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would bite off his hand.
    The mare opened her mouth, her tongue moving. With his other hand, Brunelli swabbed the contents of the jar into her throat. She jerked up her head, trying to stand. Then she fell back to the straw with a groan.
    “What did you give her?” asked the duchessa.
    “A potion to relax her. She needs to be tolerant for what must be done next.”
    He stroked her salt-encrusted neck.
    “Brava ragazza,” he whispered. “Good girl.”
    The mare’s breath stirred the straw, her nostrils flaring.
    Brunelli petted her with calm strokes. He listened to her breathing, not moving until she had quieted.
    Giorgio wielded a pitchfork, clearing away the soiled straw. His red hair was wet and matted against his skull.
    “Bring more straw,” he told me.
    For a moment, my anger at the way he had mocked me—and my disgust at his devil’s red hair—flared. But I knew there was no time for that. We were working together to save the mare and her foal.
    When I returned to the stall with fresh straw in my arms, Giorgio was behind the mare, lifting her tail away from her body. I watched as Padrino coated his arm with sheep lard.
    His hand disappeared into the mare’s body.
    “Come, Virginia,” said my uncle, turning away. “This is not for the eyes of a young girl.”
    “No. Let her stay,” said the duchessa. “She—”
    Bleating from the ewes in the next shed interrupted her words.
    Brunelli nodded. “With your permission, my friend. Your niece should stay.”
    “Never tell my wife,” said my uncle, wringing his cap. “She would never forgive me. The blood, the birth—”
    “Why?” sniffed the duchessa. “These are things of women. It is a mare who gives birth, may I remind you good gentlemen.”
    Giorgio and Brunelli smiled. Uncle Giovanni wore a bewildered expression. His fingers continued to fumble with the cap in his hands, as if he were trying to tear it apart.
    “Of course, good lady,” he said, bobbing his head in respect. “Forgive my ignorance.”
    “I have helped birth dozens of sheep,” I said to my uncle. “Is it so different?”
    “Sit with me, Virginia,” said the duchessa. “Stay away from the mare. She may stand up and lash out.”
    My padrino chuckled.
    “With respect, Duchessa. I gave her belladonna—it is doubtful she will rise within the half hour.”
    Padrino’s right hand was inserted inside the mare past his elbow. He touched under the mare’s belly with his left, as if trying to grasp his hands together through the abdomen wall.
    “It has begun,” he said.
    He pulled his hand from the mare’s insides. His arm was slick. A few seconds later, a gush of pinkish water soaked the straw.
    The mare groaned. Her sides heaved like the bellows in my padrino’s forge. Her snorts blew a thick stream of mucus from her nostrils.
    The duchessa rose quietly from where she had been sitting in the straw by the mare. She drew out her linen handkerchief, cleaning the nostrils with a deft hand.
    “Good. That will help her breathe,” said Padrino, looking up from the mare’s hindquarters.
    Suddenly Padrino’s face turned rigid. The duchessa held her breath beside me.
    “May I see, per favore?” I asked her.
    She nodded. I moved toward my padrino.
    Between her legs, the flesh of the mare was now bright pinkish-red, as if she were turned inside out. She groaned and made a strange sound deep in her throat.
    Something glistened in Padrino’s hands. A translucent sac was beginning to emerge from the mare.
    “Yes,” he said. “This is what I felt. The foal is coming tail first.”
    The duchessa closed her eyes. “She has no strength left.”
    Padrino glanced at the duchessa.
    “But she has the heart of a champion, duchessa mia.”
    The duchessa nodded, opening her creased eyes wide.
    “Come on, mia cara,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Just a little more.” Her breath made the mare’s ear’s twitch.
    My padrino pulled out his knife, making a slit in the sac. I could