āStones in your pockets, sacerdotessa,ā said Spada. āGo on, show her how.ā
The Minister looked steadily at her daughter, tears welling in her eyes despite every effort to hold them back.
āLike this, my sweet,ā she said. Her hands trembled as she picked up a stone and pocketed it as she was told; her voice, too.
The child searched her face for some explanation, not understanding. She grimaced and wept, shaking her head.Ā
āPlease, my dearest,ā choked the Minister, reaching for another stone. āDo as he says.āĀ
āI canāt swim, Mama.āĀ
The tears coursed down Ottolineās face then, bursting from her like twin rivers of fire on her cheeks. āI know,ā she breathed, and gathered Odile in her arms, rocking her forward and back. If she couldnāt save her from death, she would save her from torture. They held each other tight, their faces buried in one anotherās shoulders. The familiar scent of each other filled them with a vague recollection of home, marred with the cloying reek of blood and sweat.