And so Angela’s job was made a bit easier. Bobò no longer dared to look out the window, no longer dared to go out. She hoped, she never stopped hoping, for a miracle, for love as it happens in novels and fairy tales.

The pharmacist was informed that Bobò did not wish to marry, that she wanted to become a house nun.

And time passed ever so slowly and changed the color of things, like a veil of dust that settles over a forgotten toy. Her hair turned opaque, and her breasts began to fall; her eyes lost their sweet splendor.

Concetto also turned gray and heavy, but he didn’t marry. He didn’t know how to love another woman the way he had loved Bobò.

Now Michelina was getting married. Her aunt had given her the corredo and the yellow coverlet with the red roses, still bright and fresh as her own heart. She’d also signed papers that ceded all her possessions from the Licata house to her niece. She’d given her everything, little by little, and now she was stepping aside for her in life.

“Out of gratitude,” people said.

Out of gratitude, of course…. Her brother had given her a family; Angela had been like an older sister, a little severe, but affectionate….

And Bobò had moved aside to let the bride pass ahead of her in life.

• • •

“What are you still doing in this living room? There’s no time to waste. Get going.”

“I’m coming,” Bobò replied meekly, stirring herself from her thoughts.

It was late. She worked furiously until evening. Then she dressed the bride, as though she were a living doll. Angela on one side, she on the other, the bride standing in between, looking a little pallid and dreamy.

“I don’t like this bow,” Bobò remarked.

“And why, if you don’t mind?”

“Auntie’s right,” said Michelina, “let her do what she wants.”

She needed to be beautiful, her little one. The groom was from Palermo, and he was used to seeing elegant women. Bobò threw herself into the task with passion. In dressing the bride, she revealed certain signs of good taste, a kind of coquettish grace that she herself had never demonstrated.

Then when it was time, she got ready. She parted her hair into two sections like she always did. It was still thick and long and still difficult to manage, but with so many white strands it looked as though it had been dusted. She took the new dress out of the closet. It was cinnamon with black trim, ordered because it suited Angela’s tastes, and it gave off the same acrid odor of newness that you always smelled in the baker’s shop. Because of this, to air the material, she opened the window. But she caught sight of the boys gathered outside the door waiting for the groom to arrive, and she shut it again.

“Hurry up!” called Angela. “We have to get the trays up here!”