Page 8 of She Who Was Once the Sea

He chuckled. "Coffee after dinner is a common thing here. You’re going to have to improve your tolerance."

My lips turned down in a frown. "How do people sleep?"

"We don’t." By now, he had also noticed the noise coming from the nearby piazza, and he turned us towards it neatly, barely breaking stride as he cut in front of a crowd of lost-looking tourists. I heard them mumbling commentary about our black robes as we moved swiftly away from them.

"Are they priests?" one whispered.

"They don’t have collars."

"Maybe deacons? Or, what’s the thing from that murder movie? A morningstar?"

"A monsignor," another corrected, and the group devolved into giggles.

Not for the first time, I felt grateful for the overabundance of Catholicism in Rossaia, and in Italy in general. While the Fratelli might be Catholic-adjacent, and were certainly founded hand in hand with both monks and priests alike, we were certainly not chaste.

Not that many priests I’d met were. But we didn’t maintain the pretense of virginity.

Back home, I don’t think I would have been able to exist confidently in a world where I had to dress like… this.

Flowing black robes with red-trimmed sleeves and collars, even in the hottest part of the summer. Shiny black shoes that I learned I was contractually obligated to keep scuff-free and neat. And hidden from sight, a nine-inch pristinely polished silver dagger.

Just in case.

But here, because religious attire was not uncommon to see moving through the maze of the city, most residents barely blinked twice at us. I’d been warned that tourists might ask us to take pictures, a fact that still baffled me, even if I had yet to experience it. But that was more from curiosity than mockery.

And contrary to how I might have expected, the ostentatious nature of my now-everyday clothes made me feel more invisible than I did in Chicago. There are many ways to blend into a crowd. But intentionally standing out from one in a city like this was the easiest and surest method.

The temperature grew slightly warmer as we moved through the shadows of the narrow street towards the piazza. The sun was high in the sky, and as we got closer, I scanned the crowds for the source of the commotion.

When we finally stepped into the light, the heat beat down on my shoulders. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden influx of bright sunlight, but when they finally did, the cause of the noise became immediately clear. A crowd had formed around the piazza’s central fountain. And while this wasn’t uncommon—the fountain was one of the primary tourist stops in the city—the clear anger and frustration pouring from the assembled crowd made my skin prickle, even in the stifling heat.

I glanced sideways at Brother Lucas. He, in turn, raised his eyebrows and nodded once, and the two of us strode forward with added purpose. As we walked, I scanned the square for any sign of police, but there was none to be seen.

Typical.

The closer we got to the fountain, the more I was able to distinguish individual voices and words from the general commotion.

Inappropriate.

Grotesque.

Rude.

Fucking hilarious.

Lucas and I reached the back of the crowd at the same time, each of us choosing different paths to snake through towards the center. The heat seemed to multiply once I was surrounded by bodies, and I found myself unable to take full breaths. The anger around me was palpable, and my nerves at confronting whatever I was about to find only increased my anxiety. When I finally broke through to the front of the crowd, I took a deep, desperate breath, as if I’d been swimming through dangerous waters instead of simply winding my way through a mob.

That’s when I saw him.

My first reaction to the spectacle was merely incredulous. This is what had drawn such a rowdy response?

Then, as I watched the smug look on the man’s face groping the bare breast of one of the mermaid statues, as I surveyed the water stains on the hem of his otherwise pristine shorts and stared at his bare feet trampling along the coins coating the bottom of the fountain, I understood the crowd’s indignancy.

The man was clearly American, as was the group of friends filming him from the sidelines. Based on their clothing and hairstyles, I judged them to be from the Northeast, probably Ivy League students or recent graduates, in Italy on a summer vacation, far more interested in being able to say that they’d spent a summer in Europe than in any cultural knowledge that might stem from the experience.

They reminded me of dozens of my former classmates and contemporaries, men who’d smile to your face, then sell you out for a networking opportunity.

And when I looked at the blank, still face of the mermaid beside him, the ancient beauty that had stood sentinel over this place for centuries, I felt some sort of long-forgotten anger begin to bubble over in my blood.