The Night Falling by Katherine Webb

fava beans, or grinding coffee – whatever was needed. In times when farm work was slack, in November, and January through February, Ettore would steal moments to watch her, and the way she smiled that gave a glimpse of her lower teeth, and the upper ones that were in a strange formation – the canines and premolars longer than the incisors – that gave her a slight lisp when she spoke. It wasn’t that she was the most beautiful, or had the best figure or a provocative way of walking. Ettore couldn’t say why, exactly, but to him she looked like how heaven might be, and he didn’t dare approach her in case he was wrong, and got woken from his dream. Her heart-shaped face had an intelligent expression, her eyes were bright and she had a way of cocking her head to listen that reminded him of a bird; some small, rounded, self-contained bird – a woodcock, or a golden plover.
    Pino made him go and talk to her, finally, and the last thing Ettore wanted was to have his friend at his side when he introduced himself – tall, beautiful, devastating Pino. But he never would have done it without Pino’s elbow in his ribs, and as it turned out Livia only looked at Ettore. Only at him, right from the very beginning. She didn’t blush, or simper, or sneer. She put one hand up to her lips and stared, and said his eyes were the colour of the sea, and reminded her of home; so straight away she baffled him, because Ettore had never seen the sea. Nor a mirror. He found out quickly that she only ever said what she actually thought, and had no guile, no patience for games or dissembling. In the time he’d spent watching her he’d never seen her talking to a man, so he’d assumed she would be shy of him, and afraid of what he wanted. But in the end it was she who kissed him first, with all the simplicity and directness he soon came to expect. And she never did spoil the idea that she was like heaven. She had the power of life and death over him from that first exchange.

    When perhaps two hours have passed, Paola returns. There’s a slight grunt from her, and a thump as something heavy hits the ground. She pushes it under the bed and Ettore smells blood, and not from his own leg. She lies back down beside him in silence, and he listens as her breathing steadily slows. The smell of smoke clings to her, bitter and strong. She has joined a poaching raid on a masseria , he knows then. They have stolen, they have killed livestock, they have torched, and she has her loot under the bed – meat, some of which they will eat, most of which they will sell to buy other foodstuffs. He feels nothing about this other than guilt, because it’s his fault she’s taken this risk, his fault that she’s this worried about their survival. For a second he’s furious with her, because she could easily be killed, or arrested, and what would become of Iacopo then? The guards open fire freely at thieves and raiders, and then there are the dogs, too. People frequently die, trying to take what they cannot buy. But his anger only makes the guilt worse, because Paola knows the risks, of course, and nobody worries more for her child than she does. But still she went. Ettore lies in the dark and his frustration grows until it’s harder to bear than the wound in his leg. When his sister shakes his arm to wake him he still has not slept, and he snatches the limb away in fury, ignoring her offended expression. They do not speak of her absence, of the meat under the bed, the smell of smoke, or the frank exhaustion on both of their faces.
    In the piazza Ettore avoids the Masseria Vallarta overseer, who knows of his injury, and tries to find work elsewhere. He drops his improvised crutch and balances with both feet on the ground but the weight only on the whole leg, and is hired with a group of men to a smaller farm. But he can’t even begin the walk without the pole to lean on, and is promptly dismissed. When all the overseers and workers have gone he finds