10

Mother

Interlude, Eight Years Earlier

S al fidgeted with the twine that tied the cheesecloth over the jar, then tucked the jar under his arm and took a deep breath. He told himself it was only a door handle, wrought iron plated with bronze.

Sal told himself it was just a door handle, but he knew better.

He reached, hesitated, and felt his hand begin to shake. All he had to do was grab and turn, grab and turn. Sal lifted his hand again, reached, and grabbed hold. He felt cold sweat forming on his brow and in his armpits.

The handle turned of its own accord.

Sal was nearly tugged off his feet. He lurched forward and ran headlong into Uncle Stefano.

He backed up a step and froze, his heart pounding like thunder as Stefano stepped into the hall.

“I—I—Uncle—”

“She’s not feeling well,” said Uncle Stefano. “No reason for you to bother her now with your stammering, boy.”

“But I— ”

“Run along. She needs her sleep.”

Sal kept his eyes averted from Uncle Stefano’s glare. Instead, he focused on his uncle’s silver ring: a crest with the five colors of the Commission families and the falcon of Stefano Lorenzo. Sal raised the jar from the crook of his arm. “But, Uncle—”

“Salvatori?” said Mother, from within the room.

Uncle Stefano’s nose wrinkled, and lines formed at the corners of his eyes.

“Stefano, send him in,” said Mother in a voice weak as watered wine. “I want to see my boy.”

Uncle Stefano motioned with his head as he stepped out, and Sal entered the dimly lit room. The curtains were drawn. Her room no longer smelled of meadowsweet as it once had, but rather of the smoke from an oil lamp that burned on the bedside table.

Mother lay in the bed, propped up by pillows. The down covers were pulled nearly to her chin. She looked drawn. Her eyes were sunken, red-rimmed as though she’d been crying.

Sal edged to where her thin hand motioned him. He held up the jar so that she could see it.

The smile she gave him was as false as the smile he gave her in return.

“A bit of honey from my honey boy,” Mother said.

Sal untied the twine and peeled back the cheesecloth covering. The golden honey smelled sweet, with a hint of clove and cinnamon.

“Light’s name,” Sal cursed. “I’ve forgotten the spoon. I’ll come right back.”

“Nonsense,” said Mother, dipping a finger into the jar. “Why else should we have hands if not to feed ourselves? Go on, give it a try.”

Sal did as instructed, scooping a gob of sticky honey with a finger. Mother smiled—actually smiled—then broke off a piece of the honeycomb and popped it into her mouth.

It was the first real smile she’d given him in a long time, and it made his stomach flutter as though he’d swallowed a thousand butterflies .

And quick as it had come, the smile vanished, along with the butterflies.

“Is there anything you need?” Sal asked.

“I have all I could ever hope to ask for,” Mother lied.

“Is there something I can do?”

“You can tell me how you’ve been, and how your sister has been. She’s not come to see me of late.”

“Nicola is the same as ever. She did threaten to pack her things and leave just the other night. She and Uncle had another spat over the name.”

“She won’t take the name?”

“ ‘Over my dead body’ were her exact words, I believe.”

“And you? How have you been?”

Sal shrugged. “I might do best to follow if Nicola does leave.”

Mother frowned. “Surely you don’t mean that. Your uncle only wants what is best for you.”

“Best for me, or best for him?” Sal asked. “Uncle has made it quite clear he’d rather I wasn’t around. I’m never allowed a word. Whenever he—”

“Your uncle has been good to us, good to you.”

“In a way,” Sal said grudgingly.

“You have no reason to be ungrateful,” Mother said, her tone bordering on scolding. “Now, come here. Give me a kiss before you go.”

Sal edged closer and pecked Mother on the cheek.

She grabbed him and pulled him in for a weak hug. “I love you, Salvatori, more than you will ever know,” Mother whispered. “Great things are in store for you, and nothing will change. Not now, not ever. You will be a great man someday.”

Mother let go, and Sal straightened up.

“Would you that I were more like Uncle Stefano?” Sal asked.

“Your uncle has made something of himself,” Mother said. “In his own right.”

“I could be like Uncle Stefano,” Sal said. “I could.”

“Salvatori, my sweet honey boy, you will be so much more than your uncle. There is so much more to you that you don’t know, but you will. You will be a great man someday.”

“I will, Mother,” Sal said, tears rolling down his cheeks. “I promise I will. You’ll see.”

Mother smiled. “I know you will, love. I know you will.”