Greta nodded. “It’s spooky. It’s so strange they’re going to burn it.”
Katherine shrugged. “Not so strange. That is how she died, anyway.”
We fell quiet. I had forgotten the way in which St. Teresa was martyred. I tried to remember the details from our welcome file, but only settled on the image of her red hair mingling with the flames.
“But—but why would you celebrate it? Someone dying in such a horrible way?” Greta asked, her cheeks going pink. I saw Sally slip her hand into Greta’s and give it a reassuring squeeze.
Katherine sighed. “It’s not a party or anything. More like a—commen—commem—” She focused hard on the word, and I was embarrassed for her to be so obviously tipsy in public.
“Commemoration,” I supplied.
“Yes,” Katherine said. “Since she was already supposed to be dead”—she tapped her chest—“you know, inside. A shell. Filled with God.” She blinked at us. “You could ask Ruth. She knows even more about it—” She turned to and fro, searching for Ruth in the crowd.
“No, thanks,” I said. “We’re fine.”
After Katherine left us, Greta was pale. “I don’t think I could do it,” she said quietly.
“Do what, honey?” Sally brushed the hair from Greta’s face.
“Stay silent, even while I was being burned.” She looked at us seriously. “Even if I was filled with God.”
“Course not, honey,” Sally said soothingly. “That’s why God would never test you like that. He would trial you in a way you could really bear. Like asking you to give up peanut butter.” And she tickled her.
Greta broke into a smile, reluctantly at first, and then she began laughing and batted Sally’s hand away before leaning over and embracing her.
I took a step away from them and averted my eyes, feeling suddenly like I was intruding.
“What would be your trial, Bridge?” Greta reached out over Sally’s shoulder for me.
They shuffled to stand with their arms over each other’s shoulders, watching me with identical expressions of cheerful expectation.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Giving up your beautiful curls?” Greta lifted her hand to my hair.
“I’d get rid of these in a flash,” I said, but they had begun to talk between themselves about the tragedy of a life without dogs, or chocolate, or Christmas.
I watched as Marco and his brother argued about how to build the fire over the figure of the sister. Was it true that all the sisters were being tried by God? It was odd to imagine them as nothing but husks filled with God. Sister Teresa didn’t seem especially like an empty shell to me. A bit boring maybe, but not empty.
After the firewood had been arranged around the figure, Marco bashed again on the cider barrel until everyone fell quiet. He gestured for me.
“Me? Oh no.” I shook my head, clutching the tankard, now slippery with condensation.
“Go on.” Sally nudged me forward, seizing the cup from my hand.
Marco handed me a matchbox and pointed toward the bonfire. I tried not to look at the white figure of the sister scarecrow. With clumsy fingers, I struck a match against the box and held it to the crumpled copies of Il Giorno. It curled the edges of the paper and then blew out straightaway. I lit another and another, until the paper caught and began to smolder, the young wood popping and bursting. Marco gestured at me and everyone clapped. I gave a theatrical bow, not even caring what Isabella might think. Greta and Sally and I toasted small apples in the flames and rolled them in trays of brown sugar and cinnamon. The kids danced around, poking at the scarecrow until it disintegrated; someone brought out a guitar and Donna Maria and Signora Bassi danced in a circle, arm in arm. We stood out in the square until the sun hung low and orange over the chestnut trees. I didn’t even look for Isabella. I was giddy on sugar and cider and damp wood and smoke and the first glittering stars.
That night at dinner the candles were blurring and I wondered if I had taken too much cider. But it made everything soft-centered and hilarious. Unsteadily, I ate my whole bowl of buckwheat noodles and concentrated hard on my lamb cutlet. My hand kept slipping and my knife scratched against the plate. There was a tinny sound in my ears and Greta and Sally’s conversation seemed distant and muffled. I glanced up to see Isabella watching me over the other side of the table. Coolly, I blinked at her, twice, and looked away. The side of my face tickled with the awareness that she was still staring at me. I kept my head carefully poised on Sally, miming absorption. Inflated with a strange sense of victory, I marched out of the refectory and straight up to my bedroom after supper, not even bothering to look backward for Isabella. I took off all my clothes except my bra and panties and slipped under the coverlet. I was as warm and floaty as if the bed were drifting on the lake.
And then, sometime in the night, I woke to find Isabella standing by the bedside.
“Move over,” she whispered.
I was too surprised to object, and shuffled back against the wall so I was lying in the chilled part of the sheets.
“I’m freezing,” she whispered.
I felt her forehead, which was hot and clammy.
“You’re sticky,” I said, pretending to wipe my palms on the sheet.
“Am not,” she said, flicking me the finger. “I swear. I couldn’t sleep because my teeth are chattering.” Her breath was syrupy on my face.
I hesitated. She was the one who’d been ignoring me. Was I making it too easy for her?
“Briddie, come on, warm me up.”
I took her damp hand in mine.
“Where did you go? After the bonfire?” Her eyelashes brushed against the pillow.
“I dressed in Greta’s room. She wanted to borrow my blouse.”
“Surprised she fit into it,” she said with a snort.
I said nothing.
After a moment, she said, “I couldn’t find you.” Her expression was peculiar, somehow both wounded and predatory.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
“I looked everywhere.”
“You did?” My heartbeat wobbled against my eardrums.
She nodded, slipping her hands under my arms. She grazed the tip of my breast as she moved, and a ribbon spun through my body and I stiffened, daring myself not to breathe and give away the rippling feeling. Isabella was watching me closely. I was holding myself so tight my stomach was shaking. She wriggled closer to me, and the glint of light from the window shone in her eyes.
She wriggled in closer still.