The alcove was narrow, little more than a cupboard. Its walls and ceiling were painted white. At the back was an altar, covered by a white cloth. Above it was a large, oval painting of the Madonna holding the baby Jesus, one hand raised and a dull gold halo around her head; clearly not the Madonna del Mare. In front of that was a brass crucifix with silver candlesticks on either side. The rest of the altar was covered with framed photographs, candle jars and miscellaneous objects: a cigarette box, a cup with an ancient lipstick imprint at the rim, a folded handkerchief embroidered: Ernesto DeLuca. Silk flowers, their colours faded, sat dustily in a silver vase; beside it was a worn gold ring and a child’s bracelet.

I stepped inside the alcove. To the left, three framed photographs hung on the wall. Three babies lying in the same, small cot. Three babies, their skin and hair had coloured in the photographs, dressed in bonnets and gowns, little white, beribboned booties, their eyes closed, their lips pressed together. Their heads rested on the same satin pillow, trimmed with lace. The babies could have been sleeping, except for the fact that their heads and hands and bodies had been so carefully arranged. Each was surrounded by flowers.

I read the names inscribed on the frames: Elena, Giosepa, Custanti. Custanti, the boy, must have been premature; his face was tiny and wizened; the two girl children looked, to my eyes, to be full-term. The images were heartbreaking. I could hardly imagine the pain Anna’s mother must have felt as she prayed for the salvation of those three, unbaptised little souls.

I pictured the child Anna sneaking into the alcove and looking at these same faces sleeping amongst their buds and petals. I could see how she would feel a storm of conflicting emotions about these three angel children and how it would be hard for her, the only surviving child, to be strong enough to carry the weight of her parents’ grief and expectation. Oh, dear God, was I feeling pity for her?

‘Edie!’ Joe’s voice made me jump.

I pulled myself back to the present.

‘Here!’

I stepped out of the alcove as Joe came into the bedroom, frustration etched on his face.

‘I was looking for you… Did you find the Madonna del Mare?’ I asked.

‘No.’

‘Did you look under the altar cloth?’ I pointed into the alcove.

‘All that’s under there is a suitcase full of old baby clothes.’

This made me feel sad. ‘Sorry,’ I murmured. Joe didn’t hear. The apology hadn’t been meant for him anyway.

Later, downstairs, I showed Joe the puppet that Matilde Romano had given us.

‘It’s gross,’ he said. ‘The hair…’

‘I know.’

‘It’s like a voodoo doll.’

I laughed uneasily. The same thought had occurred to me.

‘It’s such a weird present,’ I said.