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Anna realized she didn’t trust anything in this house. Not even the walls. Definitely not the people.
Less amusingly, shadows had gathered over it, creating the effect of something dangling. Almost a figure. Hanging. But only if you squinted, which Anna decided to stop doing.
Just before she drifted off, in the in-between between consciousness and oblivion, she realized what had bothered her about her nieces whispering in the hall. They’d been speaking Italian.
It seemed to Anna that the concept of “vacation” was antithetical to the concept of “family.” Vacation required vacancy. The abandonment of all scraps of everyday life.
They were alike, Anna and her father, but often in the wrong ways. They were identical magnets, she thought, turned to repel.
Il malocchio, Anna realized. Jealousy. The evil eye. She should have been gifted a cornicello at birth.
Devils were everywhere in Florence. You just had to look.
La dama bianca. Ricca, potente. Vinaio. Infedele. Ossessiva. Colture avvelenate. Il figlio. Veleno, tutti avvelenati. Attacchi ai vivi. Allucinazione. Esorcismo. La chiave. La chiave del male. La chiave del torre. Mi dispiace. Perdonami, perdonami, perdonami …
Control was antithetical to life. To be alive is to be battered about. To endure and adapt and keep stumbling onward despite it all.
You were looking for the weak one in the flock, right? The one you could draw aside and push over the edge. Isolate from everyone and feed upon, but see, that was the first flaw in your logic: I’m not a lost lamb. I’m a black sheep. These are two very different things.”
“Sciolgo il tuo incantesimo. Il tuo nome è dimenticato. Il tuo lavora è dimenticato. Il tuo potere è andato.”
