The Devil on Her Tongue Read Online Free PDF Page A

the few wealthier families living in Vila Baleira, or by sailors stopping in port looking for a gift for a sweetheart. Occasionally a merchant from Madeira came to buy items to sell to the wealthy English who had settled in the capital, Funchal Town, to prosper in the growing wine trade. The English, he said, loved unique old artifacts and collectibles from foreign pirate ships to decorate the fancy quintas they had built on the verdant hills around Funchal.
    Today I went farther down the beach than usual, passing other huts, limping slightly on my sore foot. I saw Marco patching his roof with Abílio. Abílio had two older brothers, but they had left the island to escape their father’s fists when they were only a little older than I was now. As Abílio climbed down the ladder with his bucket, he waved to me, and at the same time my pole hit something under the sand. The next small wave exposed a gleaming corner. I knelt and dug with my hands, then pulled the object out of the sucking sand and wiped it with my skirt. It was a small gold snuff box. Clearly, it hadn’t been in the water long, as it hadn’t been ruined by salt or dulled and scratched by lengthy tossing against sand and rocks. There were no barnacles. It would bring in more réis than anything I had ever found.
    “Can I see it?” Abílio had come to me. He stepped closer and held out his hand. “Please?” He smiled.
    I put it in his hand. He opened the lid of the snuff box, let it close, opened it and let it close. He brushed off more of the wet sand, then smiled at me again. “A good find, little
bruxa
.”
    I made a sound in my throat. “I told you not to call me that.” I held out my hand for the box.
    “It was in front of my hut,” he said, still smiling.
    “I found it. Give it to me.”
    His smile hadn’t changed. “Of course.” He put it into my hand but still held on to it. “If you want me to, I could sell it and give you the réis. The shopkeepers will give me more for it than they would you. You know that. They’ll try to cheat you. They won’t cheat me. Nobody cheats me. Or maybe I’ll trade it for you, and get you something pretty. Something pretty for a pretty girl.”
    I hesitated, both of us holding the box.
    “I’ll take it into town right now and bring you something special later. Come on, pretty girl.” He was relaxed, his hold on the snuff box loose. I wanted him to keep saying I was pretty.
    “Abílio! Get back here,” his father shouted, and as Abílio turned to look at him, I pulled the snuff box from his hand.
    “I’ll sell it and buy myself something special,” I said.
    He looked back at me, shrugging. “As you like.”
    I walked back towards my own hut, my pole in one hand and the snuff box firmly gripped in the other.

    When I went into Vila Baleira with the snuff box later that day, it was clear by the way everyone studied me that the whole town knew of my father’s departure.
    It was the only town on Porto Santo, a quiet port where news of the outside world came in snatches and rumours. On three sides of the main square were fish and meat shops, with their dark smells of blood and bone. There were also the shops selling everything from cloth and thread to tin dishes and pots and pans, twine, spices, and presses for olive oil. The market, where the local women sold eggs, cheese, fruits and vegetables and all manner of seasonal items, was set up on sagging wooden tables and blankets under the shade of the palms and dragon trees that formed a canopy over the square. Nossa Senhora da Piedade, with its
piscina
for holy water at the entrance, dominated the fourth side of the square.
    On scattered benches under the trees, farmers in their wide straw hats who crossed the island to bring their grain to market met with fishermen for wine and idle talk. As the shadows lengthenedand the day progressed, more men came. In the evening they played quoits or games of
sueca
with thick cards.
    A wide street ran from the