Clotilde didn’t have time to wonder about this any longer. The shepherd’s cabin was suddenly plunged into shadow, as if a black curtain had been pulled over the door. Clotilde turned round; she wasn’t mistaken, the room had been darkened not by a curtain but by a black dress. Speranza’s dress, the witch whose shadow turned the room into a cave so that the rats, spiders and beetles could leave each crack between the stones and greet her arrival.

Speranza spoke to Lisabetta, paying no attention to Clotilde.

‘They’ve taken Orsu. There’s no one left.’

Who are ‘they’? a voice shouted inside Clotilde’s head.

‘She’s killed Pacha,’ Speranza went on.

Who’s ‘she’?

The words collided in her skull. Perhaps witches communicate by telepathy, perhaps if she thought very hard about her question the witches would reply.

‘The door was open when I got here,’ Lisabetta said.

‘Who?’ Clotilde asked softly. ‘Who are you talking about?’

No reply.

Perhaps the witches were deaf. Perhaps ghosts didn’t have hearing aids.

‘Where is my mother?’ Clotilde yelled this time. ‘Orsu told me she’s still alive! Campa sempre. Where is my mother?’

Lisabetta slowly got to her feet. Clotilde thought she was going to give her an answer, but it was Speranza’s voice that echoed around the shepherd’s cabin.

‘Not here, Lisa. Not here. If you want to talk to her, talk to her down below.’

Lisabetta hesitated, but the witch persisted.

‘Cassanu is coming home. The ambulance is going to drop him off at Arcanu before midday. Nothing is ready, Lisa. Nothing.’

~

Nothing is ready.

Clotilde hadn’t understood at first.

All three of them had gone back down to the farm in silence, without exchanging as much as a word. The old women walked quickly, almost faster than Clotilde. They seemed to know every branch to grip with their wrinkled hands, every rock to step on. Their legs were accustomed to the journey, and their thin bodies had never been so light to bear.

Nothing is ready.

It was almost as if they were in a panic. They kept consulting their watches and as soon as they arrived, the two women seemed to forget about Clotilde. The lawyer merely followed them, feeling useless, like a guest who had arrived too early, and was now being ignored while preparations were under way. The two women went straight into the kitchen.

Lisabetta opened the fridge.

‘Figatellu with lentils.’

They were the first words that she had said in almost thirty minutes. Speranza didn’t reply, she just stooped down to the vegetable baskets and took out tomatoes and onions. Clotilde’s grandmother had already put on an apron, taken out a chopping board and placed the panzetta and figatelli on it.

At last, as if reassured, she turned towards her granddaughter.