Thank God Angelo is not alive to see this! But if he had lived, I would not be doing this.
God will never forgive me.
But if God does not want me to do what I am doing, why did He let this happen to me?
Tilia sat beside the bed in a big chair with a curved bottom. The jeweled cross she wore—which reminded Rachel that she was among Christians here and therefore not safe—rested on her bosom, half covered by the gold lace bordering the neckline of her gown. The cross quivered minutely with Tilia's heartbeat.
"You are probably wondering, child, whether you are doing the right thing."
"Yes." Rachel was so choked with fear that she could only whisper the word.
"Well, I can tell you there are thousands of women who would give anything to be in your place."
"In my place? To become a putana?"
Tilia laughed. "You think most women are contentedly married, with husbands to take care of them, with children who love them and neighbors who respect them—while only a few like me and the women who work for me are putane, whom the rest look down on. Well, listen to me, little one, other women envy us. A married woman sells herself, body and soul, to be some man's slave for life. And she gets damned little in return. We rent out this little part of our anatomy"—she patted her lap—"for a moment, and we keep the profit for ourselves. If we are clever, as I have been, we learn how to keep and increase our money. So when we no longer have youth and beauty to sell, we can take care of ourselves. And I tell you that a woman in her later years is likely to be a better friend to herself than any husband."
She speaks with conviction. But I cannot trust her, either. I have not had a true friend in this world since Angelo was killed.