While they were talking, Rosa had shaped the dough into a low, round loaf. Rather than put it in a baking dish or tin, she instead set about wrapping it in layer upon layer of fresh cabbage leaves. Once it was covered to her satisfaction, she carried it to the hearth, where she’d been tending a low fire since the morning, and pushed the embers one way and another until she’d cleared a small space on the brick-lined floor. Then she set down the wrapped dough and covered it with the embers she’d displaced.

“There. That’s one thing out of the way.”

They fetched the children in for supper not long after, but Carlo was too excited to eat anything, and twice he came close to spilling his soup because of his fidgeting, and finally Nico picked up his brother and carried him outside until the pinza cake was ready.

When Rosa brought it to the table at last, the cake didn’t seem terribly appetizing, for the cabbage leaves were charred and dry and smelled terribly sulfurous, but then she whisked away the last of the wrapping to reveal an appetizingly golden exterior.

Everyone was given a thin slice, with seconds for Carlo, and then Rosa set an even smaller piece aside for la Befana, along with a glass of vin brulè.

“Not too much,” she told Carlo, “since she gets something at every house she visits. She won’t have much of an appetite by the time she comes to us.”

Soon Rosa declared it bedtime for all the children, even Matteo and Paolo, and though Carlo once again protested and cast longing looks at his empty stocking, his sister was unmovable. They waited until the children had settled upstairs, Aldo and Nico each sipping at a second glass of vin brulè, and then the work of filling the stockings began.

Making the gifts over the preceding weeks had involved no small amount of deception. Nina had knitted socks for the older boys and men, working in tufts of roving to make them especially cozy, while Rosa had crocheted lace collars for the girls. For Carlo there was also a finely carved wooden airplane, hardly bigger than Nina’s outstretched hand, that she’d seen Aldo working on in spare moments for more than a month.

As showily as a magician, Nico produced bars of cellophane-wrapped nougat, one for each child, followed by three gifts wrapped in plain paper.

“You might as well open them now,” he said, smiling shyly. There was a comb for his father, a bar of fine soap for Rosa, and a little jar of jasmine-scented hand cream for Nina.

“I was in Bassano last month, and the pharmacy on the Piazza Libertà was like Aladdin’s cave. I didn’t have any eggs with me,” he added, “but they agreed to accept a few lire.”