STREGA
Darkness had enveloped the forest when Raffaella awoke propped against a pine tree. She didn’t know how long she’d been there, but the full moon, high and bright, told her that it had been several hours.
She struggled to her feet, holding onto the tree for support, and looked around. The forest was dense and the moonlight broke through in patches through the thick weave of branches above. How had she gotten this deep into the woods? Icy fear went down her spine.
As she stood clutching the tree, ready to either jump behind it or climb it if anyone or anything approached, a familiar smell filled her nose. A woody, sweet, acrid smell. Fire. And it was near. It wasn’t the choking, consuming smoke of a forest fire, but the warming, welcoming smoke of a pyre. Maybe it was a fireplace in someone’s home. Or maybe a campfire of thieves or marauders. She’d have to be careful.
Raffaella sniffed and turned, trying to find the direction of the fire, but the smell filled the air all around her and she couldn’t determine its origin. The black of the forest ahead of her began to lighten. Still murky, but there was definitely a glow up ahead, and she started in that direction. Now she could make out trees, fallen limbs, and rocks, and before long, the forest opened into a clearing. Somewhere near, water gently lapped against an embankment.
A bonfire, stacked high with wood, burned brightly near the banks of a river. In the shadows cast by the flames, numerous people—maybe ten or twelve—were on their knees, heads bowed, by a large tree. Raffaella stood back to observe. One person, cloaked so that Raffaella couldn’t see the face, knelt in front of the tree. The figure bowed down low, forehead to the ground, then stood, picked something up off the ground, and raised it high. The object looked like…a rope? A long tree branch?
The object wriggled in the figure’s hands, and to Raffaella’s horror, she realized it was a snake. She shrank back behind the tree, her hands and knees trembling.
The one with the snake began to speak, and Raffaella knew then from the soft cadences of her voice that the figure was a woman. She listened.
Dea delle foreste e della Luna,
Diana della mezzaluna d’argento,
Io canto le mie lodi a voi.
Alzo le braccia al Crescente celeste.
I miei ringraziamenti a voi per la protezione delle foreste e del bosco.
Me e la mia tutela, perché noi siamo i vostri figli spirituali.
Bella Diana, io canto le tue lodi.
These were not the prayers of the Catholic Church. These were the prayers of Devil worshipers.
The woman was a strega. Witch. And this was probably her coven. Raffaella had stumbled upon a witches’ Sabbath.
Raffaella’s parents, devout Christians, had warned her about le streghe. Her chest tightened and her stomach constricted as fear came up like bile. She needed to leave, and without anyone seeing her. But if she managed to get back to where she’d been before, where would she be? All she saw around her were trees, and she didn’t think that running through the woods in the dark was a good idea. But she had to find a way back home.
She stopped. No, not home. She no longer had a home.
The only logical thing to do, she decided, was to walk along the edge of the clearing until she could quietly retreat. She took a step, and then a voice made her jump nearly off the ground. Her limbs shook uncontrollably, and her heart slammed against her breastbone, but she turned calmly.
Standing before her was a cloaked woman, hood down so that Raffaella could see her face clearly in the light emanating from the fire. Not a hag or monster, as Raffaella had expected. No hooked nose, warts, or blackened teeth. Then again, witches had the power to change their appearance, or so she’d heard.
Long, black, wavy hair, worn loose, framed a diamond-shaped face and thin, pink lips. Raffaella couldn’t see the color of her eyes but she could tell that they were dark and deep.
“What are you doing here?” the witch asked.
She hesitated, because speaking to a witch could bring mala fortuna. “I was lost,” she managed.
“You must be, to be out in the woods after nightfall alone.” Her voice was low and melodious.
Raffaella stared at her, unable to move, as if the leaves beneath her feet had turned to quicksand,
“Please, I’d like to go home. If you could just show me the way out of the forest, I’ll leave you in peace.”
The witch took Raffaella by her elbow and encouraged her to walk. Her hand was firm but gentle.
Oh, God, she’s going to kill me and bury my body in the woods. Or she’ll chop me up into pieces to use in her wicked magic.
Panic and desperation roiled in her stomach and she tried to pull free of the woman’s clutch.
“Please, don’t bother yourself. I’ll find my way.” She freed her elbow and walked away as quickly as she could in the bouncing light of the bonfire.
“Signorina.” The witch called out. Raffaella stopped and turned halfway. “Follow the banks of the river and you’ll find a road. It will take you into Benevento.” The woman turned around and headed back to the congregation and to her Sabbath.
