He didn’t miss a beat. “Dante said you often come to the roof.”
Aida only raised an eyebrow. He was lying. She rarely came to the roof, but the fireworks the night before had given her the idea.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said, his tone softening.
Aida was surprised. He sounded sympathetic.
“Thanks. It was very unexpected.”
“There’s not much I can do, but I can give you this.” He leaned forward and enveloped her in a hug. “I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
Shocked, Aida found tears coming to her eyes. His words weren’t about Erin. Instead, he seemed to be apologizing for something else—perhaps the actions of his sisters. But it touched something deep within her, and her tears welled anew. She buried her face in his shoulder and cried. He held her and smoothed down her hair.
She pulled away. “I’m getting your jacket wet.”
“It’s just the rain,” Mo said, tilting his head toward the gray sky.
Aida blinked. She hadn’t even registered the rain at first, butnow it was everywhere—running down Mo’s jaw, dripping from his lashes, soaking through his jacket and into hers. She looked up. The clouds had been holding back, but now they gave in, releasing a downpour that flattened her hair against her scalp and ran in cold rivulets down her back.
She shivered but didn’t move.
“I miss being in the world,” she said. “Really in it—surrounded by people, by life. I miss all the things I took for granted: crowded cafés humming with conversation, the clink of wineglasses over a shared meal. I miss the smell of old books in the Biblioteca Angelica, the hush of a gallery, the jostle of the crowd at a concert.”
While this was true, she also hoped she could shift Mo’s sympathies.
“I don’t,” he said.
So much for shifting, Aida thought.
“People are mostly terrible, and terribly foolish,” he continued. “Humankind is on a path of self-destruction. Let me count the ways—climate, politics, gun proliferation, religious disagreement, malware, identity theft, online bullying, thousands of robocalls...”
“I get it,” she said, stopping him. “But with the lockdown, we still have those issues, plus heightened sadness, fear, death, disease, depression, unemployment, poverty, homelessness.”
He was silent. Aida knew he couldn’t refute that but seeing him grappling with his very nature was strange. If he couldn’t lash out with a heavy dose of snark, he had only silence. It softened her feelings toward him, this god whom no one liked because, through the centuries, he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut. And here she was, instilling silence within him. Had anyone else been able to do that?
“There are no easy answers,” she offered. She let him keep an arm around her.
The rain poured over them, drenching them both, makingtheir clothes heavy and cold. Her sweater clung to her arms, her jeans stuck to her legs, and water ran down the back of her neck in icy trickles. But strangely, she didn’t care.
She tipped her head back and let the rain hit her face, let it soak into her skin. The air smelled of wet stone, of damp earth and sky. The world felt so small these days, but this—this was something vast. Aida exhaled and stretched out a hand. She turned her palm up, letting the rain pool there before it spilled over.
When she looked at Mo, she found him watching her. He was just as soaked as she was, his dark curls plastered to his forehead, his jacket useless against the deluge.
When it finally broke, he removed his arm. His expression was troubled. “I have to go. Happy New Year, Aida.”
When the blanket of calm dissipated, Aida remained on the couch, watching the sky crack from gray to blue, her thoughts a jumbled mess.
The next morning, Yumi and Aida took a walk to the Roman Forum. It was locked up tight as a result of the pandemic, so they went to the overlook at Piazza del Campidoglio, the hilltop square near Palazzo Senatorio, Rome’s town hall. Their vantage point gave them a perfect view of the Umbilicus Urbis Romae and the other ruins.
“So unimpressive from here,” Yumi noted. “It’s just a pile of bricks amid all the rest of this greatness.”
“All the better to be easily ignored, I suppose.” Aida leaned on the wall and stared out across the empty Forum. “It’s strange to look over this in broad daylight and not see a soul.”
“It is. I suppose we should start praying.”
“No need,” said a voice from behind them.
They turned to find Sophie there, dressed head to toe in gray and black, her chestnut curls cascading down her back from beneath a wool hat. She held a finger to her mouth—a shush—then made the same gesture she had in the restaurant, her hands infront of her, palms out, thumbs and forefingers touching. She moved her hands to create the invisible sound shield.
