Page 18 of Broken Honor

The thought makes my heart beat faster.

What if they think I’m hiding something?

I press my forehead against the cool tile, water dripping down my cheeks like tears.

I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t want it. I just wanted to serve cream and light candles and read quietly in the café. Please, Lord. Take it away. Take the weight of it. I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t want Nonna to look at me like she didn’t know who I was.

I rub the soap along my arms, my neck, behind my ears, trying to scrub everything off—the fear, the memory, the wrongness.

The water keeps running.

I stay under it longer than I need to. Not because I’m dirty, but because I don’t know how to feel clean again.

Bea comes back quietly, her shoes making soft thuds against the floor tiles. Her hair is pulled back now, her cheeks slightly flushed from the cold. I’m still beneath the stream when she knocks gently on the doorframe.

“You okay, dolcezza?” she asks.

I nod a little, wrapping my arms around myself.

She grabs a towel from the shelf and comes closer, careful not to splash herself as she reaches past the curtain. “Come on, let’s get you warm.”

I step out, shivering a little from the contrast in temperature, and she wraps me snugly in the towel before patting gently at my shoulders, then helping dry my hair.

“You smell better already,” she says with a tiny smile. “Less… trauma, more clean pastry girl.” She dries the rest of my curls slowly, careful not to tug too hard at the knots. “You’ve got hair like spun cinnamon,” she murmurs. “All this fluff and shine… bet half the saints in heaven are jealous.”

I smile faintly, cheeks pink.

She leads me to my room and she helps me into my cotton nightdress, easing the sleeves over my shoulders, then pauses for a moment. “You alright if I go toss those clothes out now?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

She touches my cheek gently. “I’ll be back in two minutes.”

I hear her asking Nonna for a lighter.

When she returns after a few minutes, the scent of burning fabric still clings faintly to her coat. She waves her hand in front of her nose and jokes, “Well, that was the most dramatic laundry day I’ve ever had.” She takes my hands. “Nonna wants us.”

Nonna is already waiting at the kitchen table with three steaming cups on a silver tray. The tisana glows warm amber in the light, little flecks of fennel and lemon peel swirling gently at the top.

“Sit, sit,” she urges, pulling out chairs. “Drink this, girls. It calms the nerves and settles the heart.”

Bea takes one with a wink. “If it doesn’t settle mine…”

I force a smile and Nonna huffs softly but she’s smiling, just a little. “Drink. And then we pray.”

The warmth spreads through my chest as I sip. It tastes of home—of healing and gentleness and quiet comfort. The fennel is soft, the lemon balm brighter. A whisper of honey lingers at the end, like kindness left on the tongue.

Nonna finishes her tea first and sets her cup down with a soft clink.

“We should pray together,” she says quietly, her hands already clasping the edge of her rosary. “When the world trembles, prayer steadies it.”

We bow our heads, each of us adding soft murmured words into the space between us.

“May angels guard her sleep tonight,” Nonna whispers.

“May no harm come near this house,” Bea adds gently.

I close my eyes, cradling the warm cup against my chest.

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