Raffaella, breathing hard and trembling, watched the witch’s retreating back. Chanting rose in the quiet of the night, and Raffaella ran. There could only be evil in that clearing.
Yet she followed the witch’s directions. For some reason, Raffaella believed her.
Dawn was breaking. As Raffaella walked through the town of Benevento, the outlines and corners of the structures solidified, and the houses dotting the hillside brightened, no longer seeming dark and forbidding. She almost cried when she saw a cross puncturing the sky.
The ochre walls of the church quietly called attention to the Moorish design. An obelisk stood sentry in the front courtyard as the centerpiece of a fountain. Sitting on the narrow steps encircling the fountain, she hugged herself but couldn’t stop shivering. She looked around. Benevento. She’d heard of it and its legacy of witchcraft. Was the whole town filled with witches, then?
The spray from the fountain hit her back as it gushed into life for the day, and she wanted to move. But where would she go? She knew no one here. A clank and screech came from the church door. Someone was unbolting it. Maybe she could ask for sanctuary. Yet Raffaella sat silently, waiting for a sign.
“Are you all right, Signorina?”
Raffaella jumped up and turned. A trickle of water quickly turned to a gush from four lion heads surrounding the obelisk. Through the falling water, she saw her.
“Strega,” Raffaella whispered.
“Yes, you are correct, signorina.”
Raffaella flushed at the realization that she’d said it aloud. No matter who this was, she didn’t wish to be rude.
“It’s not like you think,” the witch continued. She moved closer. Raffaella had wondered if the moonlight had played tricks on her the night before, but even in the light of day, the woman was not a hag at all. She was an attractive smooth-skinned woman, who Raffaella would never have taken for a witch had she not seen the ritual.
She looked at the door of the church. She could quickly run in, but could a witch enter hallowed ground?
The witch’s gaze shifted to the church door and back to her. Raffaella thought she saw a hint of a smile at the corners of her lips.
“I am guessing you’re in some sort of trouble. Why don’t you let me help you?”
“I don’t need your help,” Raffaella snapped. Her mother would have slapped her for that. Then again, this was one of the Devil’s minions.
The witch approached, her hand outstretched. Raffaella recoiled and took a few steps back. The witch stopped and put her hand down. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help.”
Raffaella turned and ran to the church door. She threw herself on its iron handle and began to pull when the witch called out, “Raffaella.”
She turned from the smooth wood of the door, her heart pounding. “How do you know my name?” she asked through labored breaths.
The woman smiled and splayed her hands out. “I am a strega.”
Raffaella stood frozen with her hand clutching the door handle. “Leave me alone.”
“I’m a healer. I can help.”
“Why do you want to help me?”
The witch cautiously moved closer. “Because I understand your pain. I know what it’s like to be an outsider.” She held out her hand again. The sleeve of her cloak hung down and Raffaella had an inexplicable desire to crawl into the dark woolen cavern. It exuded warmth and safety, even though it belonged to a witch. “Please, Raffaella, let me help you.” Her eyes were indeed dark, like a bowl of blackberries.
Raffaella didn’t move for several moments, but finally let go of the door. Her options were few, and as much as she feared the old stories about the evils of witchcraft, nothing about this woman suggested anything like that. She tentatively reached out to take the witch’s hand. She shivered, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant.
The witch gently pulled her forward until they were only inches apart. “I am Serafina.” She turned and began walking, their hands entwined, and a strange sense of both security and something else engulfed Raffaella, who looked up at the lions of the fountain as they passed. She searched their carved stone features for reassurance.
“The lions of the Church of Santa Sofia. They would tell you to come with me,” Serafina said with a soft smile, and Raffaella knew she was right.
In the rays of the morning sun, and with a light mist settling on her face, Raffaella followed quietly, her breathing settling into a calm, even rhythm.
They walked through Benevento, nestled in the hills at the foot of a mountain range. Serafina led Raffaella through the Arch of Trajan, as Serafina called it, back to the outskirts of town and into the hills. She sometimes held Raffaella’s hand, and when she did, Raffaella hoped she’d hold it longer than the last time. Their journey ended at a small stone house. Serafina walked in and beckoned her to follow. She did, and slowly entered the room, a small kitchen. From the window, she could see Benevento sprawled out below.
“Our Apennine Mountains are beautiful, no?”
Raffaella nodded, and thought that Serafina was beautiful, too, no matter what the old tales said of witches.
