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see two little hooves inside. He grasped the hooves with his hands and pulled in a twisting motion to release the foal’s haunches.
    “Oh,” I whispered as I saw the waxen form, the tiny hooves.
    This miracle horse in miniature chased away words.
    The duchessa beckoned to me. “Help me clean her nostrils,” she said. She ripped her fine handkerchief in two, giving me half. “She needs air.”
    I mopped at the long strands of phlegm. The duchessa stroked the mare’s neck.
    “I wonder if she can win this race,” she whispered. The deep wrinkles around her eyes were red like raw meat from being clenched with weeping.
    “Of course she can, Duchessa,” I said, laying my hand on her arm. “A mare who won the Palio. Twice!”
    Padrino’s hand disappeared into the mare again. I could see his muscles working as his hands fumbled deep inside the birth canal.
    The wind rattled through the timbers of the lambing shed, powdering us with snow. An attendant brought the duchessa her furs from the coach. She patted the straw, inviting me to share the warmth.
    “No, grazie,” I said, my teeth chattering as I hunched over the mare’s nostrils, dabbing away phlegm.
    I saw Padrino’s lips moving. My young ears heard muttering. Almost a chant, though I could not decipher his words.
    Was Zia Claudia was right? Was he a horse witch, speaking their language?
    My padrino’s jacket pulled up, but he was too engaged in his work to notice. I saw the buckle of white skin, the muscle forged from pounding iron now rimmed with fat.
    Was he too old now to perform miracles?
    As soon as I thought it, I cursed myself for my doubts.
    Padrino can perform any miracle with horses!
    I watched the pale flesh bulging over his belt turn bright red in the cold as long moments passed.
    The duchessa’s fingers twitched, her puckered lips quivered. My eyes darted back and forth between the two souls who fought desperately to save this colt.
    My padrino sat back. He withdrew his arms from the mare. The tiny foal lay quiet—so quiet—in his huge hands.
    “Stillborn,” he said at last, his voice weary. “I am so sorry, Duchessa. I did all I could.”
    The Duchessa d’Elci made not a sound. Her mouth was a perfect O of sorrow. She slowly raised her blue-veined hands to her face.
    Giorgio stared at the dead colt. His eyebrows drew up in red peaks, his freckled face pinched. He shifted his rabbit eyes to mine. We stared at each other, terrified.
    Then I realized he was not so much terrified as beseeching. I looked away, confused.
    The duchessa was silent, her face hidden behind her hands, which were still slick with phlegm.
    Her shoulders shook.
    I stared at the foal’s body, perfectly still in the straw.
    Deep inside me, deeper than heart or gut, I felt something move. Move and twist of its own accord, like a small animal had harbored deep within me.
    I crawled across the rustling bedding to the wet foal, my eyes unblinking. The red and blue umbilical cord led from the mare to the belly of the foal, bits of straw clinging to it. I followed it, this lifeline between dam and foal.
    “Come away, ciccia,” said my padrino. “You shall see other foals birthed, happy moments. Forget this one,” he whispered, pressing my hand in his.
    I pushed his hand away. I barely heard him, my body trembling with a force I did not recognize. My fingers snatched at the knot in my head scarf, and my hair tumbled down loose. I wiped the slime from the stillborn nostrils with the coarse linen cloth.
    I pressed my lips over one tiny nostril, closing the other with my cupped hand.
    “What is she doing?” I heard the duchessa say, her voice choking.
    Padrino watched silently. I could feel his eyes on my back.
    I pulled air down into my lungs as deep as I could. My chest expanded until I could feel the beating of my heart, tight within my rib cage. I breathed deeply into the tiny nostril.
    I felt Padrino touch me.
    “Come away,” he whispered.
    I shook my head violently,