a P

chime of crystal against crystal. It was a

ina's eighte

ned me. I forced myself to the small, cracked mirror, splashed cold water on m

aste it. My mother's smile faltered, collapsing into a mask of tight-lipped horror. My father's expression simply ha

n in seven years, glided toward me. She placed a delicate hand on D

o, a ghost they insisted on seeing. She turned her face up to Dante, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whis

. Just a vast,

he switched to the old Sicilian dialect, a languag

eet, but the words were poison. "So bitter. S

a familiar, weary disappointment. "She w

re's voice, was the final blow.

mastering dead languages. It was a way to keep my mind sharp, a way to break the co

in English, my voice flat.

lowed me, back in the dialect

s a release. A cold, absolute calm settled ove

e d