“Come and sit,” Serafina said. “You must be hungry.”
Raffaella had the strange feeling of being home and safe. There was something familiar about the emerging life of the town below, and Serafina’s kitchen bore no sign of evil magic. Besides, she was hungry, and she quickly turned her attention to the small rough-hewn wooden table in the center of the room. She sat down, more eager than she would have liked to show. On the table sat a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese. Serafina broke off a piece of bread and put it on a plate in front of Raffaella. Then she sliced the cheese into smaller wedges and gave her two. Raffaella ate ravenously, all other thoughts pushed aside.
Serafina watched her for a moment before eating. She had removed the cloak and beneath it, Raffaella saw that she wore a simple brown dress with an apron tied around her waist. Like Serafina herself, her home was simple and unadorned, clean and neat, but quietly noble. Serafina’s cheeks were pink from their walk and Raffaella felt her own cheeks flush. Serafina’s eyes on her made her quiver, so she looked down at her plate. Was Serafina bewitching her? She stole a look at Serafina, who was tearing off another piece of bread from the loaf, her features a study in concentration. Then she glanced up from the bread, caught Raffaella staring at her, and smiled. Her eyes lit up with it, warm and dark. Raffaella forgot to swallow.
“Another?” Serafina handed her the piece of bread she’d just torn off.
Mutely, Raffaella accepted.
When Raffaella had finished her cheese, and then two more, Serafina said, “Tell me what happened.”
S
he wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you’re a witch, don’t you know?”
Serafina smiled. “Not everything.” She got up and began clearing the table. Raffaella wanted to help but her limbs felt like logs. She stared at the table’s surface.
“I…I…”
“What?” Serafina asked, looking back from her chore. “You can trust me.”
“Can I?” Raffaella asked, even knowing deep inside that she could. “You worship the Devil.” She felt strangely ashamed having said that.
Serafina’s face grew dark and she turned away. She placed the dishes in a bucket of water on the floor, almost throwing them so that they clanked loudly. Raffaella flinched and wondered if they’d shattered.
Serafina wiped her hands on her apron and sat back down. With her hands splayed on the table, she straightened her back and in an even tone, said, “We don’t worship the Devil. We worship Diana, Goddess of the Hunt.”
Raffaella waited for more, but Serafina’s silence told her that the subject was closed for now. She decided that since she had just lost everything, she had nothing left to lose. “I ran away,” she said.
“Why?”
“My husband.”
Serafina’s eyes narrowed. Raffaella felt almost a physical penetration, as if Serafina was probing into her very soul. “Did he beat you?”
“No. But he treats me no better than a stray dog. He took everything from my family and then took me far away from them. I didn’t want him as a husband. I never wanted any husband.”
“Where were you before the forest?”
“Campobasso, where my husband took me.”
Serafina blinked a couple of times. “You walked all the way from Campobasso? That’s where you were coming from last night?”
“Yes. I had to.”
Serafina’s expression held such compassion that Raffaella’s chest tightened. She wanted to cry.
“Then you need to rest.” Serafina rose, took Raffaella’s arm, and coaxed her up. Her fingers on Raffaella’s skin sent warmth through her, both exciting and confusing her, but she was too tired to ponder it.
Serafina led her to a bedroom at the back of the house. A looking glass hung on the wall and Raffaella was shocked at her reflection. Her usually lustrous chestnut hair was limp and greasy and had a leaf sticking out in the back, which she plucked out. Her eyes, normally bright, were dull and underscored by circles. She looked up at Serafina and brought her hand to her cheek, suddenly ashamed of her appearance. But Serafina seemed not to notice.
Gently, she brought Raffaella to the bed and motioned for her to lie down. She did, and sank gratefully into the mattress, the smell of fresh straw emanating from it. From an oak chest, Serafina pulled extra blankets and placed them on the floor, where she made herself comfortable.
Through encroaching slumber, Raffaella heard her say, “Don’t worry, you’re safe here.”
Once again, she believed.
It was dark again when Raffaella awoke, long past twilight, and Serafina was gone, her blankets neatly folded on the chest. From across the narrow hall, she heard something like clinking bottles and rustling that she couldn’t identify. Following the sounds, she tiptoed through a small room that seemed to be a wash and sewing room. On the far end was an archway, closed off by an old woolen blanket tacked to the wall. The noises were coming from behind it. Carefully, she moved the blanket with one finger and peeked in. Serafina stood behind a table, her back to Raffaella, her dark hair tied back with a cloth strip. Raffaella wanted to touch it, to let it wind around her fingers. Heart pounding, she let the blanket go and quietly went down the hall, back to the kitchen.
