She found the auditorium—that was what the girl behind the desk in the front called it—where the children's choir was practicing. Mifalda walked in quietly and sat in the back. The youngsters were singing the Panis Angelicus. The woman conducting them was maybe ten years younger than Mifalda. She was tall, with fair skin and reddish-blond hair—strawberry blond, people called that color. It was the coloring of the northern Italians; the Piedmontsi, or maybe the Veneziani. Back in Italy, the north was the wealthy, cultured part of the country, and people from that region looked down their noses at southerners like Mifalda, considering them uneducated peasants.

Miss Gaspari seemed to be checking over her shoulder for someone as the children sang. She had them repeat the piece twice, making suggestions, which as far as Mifalda could see didn't change anything very much, and then she looked at her watch. “It seems our soloist won't be with us today,” she said in a fake-cheerful voice. “So I'll sing the part with you.”

The choir started again and after a few seconds the teacher joined in. When she started, it sounded almost like a children's round, like they were singing “Row, row, row your boat.” Except, of course, this was God's music, and it was beautiful. Miss Gaspari had a nice voice—not spectacular like Lu's, but even with her taking the lead the song was a joy to listen to. Mifalda could imagine how lovely it would be with Lu's soaring soprano weaving in and out of the choir's singing. It was too bad that she wouldn't have the opportunity

The piece ended and Miss Gaspari looked over her shoulder one last time, then gave a big sigh and dismissed the children, who ran off like they'd just been let out of jail. As Miss Gaspari gathered up her music, Mifalda started down the aisle toward her.

“Miss Gaspari?” she asked. The schoolteacher looked up. Madonna, she was tall—Mifalda pulled herself up to her full five feet, one inch—and oh, the suit Miss Gaspari was wearing! It was navy blue, perfectly cut, the fabric soft as butter. Under the jacket was a silk blouse—pink and navy blue striped—with a bow at the collar. Her stockings were silk too. Mifalda was aware of her house-dress, freshly starched and ironed that morning, but still a house-dress, the apron she'd forgotten to take off, and her bandaged knee under her cotton stockings.

Miss Gaspari smiled benevolently at Mifalda. “May I help you?” she asked in the highfalutin voice Lu had mimicked. Hundreds of years of animosity between the north and south of Italy—animosity that should have stayed back in the old country—welled up inside Mifalda.

“I am Mrs. Carmine Leporello,” she said in her own highfalutin voice.

“You're Lu's mother!” the young woman said. “Is she all right? She didn't come to rehearsal and I was worried.”