“Claudia stopped by,” Nonna said, breaking into my endless worries. “Again.”

I sighed. I imagined my friend was desperate if she braved speaking with Nonna. Because Claudia’s family practiced the dark arts, and because we were not supposed to associate with other witches for safety reasons, our lifelong friendship was a source of tension for each of our families. It was a rotten thing to do, but I’d been avoiding her, not ready to share our tears and grief just yet. “I’ll visit her soon.”

“Mmh.”

I watched the cauldron Nonna hung over the fire in our kitchen, breathing in the herbal mixture. I used to love when she infused her own oils. Now I could hardly sit through the process without thinking of my sister, and the times she’d beg Nonna to make special soap or cream.

Vittoria loved crafting perfume as much as I adored blending ingredients into sauces. She used to sit where I was, head bent over secret potions, tinkering until she got the scent right. A bit of floral notes, a touch of citrus, and she always included an undertone of something spicy to balance it out. She’d whoop with delight and make us all wear her latest creation until we were sick of it. One fall, she made everything out of blood orange, cinnamon, and pomegranate and I swore I’d never so much as look at any of them again. The memories were too much . . .

I pushed away from the island and kissed my grandmother. “Good night.”

Nonna inhaled deeply, like she wanted to impart some wisdom or comfort, but gave me a sad smile instead. “Buona notte, bambina. Sleep well.”

I climbed the stairs, dreading the silent empty room that was once filled with so much joy and laughter. For a second, I considered torturing myself with watching Nonna make spell candles again, but grief weighted my eyelids and tugged at my heart.

I slipped out of my muslin dress and into a thin nightgown, trying not to remember that Vittoria had the same one. Except where my ribbons were ice blue, hers were pale pink. The air was thick with summer heat, promising another restless night of tossing and turning.

I padded barefoot across the floor and pushed the window up.

I stared out across the rooftops, wondering if Vittoria’s murderer was out there now, stalking another girl. Nearby, I swore a wolf howled. A singular, mournful note hung in the air, sending a shudder down my spine.

In my haste to get into bed, I knocked over a glass of water. Liquid ran over a spot I’d forgotten about. It was a place in the floorboards where Vittoria hid things. Little trinkets like dried flowers, notes from the latest boy who loved her, her diary, and perfume she’d made.