Only the seventh daughter born in succession will break this curse!”Īngelo looked at Selena. “Your precious daughter will be cursed from this day and shall carry this. She noticed a storm brewing in those aged hazel eyes of hers.īibianna took her cheese and headed to the door only to stop at the landing to the upstairs, pointing her finger in the air. “Take your cheese and do not bother us again!” Selena snapped, making sure to look directly into the gypsy’s eyes. She rolled up the moldy cheese back into the cloth and handed it to Bibianna. Upon hearing this, Bibianna began pleading to the both of them on how she needed the money to feed herself and her younger sister. He always felt sorry for the peddlers that would come into the shop. “You will not buy this cheese from that gypsy!” Selena bore her deep chocolate-colored eyes into Angelo’s. Selena put her hands on her hips, looking up at Angelo. Bibianna had always admired her cameo complexion and golden hair.
Her dark blonde hair was held tightly up in a bun and she reached over to grab a clean apron. Her beauty was known to turn many heads in the village. Angelo and Bibianna’s eyes turned to stare at her as she walked toward the counter. She had just gotten their two young children, Armando and Donatella, to take a nap. Just then Selena had made her way downstairs to help Angelo in the shop. “This is old cheese!” he exclaimed, rolling it over and inspecting it. Angelo could see it was surely not fresh. She carefully unwrapped the cheese from the tattered cloth it was encased in. She waited patiently until Angelo was finished with the other customer, and then moved toward the counter to peddle her wares. “Come on in, my signora,” Angelo said softly, while he dealt with another customer.īibianna ran her fingers through her long and stringy white hair, trying to make herself look slightly more presentable. She had dealt with him once before when he was kind. Angelo and his wife Selena were the owners and lived above the shop. She finally reached the butcher shop of Angelo D’Amici, where she had hoped to sell her cheese.
“What are you looking at?” she mumbled under her breath at an older man who had passed by. Her hazel eyes scanned around at the comings and goings-on in the town square worried someone might come and steal her homemade goat cheese. The medieval village of Pacentro was teeming with families out making their way to the markets. The sun blazed hot for this day in mid-August. She set down the wrapped bundle of cheese she had cradled under her arm on the stone wall, across from Our Lady of Mercy Church in the center of the piazza. She stopped to take the floral-print bandana off her head to wipe the sweat from her brow. Bibianna Constantino muddled along the cobblestone road, her long green drindl skirt dragging with every step, picking up centuries of debris from the road.
0 kommentar(er)
