Smita smiled secretly at her victory. She so wished her mother had felt able to fight for her, she so longed to have walked through the school gates and taken her place with the other children. To have learned to read and write. But it wasn’t possible. Smita’s father wasn’t like Nagarajan; he had been irascible, and violent. He beat his wife, like so many men here. He repeated it often enough: a woman is not her husband’s equal. She is his property, his slave. She must do his bidding. Her father would sooner have saved his cow than his wife.

But Smita has been fortunate: Nagarajan has never beaten her, never insulted her. When Lalita was born, he even agreed to keep her. Not far away, girls are killed at birth. In villages in Rajasthan, newborn girls are buried alive in a box under the sand. The babies take a whole night to die.

But not here. Smita gazes at Lalita, squatting on the beaten earth floor of their hut, combing her only doll’s hair. Truly, her daughter is beautiful. She has delicate features, and hair down to her waist. Smita brushes it out and braids it every morning.

My daughter will learn how to read and write, she tells herself, and she rejoices at the thought.

Yes, today is a day she will remember all her life.

Giulia

Palermo, Sicily

‘Giulia!’

Giulia struggled to open her eyes. Her mother’s voice called up the stairs.

‘Giulia! Scendi! Subito!’

Giulia was tempted to bury her head under the pillow. She’d had too little sleep – another night spent reading. But she knew she must get up. When Mamma calls, you obey – especially if she is Sicilian.

‘Giulia!’

Reluctantly, she got out of bed, dressed quickly and went down to the kitchen, where her mother waited impatiently. Her sister Adela was already down and painting her toenails, with one foot up on the table. Giulia winced at the smell of the varnish. Her mother poured her a cup of coffee.

‘Your father’s gone out already. You’ll be opening up this morning.’

Giulia took the keys to the workshop and hurried out of the house.

‘You’ve had nothing to eat! Take something with you!’

Ignoring her mother’s words, Giulia jumped onto her bike and pedalled away, hard. She felt more awake now, in the cool morning air. The sea breeze blew along the streets, stinging her face and eyes. Approaching the market, she smelt the tang of citrus fruit and olives. Giulia pedalled past the fishmonger’s stall with its display of freshly caught sardines and eels. She rode faster, mounted the pavements, left Piazza Ballaro behind, where the street vendors were already calling out to their clientele.