She followed the path to the chicken yard. The cock’s call grew louder as she approached. She dipped her head beneath the hutch’s doorway and stood in the dimly lit interior amongst the dust and feed. The weather-beaten walls had crumbled on one side and been replaced with planks of wood shunted firmly against each end. The chickens bobbed and scooted about. Her nose wrinkled at the sloppy smell of wet earth and chicken droppings. She listened to them coo and liked the way their feathers puffed up when they shook. Luna pictured Elisabetta talking to them like children as she collected eggs. One hen rose, shivering out her feathers as she hopped to the ground and scuttled past. Two alabaster eggs were snuggled close together in her nest. They were perfectly rounded and almost equal in size. Luna should take them now and use them as her sister did, etching a pattern in the shell, for she was the one who needed to be silenced. Maria’s passion would have blossomed like the orange flowers had she been allowed to express herself, whilst Luna’s passion had brought on a season of death and emptiness. How ridiculous an exercise in feminine control it was to etch patterns in the shells of eggs. It would take a roomful of eggs to suppress all that Luna felt. A gust of wind made the gate swing wide and shriek loud as the rooster.

She hurried into the yard. The sky was darkening to the south; another storm was on the way yet to be out in the elements felt freeing and Luna didn’t rush back to the house. The storm kneaded and rolled the dark clouds to its doing. She pulled out the ivory comb that held the bulk of her thick hair in place so that her curls fell free. They whipped and tossed wildly as she turned towards the gate once more and walked into the weight of the wind.

The smell of wood smoke from inside the house met Luna as she drew close. The storm clouds spread across the sky and the darkness closed in so that all of a sudden it felt later than it was. Dollops of rain splashed on her forehead and nose and the cold water trickled down her neck and slid still farther against her skin beneath the cotton slip. She lifted her head and closed her eyes, welcoming its freezing touch. By the time she reached the house she was drenched and shivering, but no longer angry with herself. She wished Maria could have embraced all that was wild and wonderful in herself, wished it with a passion that filled her eyes to the brim with watery love for her precious sister. It was wrong that women were damned and silenced for expressing any of the glorious and complicated emotions they felt. Yet it was the way of society and she must live within it.