It was the crows; they liked to fly up there to devour their latest prey or to crack acorns open by gripping them in their powerful beaks and smashing them against the tiles. That was what Mathias and Diego had said when she’d told them about those mysterious, frightening noises she heard in the early hours of the morning—a time when, even during the summer, both air and light were dead cold.

Over the last few months Mathias, Diego and Oliver had become the center of her universe. Lucia knew she could trust them. That was why recent events had upset her so much. Diego’s father was dead. They’d found him in the woods, two days after he’d gone missing.

Her father had shared the news while they were having dinner, and Lucia had found herself unable to move, her food sticking in her throat. She hadn’t had a chance to speak to her friend yet, but she’d written him a note that she planned to deliver through their usual secret method of communication: by squeezing it through the shutters on his bedroom window, in the gap behind the hawthorn vase. On a page torn out from one of her school notebooks, she had written just two words: blood oath.

Diego would understand. His family—the one he’d chosen—was by his side and ready to share the burden of his grief, just like Jesus had carried the cross. These were the stories Lucia learned from Father Leandro at Sunday school, tales of forgiveness and paradise that pleased her because they made everyday life and its sacrifices seem more bearable. Even hers.

She brought her lips to the skin on the inside of her wrist; the scar was fading, but the memory of their oath remained vivid.

She rubbed at her eyes, still in the throes of sleep. Her room seemed brighter that morning. She pulled the covers over her face until the tip of her frozen nose met the warmth of her breath. The school was closed for a day of mourning, so she knew she could doze in bed for as long as she wanted. All night she’d been tormented by horrific nightmares. She kept seeing Diego’s father, his eyes gone, ripped out—just as they had done with Saint Lucia, her holy namesake. She’d found out about that gruesome detail from her father, who had mentioned it at dinner while chewing on a mouthful of rare steak. Lucia had watched its reddish juices dribbling onto the plate and felt sick.