“You must be wondering what I’m doing.” Serafina’s voice made Raffaella stop, but she didn’t turn. “I’ll show you when you’re ready,” Serafina said as she walked past her toward the kitchen. Raffaella followed, and it was only then that she smelled the stew. Her stomach rumbled, and she forgot to ask, “Ready for what?”
“Sit. You slept a long time. I hope you feel rested.” Serafina picked up a long spoon and stirred a big pot suspended above the hearth on an iron stand.
“I do. Thank you.”
Serafina pulled the spoon out and tasted its contents. She then picked up a bowl from a shelf, brought it to the hearth, and ladled some stew into it. She carried it to the table, then took another bowl and ladled stew for herself. Another loaf of bread awaited them on the table.
After she’d eaten half the stew and Raffaella’s stomach had settled a bit, she spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m taking advantage of your hospitality.”
Serafina peered over her spoon. “No one takes advantage of me. I give only what I want to give.”
She wondered why, then, this woman, this strega, wanted to feed and shelter her.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I’m helping you.”
Raffaella stopped chewing. The hair on her arms stood up, fear mixed with curiosity about Serafina’s obvious power. She wished she had some power. Any power.
“My sense is, you’re a lost soul,” Serafina said. “You’re searching for something. I am drawn to lost, searching souls. And to you personally.” She smiled, a warm, pretty smile. Not what Raffaella expected from a witch, and her comment made her feel like kindling that had just been sparked.
“Have you been a witch a long time?”
Serafina swallowed a mouthful of stew and answered with a cautious tone. “All my life. My family were all witches.”
“Where are they now?”
Serafina hesitated. “They died.” She said quickly, and Raffaella decided not to pursue the subject. “So, you are here alone?”
“Yes.”
“No husband? Children?”
A lump visibly moved its way down Serafina’s throat. “No.” Her smile faded and was replaced by a faint downturn of her lips, a look of worry, perhaps. “Like you, I am perhaps not the type for a husband.”
Raffaella started to say something, but Serafina spoke first. “You can stay as long as you wish. I ask only one thing.”
“I promise, I won’t tell anyone you’re a witch.”
Serafina’s eyes held amusement. “That’s not it. I want you to take this.” She reached into her apron pocket and took something out. She held out her hand, palm up.
“A walnut?” Raffaella frowned.
“It’s a special walnut. From a special tree. It will help you understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Whatever it is you need to understand.”
Puzzled, she took the walnut, deciding that one probably should not refuse gifts from a witch. Especially one as beautiful as Serafina, who made her feel strangely intoxicated.
Serafina smiled again, reassuring, and Raffaella reached for another piece of bread, wondering what sort of magic a walnut might have.
Raffaella kept the walnut in her pocket constantly. Every now and then, she would reach in, feel its hard ridges, and slowly, over the course of the passing month, her thoughts began to transform, from a dark, bleak, passionless abyss to a warm, vital circle of energy. An awakening that expressed itself as new awareness for Serafina and a new sense of independence for herself. She didn’t know what it meant, or what would be the culmination of this awakening, but something was revealing itself to her, and something clearly was drawing her closer to Serafina, who didn’t have to ask her to stay on for Raffaella to know she could. And from Raffaella’s depths, new feelings rose and filtered through her entire being.
Serafina had spoken the truth. She was a healer. Every now and then, Serafina would greet someone at the door and make them wait outside while she went into the back room, then return with some kind of package, which she’d give to the visitor.
Sometimes she’d let them in. Those she did were usually people who were sick and needed help. Raffaella would watch Serafina administer a potion, then send them on their way. Within a couple of days, the person would come back and thank Serafina, for they had been healed of whatever malady had brought them to her.
Meanwhile, Raffaella helped Serafina all she could with the housework, to repay her for her kindness, and because she wanted to spend as much time as possible with her, because Raffaella knew that Serafina was somehow part of her awakening. And, little by little, Serafina taught her some of her formulas.
For the first time in her life, Raffaella felt as if she had a purpose. At first, it scared her to concoct the formulas, for she feared poisoning someone. But Serafina was patient and provided guidance. It didn’t take long for her to master the basic formulas, in spite of her initial reservations. She had a natural aptitude for it. In fact, it almost felt as if this had been deep inside her and all Raffaella had to do was acknowledge it.
