CHAPTER 13
NINA MARCHESI
It’s impossible to stop a small disappointment from settling in my stomach like a stone when I read the message on my phone screen, no matter how sweet the words sound.
Nero / prince:
I’m sorry, Little Fae. I won’t be able to make it today. Tomorrow, same time?
Less than a week after our day at the beach, this would have been the fourth time Nero and I went out together. The feeling in my chest isn’t because he’s canceling. It’s because I won’t see him. And still, I don’t think it’s fair to blame him for it.
It’s New Year’s Day.
And even though Nero didn’t say anything about it, I know that if we went out together for the first-day-of-the-year traditions, we might give the wrong impression about what’s really happening between us. It’s a fair reason to cancel—even if he didn’t use it.
I look at myself: the blue dress fitted at the waist with a loose skirt, the high heels on my feet, the colorful bracelets on my wrist matching this week’s nail art—floral, cheerful.
An insecure part of me wonders whether this cancellation has anything to do with the revelation I made to Nero at the beach, but as quickly as the thought appears, I push it away.
We’ve had other dates since then, and Nero has been nothing but perfect on all of them. If being a virgin were a reason to back out, there wouldn’t have been a second date—let alone a third.
I type a quick reply saying it’s fine, set my phone on the living room side table, and go look for my mother. I find her in the kitchen and stop in the doorway, crossing my arms as I watch her.
My mother is dancing without music, distracted as she decorates the small jars of vassilopittas we’ll distribute in the street as part of the Greek New Year tradition.
She doesn’t notice me for nearly five full minutes. When she finally turns around, a scream bursts from her throat and she clutches her chest as if that might stop her heart from racing.
I throw my head back and laugh. My mother mutters a thousand different complaints in Greek and Italian.
“You don’t do that, Nina!”
“Do what? I didn’t do anything!” I protest, and she pouts.
“Did Nero arrive?”
“It’ll be just the two of us this afternoon,” I explain, and her brows lift. I wave off her concern.
“And do you have to sound so disappointed about it?” she asks, making me roll my eyes, because I’m pretty sure I did no such thing. “We carry them for nine months, suffer through childbirth, and then get relegated to second choice,” she dramatizes. “Life is unfair.”
I rest a hand on my hip and step into the kitchen, stopping in front of her and narrowing my eyes.
“You know the plan was always for us to take part in the tradition together, right? It’s not like I’m using you as a backup, Mom!”
“That’s not important,” she declares, barely hiding her shameless smile.
“Of course it isn’t,” I grumble, laughing, and head to the sink to wash my hands.
I dry them and stand beside my mother at the counter, helping her organize what we need, separating ingredients into little bags.
“Do we have the pomegranates?” I ask, mentally checking the list.
“We do!” my mother replies. She opens a cupboard, pulls out a basket with a bag inside, opens it, and offers it to me. I pick two and slip them into my dress pockets.
I fill a small paper bag with tiny stones and a linen pouch with larger ones, carefully tie both to the belt on the counter, then fasten it around my waist.
I turn to my mother and nod, confirming we’re ready. The sound of triangles ringing and children singing grows closer and louder by the minute. We need to hurry.
“Come on, Mom—we have to open the shop doors before they get here!”
“Help me with the vassilopittas,” she asks, and I comply. I stack the small jars in my arms and leave the house carrying as many as I can.
We cross the corridor, and when we enter the shop, I see the children arriving through the window.
“Let’s go, Mom!” I call, excited, opening the doors and windows.
The children begin entering one by one, blessing the year with their presence. We let them pass through the corridor and go upstairs to our home while we offer prayers for a good year.
The first visit of each year must bring luck, so everyone makes sure children are the first to cross the thresholds of our homes and businesses.
They don’t do it for free, of course. No one leaves empty-handed. We offer sweets and a few coins. For them, it’s almost a game—who can collect the most treats during the journey.
A boy stretches out his hand so I can give him the pomegranate, then offers it solemnly to my mother. They leave the shop still playing, and I join the group, dancing and singing with them.
“Hard, Rosa!” the children shout enthusiastically.
My mother throws the pomegranate against the doorstep. The fruit bursts into pieces as it hits the ground.
Cheers, laughter, and congratulations erupt around us. My mother crouches so we can count how many seeds spill from the peel. The saying goes: the more seeds, the more luck.
“Thirty-one, thirty-two…” the children join in when my mother starts counting the last ones out loud. “Thirty-three, thirty-four!”
More cheers, laughter, and singing. We all celebrate and thank them for the visit before the children move on to the next house.
My mother and I stay on the sidewalk until they’re out of sight, then we close the doors and head out to make our own visits.
We stop door by door, leaving one small stone and one large one on each neighbor’s doorstep or windowsill.
