Chapter 12: The Register

The family heads were watching me, and every one of them expected me to scream.

Silvio expected it most of all.

He sat back in my father's chair with his fingers laced over his stomach and waited for me to say it was a lie.

I looked at the ring on my hand.

I looked at the pale line on Rocco's finger.

Six years ago, in a stone church, a priest in a white robe had put his hands on mine and said a long prayer in Italian.

My father had stood behind me.

Rocco had stood in front of me in a gray suit.

I had thought it was a blessing for an engagement. The family did them for every betrothal.

I had said yes to something, and I had never been told what.

I could hear Thurston breathing in the corner.

I could hear my own pulse.

Silvio had built this room so that either answer would cost me.

I thought of what was left to me, and it was a single short answer.

"Livia," Rocco said, very low. It was the only word he said.

I lifted my chin.

"My husband is correct," I said.

The silence changed.

Silvio's fingers came apart on his stomach.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, Uncle."

My voice came out steady, and I didn't know where from.

"I'm married. I've been married six years. My father arranged it, and my husband has kept the chair warm since the day he died."

"That's convenient."

"Is it?"

The old man with the cane cleared his throat, and everyone looked at him.

"I was at that church," he said. "I stood at the back. It was a Thursday in October, and it rained."

Silvio turned on him. "You never told me."

"You never asked, Silvio. The priest signed the register. Her father kept the copy in the safe."

He leaned on his cane, and he looked at me with an old man's tired, shrewd kindness.

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