TWENTY-ONE
“Do you attend many wedding fetes, Signore da Fuligna?” For more than a half-hour, they had moseyed side by side through the crowded campo, their uncomfortable silence punctuated by the sharp flapping of the multi-colored banners and flags decorating the bricked courtyard and the heady fragrance of the flower garlands strung across each of the four arched entrances. Sophia had no wish to become familiar with her intended, cared little to learn of his previous social escapades, but she could bear the silence between them no longer.
“Not if I can help it.” Pasquale offered the short, clipped reply from between tightly drawn, thin lips. His sullen voice was almost inaudible over the laughter and conversation of the vivacious crowd and his narrow eyes were mere slits in the wrinkl
