‘Maredda!’ The old woman called the baby’s name, but the child did not reply. ‘Is she asleep now?’

After a moment, in a muffled voice, Giovanna again said, ‘I’m getting up to open the door.’ The old woman did not reply. In a sudden ray of light, the terrible truth had come to her. She shuddered. Giovanna had a lover. He could be none other than Costantino. A thousand details, a thousand memories to which she had not given a thought, flashed through her mind. Grief and rage shook her, but when Giovanna repeated, ‘I’m just coming,’ her mother-in-law controlled herself. ‘It doesn’t matter. Stay in bed,’ she replied, steadily.

Returning to her own room in the dark, she told herself with fierce calm, ‘You must act, Martina, but skilfully.’

Her first impulse was to run outside and see if Giovanna’s lover were leaving through the bedroom window which opened on to a lower roof. But she held back, thinking: ‘If Giovanna realizes I’m suspicious she’ll be on her guard. I must pretend, keep my eyes skinned. Find out. And then …’

What would happen then? The ‘then’ was so lethal, so final that the old woman did not want to think about it. She lay down on her bed, anguished thoughts jostling in her mind. What would Brontu have done if he’d known? Poor Brontu. He was a violent man yet he was good at heart and he loved Giovanna very much. But because he loved her so much, if she deceived him, he might take revenge in a terrible crime.

‘He mustn’t get to know about this. I hope to goodness Giovanna was sensible enough not to deceive her poor husband. What if I’m wrong? What if she really was talking to the baby? No, she had a man in her room, and it must have been Costantino. Wretched woman, vile beggar, is this how you repay those who saved you from starvation, clothed, and cared for you? You’ll pay for it. We’ll chase you off with a whip, naked as you came.’

Martina remembered hearing that Costantino was on good terms with Giovanna’s mother. He had started work some time previously, had set up a cobbler’s shop and was earning quite a good living. Could Bachisia know about her daughter’s affair with her first husband, and be covering it up?

‘The old witch hates us,’ she said to herself. ‘Perhaps Costantino gives her presents.’