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night, especially after we study together, I can’t stop imagining it.”
    â€œImagining what?”
    â€œIs this confession?” Elisabetta asked, jerking her head up. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned—”
    His hands reached in front of her and stopped her from making the sign of the cross. “Not confession.”
    She took a breath. “I imagine you touching me,” she said. Would he give her a penance now? How many rosaries for forgiveness of such a sin?
    â€œWhere?” he whispered. His mouth was pressed against her ear and she felt the tickle of his mustache.
    She didn’t want to say it. She couldn’t. It was a sin. Elisabetta shook her head.
    â€œBetsy, you can tell me anything.”
    But she shook her head again. She couldn’t say it.
    Father Leone released her hands and walked around, kneeling at her feet. “I’m sad that you don’t trust me. That you don’t trust God.”
    Elisabetta leaned forward. She felt sweat trickle down her arms. She took the priest’s face in her hands and whispered in his ear: “Down there. I imagine you touching me down there. I imagine that we do all kinds of dirty things together.” She released his face and pushed away from him, running out of his office and down the long aisle of the church, past Carmine sweeping, out the door into the night.
    THE NEXT WEEK, Elisabetta said she had a stomachache and couldn’t go to study Latin with Father Leone. She pictured him in his office, waiting for her. How long would he sit there? she wondered guiltily. But then Giulia came home, flushed and dreamy, and announced she was getting married. She had met someone at the mill, a foreman, and they wanted to get married next month.
    â€œNo,” Josephine said. “Out of respect for your father you have to wait one year.”
    Giulia cried and carried on about love and desire, but their mother wouldn’t budge. “Next fall,” Josephine said, “we can discuss this.”
    â€œIsn’t this romantic?” Chiara whispered to Bella.
    Bella agreed. But Elisabetta thought it was terrible. “You want to be famous,” she reminded her sister.
    â€œNo,” Giulia said, “I want to marry Mario.”
    â€œEnough about Mario!” Josephine said. “No one’s getting married until the year is up.”
    â€œYou’re jealous,” Chiara whispered, “because you can’t marry Father Leone. Ever.”
    Josephine reached across the kitchen table and grabbed Chiara by the hair, hard. “What did you just say?”
    â€œNothing,” Chiara said.
    Josephine turned her attention to Elisabetta. “What has he told you? What has he done?”
    Elisabetta thought of the priest’s hands on her shoulders, the tickle of his mustache, the way he’d asked her what she’d imagined about them. She thought of what she had confessed. I imagine that we do all kinds of dirty things together. She felt her face grow hot.
    â€œElisabetta?” Josephine said. She stood in front of her beautiful daughter, her mouth dry with fear. He had told her that she was doing these things for God. She had felt holy as he bent and suckled her breasts. She had believed that his flesh was not like other men’s.
    â€œWhy didn’t you go to Latin tonight?” she demanded.
    â€œStomachache,” Elisabetta said, and her stomach was aching now.
    Chiara began to pray for forgiveness. She had gotten her sister in trouble by saying her secret. Would she ever get to the safety of the convent? She prayed for the next six weeks to pass swiftly. She prayed to be twelve.
    â€œMama,” Giulia was saying, “we can’t wait. We can’t.”
    Josephine pressed her temples with the palms of her hands. So many worries, these daughters gave her. Only Concetta was easy. She worked at the mill. Helped at home. Stayed out of trouble. Her mind flitted back to