called evil when humans were the ones who enjoyed watching us burn.
“So aside from the demons invading our city, how are you?” Antonio didn’t even try to hide his grin. “Good thing you’ve got a member of the holy brotherhood watching out for your trembling soul.”
“You’re terrible.”
“True, but you don’t really think so.” His dark eyes glittered as I tossed a diced tomato at him, my face flaming. He dodged it with ease. “Or, at least I hope you don’t.”
“I’ll never tell.” I dropped my attention to the plump tomato I was dicing. Once, when we were younger, I’d used a truth spell on him to see if he’d returned my feelings. Much to my delight, he had and it felt like the world rejoiced with the discovery. When I told Nonna what I’d done, she made me scrub the kitchen from top to bottom by myself for a month.
It hadn’t exactly been the reaction I’d expected.
Nonna said truth spells—while not explicitly part of the dark arts—should never be used on humans because they were part of Il Proibito. The Forbidden were few, but held severe consequences.
Free will was one of the most basic laws of nature in this world, beyond notions of light or dark magic, and should never be trifled with, which was why truth spells were off-limits. She used old Sofia Santorini as a cautionary tale whenever we questioned her strict rules.
Not every witch in our community shared the same views as Nonna, though. When the coven disbanded, some families—like my friend Claudia’s—openly turned to the dark arts. They believed magic was magic and could—and should—be used however a witch wanted to use it. Blood, bones; practitioners of the dark arts said all were viable tools. Vittoria tried using that logic on Nonna when we were fifteen, and ended up being the toilet chambermaid for a solid week.
“Are you planning on sneaking away from the restaurant to celebrate tomorrow?” Antonio finished cubing the mozzarella and dutifully started chopping fresh basil.
“Maybe. It depends on how many customers we have and how late it gets. Honestly, I might just go home and try out some new recipes, or read.”
