Page 45 of The English Bookstore in Bologna

“Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

What a turn it would be if they both were saved by Bologna.

The navigation on her phone led her on a few lefts and rights through winding corridors and ancient streets that she only vaguely remembered. Down an alley on the other side of the walled part of the city, she finally found it, a small storefront beside a food market, where oranges and lemons with their leaves still attached spilled out of wicker baskets and bouquets of happy flowers stretched out of metal bins.

The sight of the door with a crystal ball carved into it took her breath away. Ten years since her knuckles had rapped on this door, and she could sense her younger self standing there, maybe feeling the same skepticism that niggled at her now.

She was a believer in things unseen, in the world beyond the world, the magic of what was possible. At least 77 percent of her was, but there was still a part of her father in her that wondered whether she was an absolute idiot for thinking there were secret ways to navigate the world, energetic entanglements that science hadn’t yet explained.

Still, when she was strong, when life slowed down and she could follow some of the advice she offered to her clients and readers, she had borne witness to small miracles.

There was no denying that she had, in fact, gone on to write a book a few years after the woman behind this door had prophesied it. That might even be described as bigger than a small miracle. Of course, Bianca would now call writing a book something more akin to a prison sentence. Maybe what Donna Bologna had done was put a hex on her.

Rumblings of movement came behind the door, the latch lifted, and there she stood, the indovina, or fortune teller, Donna Bologna, short and plump and radiant, in equal measure. A soft white dress fell over her body. A beaded necklace rested between the mountains of her ample breasts. Ribbons wove through her gray hair. She smelled like a greenhouse, that tang of fresh soil and the vibrancy of flowers and plants coming alive.

A nose ring sparkled when she greeted Bianca, offering a smile typical of someone tasting their first bite of tagliatelle al ragù.

“Benvenuta, Bianca.” Donna Bologna invited her into her sanctuary, a large brick-walled room that smelled of incense and sawdust. A pair of birds chirped loudly from a cage. Light spilled in from windows in the back that looked over a minuscule yard. A table covered with a purple cloth waited for them in the corner. A crystal ball rested in the middle.

Once they were seated, Bianca asked, “Do you remember me?”

She knew from last time that Donna Bologna spoke English well, though her accent was strong. “You’ve been here before?”

“Yes. When I was twenty-two? Ten years ago.”

“I’m afraid I don’t; forgive me.”

It was odd that someone who could see souls couldn’t remember them. One vote went into the box of doubt.

“I see you, though,” Donna Bologna said in a whisper. She drew in a long breath and ran her hands along the crystal ball. “Oh, yes.”

“What is it?”

Donna Bologna pulled away from the crystal ball and took Bianca’s hands, holding them palm up. Hers were warm to the touch, anchors of peace.

Eyes shut, she swayed to a rhythm, as if she were hearing Bianca’s song. “Your chakras are like your smile muscles. Atrophied.”

Bianca lit up, feeling like her bell had been rung. “Yes, exactly.” And one vote goes to the believer box!

“Your ancestors know you’re here in Bologna. They’re happy . . . that you’re here. And they know why you came.”

“And can I know?”

“I think you do. To set free your spirit, no?” She spoke in Italian awhile, and Bianca did her best to follow. Something about holding on too hard, trying to stay in control.

“Can we stay in English, please?” Bianca finally asked, frustrated by how much Italian she’d forgotten. “Yes, to the freeing of my spirit. To figuring out what’s next. Last time I was here, you told me I’d one day write a book.”

“And?”

“I did.”

A chuckle of satisfaction, like a Buddha laughing.

A minute passed. Only the sound of the caged birds chirping.

Donna Bologna finally looked up, and with wide eyes said, “That was not the book you were supposed to write.”

“Hold on, what? You didn’t tell me what kind of book I was supposed to write. You said that I was meant to write one.”