The time soon arrived to wash the fifteen items that made up her corredo. It was August, and so she went to the countryside, laying everything out to dry. Then she ironed each piece and spread everything out on the beds, on top of the dresser, and in the long baskets so that the whole house was filled with the scent of new cloth, and her acquaintances said admiringly that only the corredo of a rich farmer’s daughter could possibly be finer than that of Ciancianedda. Graziano had already bought the gold jewelry, a shawl, and two dresses—one charcoal gray and made of good-quality wool and the other, of shining yellow silk.

They were married on the Feast of the Virgin; and Ciancianedda, on her father’s arm, followed by Michele and the groom and all the guests, stepped into her new home.

While comare Orsolina busied herself seating each guest and passing the tray with roasted chickpeas and vintage wine, Graziano showed his wife the household furnishings and kitchen items. It was all there, from the solid brass bed right down to the oil lamp, everything you could possibly need. On the dresser, in front of a row of pink cups, was a basket of moscadella grapes from the first harvest. At the head of the bed, a chubby, curly-haired baby Jesus smiled.

Ciancianedda trembled and smiled, looking around. Her eyes were as lovely as the sea encircling the Lipari Islands when the sky is serene. With hands joined, she appeared to be praying. She was already alone with her love and her immense happiness.

Michele and the guests were chatting, munching happily on roasted chickpeas; only massaro Peppe, staring at his boots, kept quiet like someone thinking about difficult and painful things.

Comare Orsolina handed out fistfuls of chickpeas to the couple; then Graziano filled a glass and offered it to Ciancianedda. She took it, but her hand was shaking so badly that all the wine spilled onto her yellow dress.

Michele and the others froze. Massaro Peppe pursed his lips, looking at his daughter. Bewildered, Ciancianedda stared down at the spot, red as blood, that spread across the shimmering dress. She felt the wind of ill omen that passed through the room, shadowing every face.

Comare Orsolina was the first to come to her senses.

“Spilled wine is a sign of plenty!” she exclaimed. And she tried to help the bride, who had fallen to her knees in front of the bed, back to her feet. But the sobbing girl was inconsolable. She was alone, with her bad luck.

• • •