“One small, so problems stay insignificant; one large, to attract wealth and prosperity,” I recite the little prayer at each stop until we run out of stones.
We walk down the streets watching everyone do the same—children everywhere, playing, collecting sweets, blessing homes; adults distributing stones and wishes on thresholds and stairways.
“Rosa! Here!” one of my mother’s friends calls when we reach the square.
Every year, a large tent is set up near the water. We spend the afternoon playing cards and dominoes, winning beans and coins, sharing time with the entire community.
My mother hands out the vassilopittas to her friends, and I decide to walk over to the market. The lights are still off, but I like looking at the stalls and decorations before it gets crowded.
From December 25th to December 31st, it’s impossible to stroll through Khione’s central streets without being pushed, stepped on, or tripping through the small Christmas market—set up more to display lights than anything else.
On January first, though, everyone is in the square, and the small avenue turns into a playground for those who know how to enjoy it.
I take pictures, touch everything I can, and choose a few trinkets before getting tired.
When I return to the square, I find my mother, who’s already won thirty-two beans and fourteen corn kernels. In ancient times, that would’ve meant gold and plenty of silver.
“I’m rich, Nina! Look!” she says, showing her next hand to the dismay of her opponents.
I kiss her cheek and am immediately accused.
“She’s cheating! Nina saw my cards and whispered them to you. That doesn’t count!”
“Don’t be indecent, Rosario. Learn how to lose, woman of God. It’s the first day of the year and you’re already trying to take advantage of your elders.”
“It’s theft, that’s what it is,” Rosario insists.
My mother dismisses her words and collects the beans she just won, making a point of picking up—one by one—the corn kernels her friend lost as well.
Rosario laments, and the market lights turn on, announcing the light show over the water and the most anticipated moment of the night: time to break the vassilopittas.
Every living soul stops what they’re doing.
The little jars my mother and I brought and distributed reappear on our table. On the tables around us, families uncover large trays of the cake, and we all cut pieces, searching for the lucky coin.
In my cake, I find the golden coin on the very first spoonful. I don’t even need to look anymore.
My mother cheers and winks at me.
“Happy New Year, my love.”
She hugs me, takes the coin, rubs it in my palm, and slips it into my right pocket.
“Happy New Year, Mom. Thank you,” I say, hugging her back, emotional.
Little by little, others find their coins and raise them in the air, celebrated by everyone for their good fortune.
I sit and take another spoonful of my cake—and to my surprise, I find another coin.
I laugh, quickly hiding it, thinking my mother must have missed one by accident. But when I stir the jar a few more times, I find another. And another.
A coin with every spoonful.
“Mom!” I protest, realizing she did it on purpose as Rosa laughs exaggeratedly at the confusion on my face. “You hid coins in every square!”
“You can’t gamble with luck, Nina. Sometimes you have to give it a little help,” she admits without a shred of shame.
“Didn’t I say she was cheating?” Rosario accuses, making us all laugh again.
***
“I’m exhausted!” I exclaim as I close the shop door behind us, happy to finally kick off my shoes and get home.
“Me too, my dear. It was a long day—but such a beautiful one,” she replies, walking beside me.
“The light show on the water was incredible. Almost thirteen minutes—they outdid themselves, don’t you think?” I ask, smiling as I remember the colors and shapes paired with the fireworks cascading down.
“Without a doubt. Every year it gets better,” she agrees, dropping her coat in the living room and stretching her back, just as tired as I am.
“Happy New Year, Mom,” I say, stopping to hug her.
“Happy New Year, my daughter,” she replies, hugging me back before disappearing into her room.
Quietly, I go into mine and grab her present—the one I spent months preparing, and which had become nearly impossible to keep hidden.
“Mom, I have a gift for you,” I announce excitedly.
“You didn’t have to, Nina,” she says, already taking the large package from my hands.
She unwraps it carelessly, revealing a tea sampler I gathered, dried, and sewed myself—bag by bag. Each square compartment of the little birdhouse-shaped box is lined with a different fabric texture.
My mother touches the large labels on each little window, reading the instructions out loud, enchanted.
“‘Drink me in case of anxiety.’ ‘Drink me when you’re tired.’ ‘Headache? It’s my turn!’ ‘Chew without making a face.’” She laughs at the funny-shaped ginger root.
Beneath each sachet, a parchment tied with a silk ribbon holds the preparation instructions—whether it should be boiled, steeped, crushed, or used whole.
“Oh, Nina, this is so delicate,” she says, tears welling in her eyes.
“Don’t cry, Mom,” I ask, sitting beside her. “I just wanted to give back a little of everything you do for me. This is nothing,” I promise.
“You are everything I need, Nina,” she repeats—the sentence I’ve heard my entire life.
I hug her as she thanks me again.
“Thank you.”