I looked over at my sister who’d been unusually quiet all morning. Something was troubling her. After I told her about my dream last night, she seemed on the verge of confiding in me.

Instead of talking, she’d set her diary aside, turned over on her mattress, and went to sleep. I wondered if she’d gotten into a fight with her secret boyfriend. Maybe she was supposed to meet him in the monastery and he didn’t show.

“I know we’re going to be busy tonight,” Vittoria said suddenly, breaking into my thoughts, “but I need to leave a little early.”

Nonna scooted past my mother—who was making espresso to serve with the dessert—and hoisted a wicker basket full of tiny snails up onto the island, and nodded to my twin. “Here. Boil these for the babbaluci.” She swatted at my twin’s hand. “Not for too long. We don’t want them turning to rubber.”

I raised my brows, waiting for Nonna to forbid my twin from leaving. She said nothing. While Vittoria quickly boiled a few handfuls of snails at a time, Nonna minced garlic and set a pan of olive oil on the fire. Soon we were all in a rhythm, and I pushed whatever was bothering my sister aside in favor of mastering my fish stock. I’d make her tell me everything later.

Vittoria scooped snails out, Nonna added them to the oil and garlic, lightly fried them and finished them off with salt, pepper, and fresh parsley. She whispered a blessing over the plates, thanking the food for its nourishment and the snails for their sacrifice. It was a small thing, and not necessarily magical, but I swore it made the food taste better.

“Nicoletta?” Nonna called. My mother set her last tray of dessert aside and tossed a cloth over her shoulder. “Bring your brother this bowl of babbaluci, and tell him to go outside and give a bite to anyone who looks hungry. It will help with the line.”

And it would draw more people into our trattoria. Nonna might not use magic directly on customers, but she was skilled in the art of luring humans in by using their own senses. One whiff of the fried garlic would have plenty of hungry patrons gracing our tables.

Once my mother was gone, Nonna pointed her carved wooden spoon at us. “Did you see the sky this morning? It was as red as the devil’s blood. Tonight is not a night to be out. Stay in and work on your grimoires—sew dried yarrow inside your skirts. There’s plenty to do at home. Are you wearing your amulets?” I pulled mine from under my bodice. Vittoria sighed and did the same. “Good. You haven’t taken them off, have you?”