Giulia was in no mood to celebrate. She had made her way to her father’s bedside with her mother and sisters and tried to ignore the festivities outside in the streets. Lying in the hospital bed, he showed no sign of suffering, which was some comfort to her. His once-robust form looked so fragile now; he might almost be a child. He seemed smaller than before, as if he had shrunk. Maybe that’s what happens when the soul slips away. She chased the morbid thought from her mind. Her father was there. He was still alive. They must cling to that. Head trauma, the doctors said. Which meant: we don’t know. No one could say whether he would live or die. It seemed his own mind wasn’t made up, either.

We must pray, Mamma had insisted. That morning, she had asked Giulia and her sisters to walk in the procession for Santa Rosalia. The flower-decked Virgin performed miracles, she said. She had proved her power in the past when she saved the city from the plague: we must call upon her to intercede. Giulia disliked these displays of religious fervour, with their dense, excitable, unpredictable crowds. Besides, she didn’t believe any of it. She had been baptized, of course, and made her communion – she remembered wearing the traditional white dress, and receiving the Holy Sacrament for the first time under the intense, pious gaze of her assembled family. The memory was one of the happiest of her life. But today, she felt no desire to pray. She wanted to stay at her papà’s side.

Her mother had insisted. If the doctors were powerless, God alone could save him. Her conviction was such that Giulia felt suddenly envious of her faith – the unshakeable faith that had never deserted her. Her mother was the most pious woman she knew. She went to church every week, to hear the Latin mass, of which she understood barely a word. There was no need to understand in order to worship God, as she liked to say. Finally, Giulia had given in.

Together, they had joined the procession and the crowds of Santa Rosalia’s admirers lining the route between the cathedral and the Quattro Canti. An ocean of humanity, packed tight to pay tribute to the Virgin of the Flowers whose gigantic statue was borne through the streets. July was hot in Palermo, the air was stifling. In the midst of the procession, Giulia found it hard to breathe. She heard a ringing in her ears; her vision clouded.