The road to Nutrana pulled them back toward civilization by late afternoon the following day, trailing through coastal hamlets where terraced vineyards sloped steeply into the sea.
Their journey was interrupted first by music—a swelling accordion and brass ensemble spilling from the open terrace of an old cliffside villa. A handwritten sign tied with white ribbon fluttered at the gate: LUCIA & MATTEO — CELEBRATE WITH US.
Hungry, dusty, and lacking any shame, May straightened her mustard windbreaker as if it were an haute couture cape. “Follow my lead,” she whispered.
Within three minutes, May had infiltrated the wedding reception. Approaching the mother of the bride with radiant warmth, she offered effusive praise on the floral arrangements, dropping fabricated insights about “Milanese seasonal palettes” and casually describing herself as an international wardrobe consultant traveling between coastal shoots. May told the lie with such effortless, sparkling charm that within ten minutes the bridal party had handed them four full plates of roasted pork, herbed focaccia, and glasses of sparkling wine.
Tim leaned against a stone balustrade, watching May hold court with three aunts who were hanging on her every word about linen drape.
“She’s terrifyingly good at that,” Tim murmured.
“She believes her own mythology,” Eva said, sipping her wine beside him. Her long wavy black hair caught the coastal breeze. “That’s why it works. When you don’t believe your own lies, people smell the copper on you.”
Before Tim could respond, a burly groomsman approached, extending a hand to Eva for the traditional circle dance. Eva looked at the man, then looked at Tim, whose posture was stiff with overthinking. Rather than engage with the quiet tension growing between them, Eva flashed her dazzling, weaponized smile and let the groomsman pull her onto the flagstone dance floor. Over the next twenty minutes, she danced with three different men—laughing, spinning, executing the steps with sharp, athletic grace—doing everything possible to avoid returning to the quiet space Tim occupied by the wall.
Near the dessert table, Max stood awkwardly holding his plate, trying to look invisible. Mia, however, had escaped the canvas duffel. Scenting fresh mascarpone, the orange tabby leapt onto the linen-draped table. In a split-second calamity, Mia’s tail swiped the tiered wedding cake, sending the ceramic bride-and-groom topper tumbling directly into Max’s lap.
Max caught the porcelain figurine in his massive hand just before it shattered. He looked down at the tiny painted couple, then up at the bride, who had witnessed the entire thing. Max’s face remained stone-carved. He carefully set the topper back onto the frosting, wiped a smudge of buttercream off Mia’s paw with his thumb, and nodded once. The bride burst into delighted laughter, handing Max a thick slice of almond tart.
By dusk, they left the party behind and climbed the ridge into the next village, where the atmosphere shifted entirely.
The village chapel was celebrating its annual patron saint festival. Hundreds of beeswax candles illuminated the dark stone nave, filling the ancient air with thick, fragrant clouds of frankincense and hot wax. Local villagers knelt in murmured prayer, their faces carved out of shadow and gold leaf.
The four travelers stood at the back of the nave, the festive wine wearing off, replaced by the heavy silence of the stone.
“What do people actually believe when they come here?” Tim asked quietly, his sharp blue eyes tracking the flickering tapers. “Is it tradition, or do people genuinely think someone is listening?”
“It’s insurance,” Eva whispered, her tone cynical, though her gaze lingered on a statue of a saint holding broken chains. “People want to believe their suffering has an architect, because the alternative—that we’re just colliding at random—is too exhausting.”
“I think it’s sweet,” May said softly, uncharacteristically quiet. “It’s nice to think someone might catch you if you drop.”
They turned toward the heavy oak door to leave.
Only Max lingered. The muscular mechanic stood before the candle rack, looking at the tiny flames dancing in the draft. He didn’t pray, he didn’t cross himself, and he said nothing to the group. But reaching deep into his pocket, he pulled out a heavy silver coin—one of the few he had left—and dropped it with a sharp, resonant clink into the iron alms box before turning back into the dark.