They’d gone to bed not long after the children the night before, and as he’d done on their two previous nights together, or rather the single night they’d slept in an actual bedroom, Niccolò had turned his back and waited for her to slip into bed and pull the covers up to her chin before he so much as unlaced his boots. But he’d gone on to undress more—she couldn’t be sure how much, nor if he’d put on pajamas, and as her back was turned and her eyes were shut tight she couldn’t even have guessed. Certainly she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking him what he was wearing as he stretched out next to her and, moving carefully so as not to tip her out of the narrow bed, arranged his big body at the very edge of the mattress.

He had risen and dressed silently, and if he’d been wearing pajamas he had put them away. Perhaps she would find out what he had worn when it was time to do the laundry. And it was silly, besides, to obsess over such a—

“I know that for you it’s the Sabbath, but to my family it’s just an ordinary Saturday, and that’s the day for housecleaning. I’m sorry about that.”

“I don’t mind. My father never made a fuss about keeping the Sabbath. He couldn’t, not with his patients needing him all the time. Babies especially—he swore they only ever came in the middle of the night.”

“I think that’s true of animal babies as well. I’ll see you at breakfast. But don’t hurry down, not yet. You’ve earned a rest.”

She listened to his careful footsteps in the hall and on the stairs, and for a while she let herself indulge in the lovely feeling of being not quite asleep, but not fully awake either, until her stomach was growling and the children were up and she worried that she’d annoy Rosa if she were to lounge abed even a minute longer. Dressing in the same garments she’d worn for the past few days, she brushed her hair, twisted back the sides and fixed them with a pair of hair grips, and joined everyone except Niccolò and Aldo at the table. Likely they were still busy with the animals.

“Good morning, Nina,” Carlo said. “I’m glad you sat next to me.”

“I’m glad, too. What are you eating? It smells delicious.”

He sighed dramatically. “Polenta and milk. I hate it.”

“You’re lucky to have it,” Rosa said, her eyes fixed on whatever she was stirring on the range. “So stop whining, or I’ll tell Father Bernardi and he’ll set you an entire novena.”