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“Yes,” said Vermilia. “Is that all?”

Ginevra turned away brusquely. As she moved, the palm of her hand caught on a rough spot of the table, and a large splinter broke off painfully in her flesh. “You see!” she cried, brandishing her new stigma. “I have been cursed.”

Vermilia looked at the wound and pressed a thoughtful finger to her lips.

“Ginevra, tell me what you know.”

She closed her eyes, the exercise now familiar. “I know that bad people are rich, though I, who am worthy, remain poor. I know that I am beautiful in my new clothes but uglier girls receive praise—”

“Enough.” She picked up a shallow wooden bowl and filled it with water, placing it on the table between them. “Ginevra, go and dip your fingers in the olive oil.”

Ginevra stopped sniffling. She knew this ritual. It was requested by those whose livestock sickened and died for no reason, whose gardens would not grow—young men who became suddenly impotent, women whose hair fell out after they argued with a neighbor.

“You think it’s that?”

“Shh. Just do as you’re told, girl.”

She dipped her stinging and bloodied hand in the oil jar, and then let three golden drops fall from her fingertips into the water. The two of them peered into the bowl, and saw the spheres of oil sink to the bottom and join together, a distinct globule intact under the surface.

“Porco Dio!” said Ginevra again.

Vermilia sucked in air through her teeth. “The drops sink and do not spread.” She lowered her voice: “Someone has set the malocchio on you...”

“The Evil Eye? How did it find me? Is it here now?” Ginevra jerked her head around the room, straining her eyes to see into the dark corners.

“It is here and it is not,” Vermilia answered. “This you know. It roams the earth and takes jealousy and pride as its bedfellows. It is everywhere, it is nowhere.”

“Why do you mock me by speaking in riddles?” hissed Ginevra. She tried to pick the splinter out of her hand but her efforts only dug it in deeper. “Did you hear me, old woman, or have your ears grown too hairy?”

“Be quiet, rude thing! The malocchio makes you speak so. Which means we must make you laugh. Are you ticklish?” Vermilia reached out with both hands and poked her under the arms.

“Don’t touch me, Crone!” shouted Ginevra, recoiling. “You become senile in your unnatural age.” Vermilia only rolled her eyes in response.

“And you become stupid in your anger and forget what I’ve taught you.”

Some small corner of Ginevra’s mind shook itself free of the bitter swirling cloud and she remembered her lessons: laughter could deflect the Eye’s gaze, scare it far away.

“Tell me a joke, then, so I can laugh,” she managed, “but do not touch me again.”

“There’s a good girl. Unfortunately, the only ones I know are about fornication, and you’re too much a virgin to find those funny. But let me ask you this: have you recently purchased fish from Casoli Paracrotti?”

“...is this the beginning of a joke?”

“Well, have you?” repeated Vermilia.

“No! Why do you care what my family eats for supper?”

“Because: that man is a jettatore.”

The awful word caught Ginevra’s attention. “You mean, Ser Paracrotti who always has the big pink shrimp?”

“Yes. The shrimp are a trick—jettatore are almost always charming, successful in business. So your guard is down. But misfortune comes to all who go near him. A jettatore looks at you and you feel a cold that seeps into your soul, into your bones—”

The Eye itself was not so uncommon, Ginevra knew. It could be thrown by anyone who felt spite, anger, jealousy—people were always coming to Vermilia, putting their fingers in oil, and then being told the excellent jokes about fornication until the Eye ran away.

But a jettatore? This was a person born inhabited by the Eye, and whether they were angry or not, anyone caught in their gaze was plagued by greatest misfortune. No simple trick of laughter could send away the Eye if it came from a jettatore.

“So, Ginevra, if you haven’t visited Ser Paracrotti, then have you made somebody jealous? A neighbor?”