The work that Serafina did seemed benevolent enough—people asking for a tonic to be healed, a talisman for good luck, a spell to ensure love or fruitful crops. But one day, a customer came and requested a death spell to put on his business rival. He was ready to pay handsomely for it. Serafina was not home and Raffaella, uncertain what to do with such a request, instructed him to call again later that evening, when Serafina would be home.
Raffaella’s stomach lurched as she repeated the man’s request to Serafina. This dark side of witchcraft, the one that everyone feared and that her parents had warned her about, reminded her of what Serafina could be. A sick feeling rose up in her. Then she looked at Serafina’s dark eyes and knew that she wasn’t one of those witches, and that she couldn’t be. She was a healer, and hers was not a den of black magic.
Serafina watched her, as if listening to her thoughts. Then she spoke. “There is much evil in the world, perpetrated by all manner of people. We all make decisions about what we do. We are all responsible for our actions.” She took Raffaella’s hand. “Think twice before agreeing to any dark requests. Whatever you do will come back to you threefold.” She pursed her lips. “We will turn his request around and convince him that rather than cause death to his rival, he take instead a talisman for success in business. That way, the deed will be for good rather than for bad.”
She beckoned Raffaella to follow her. In the back room, she showed her how to cast a spell on a talisman for business success, and Raffaella wondered how it was that people had believed that all witches were bad.
When the moon was full again, Serafina readied her cloak, the one Raffaella had first seen her wearing. She watched her place the cloak on the bed, which they had begun sharing since that first night. Perhaps the walnut had the kind of magic she needed to reveal this part of herself. She watched the movements of Serafina’s fingers, the way her hair fell around her face, and how she lovingly prepared a cloak for Raffaella.
“Are you sure I should go with you?” Raffaella asked.
“Yes, cara, you should. I think you’ll enjoy it.”
She loved it when Serafina’s called her cara. Serafina’s voice wrapped itself around Raffaella like a blanket and the word was the key to her safety. Serafina had made her feel whole in many different ways.
Raffaella thought back to that night when she had watched the coven perform their rite by the great tree. Had it been a walnut tree? Was that where her walnut had come from? It hadn’t even occurred to her until that moment. She fondled the ridges with her fingers. Without another word, she followed Serafina’s lead and put on the cloak.
Serafina went into her medicine parlor, then emerged with a burlap bag in her hand. Silently, they went to the front door, where they both picked up lanterns.
In the light of the moon, they walked along the edge of town to the opposite side of the city, back into the hills. There, among the pines, was the clearing Raffaella had encountered a month before, and the tree. Several people waited.
As they approached, the members of the coven all bowed to Serafina. One young woman neared Raffaella and whispered, “You’re very lucky to have befriended Serafina.”
They formed a circle, Raffaella included, with Serafina in the center. Serafina welcomed everyone with a special mention for Raffaella, asked the goddess Diana for blessings, then said a prayer for health and safety. Around the base of the tree, fallen walnuts were scattered, their thick green skins forming a fuzzy blanket on the ground.
It was then that Raffaella realized that Serafina was the high priestess of the coven.
The witches opened the circle so that they were all facing the massive tree, Serafina in front of them. They all got on their knees and bowed low, just as they had the first time Raffaella had stumbled upon them.
The witches straightened their backs but remained on their knees. Serafina got up and went to the tree with the bag. She reached in and pulled something out that Raffaella couldn’t see. She thought she heard a hiss and saw a flick of a tongue, but the moonlight could have been playing tricks on her.
No, it was alive. It writhed in Serafina’s hands, but something didn’t seem right. The snake seemed weakened, and Raffaella surmised that Serafina had drugged it. She held it with both hands high above her head and recited,
Goddess of the forests and the Moon,
Diana of the Silver Crescent,
I chant my praises to you.
I lift my arms to your heavenly Crescent.
I thank you for protecting the forests and groves.
Protect me and mine, for we are your spiritual children.
Beautiful Diana, I sing your praises.
When she was done, she placed the snake on the ground and put a foot on its head. Raffaella watched, enthralled, as Serafina brought her dagger down and cut the snake’s head off.
Rather than feel revulsion or fear, Raffaella felt something inside her breaking free. It was as if she were a sunken boat that had been tethered to the ocean bottom by seaweed and weighed down by rocks and barnacles, and then set loose. She was now floating on the surface of a sparkling sea, sailing freely to new shores.
Serafina stood up with the snake’s head in one hand and body in the other, and moved closer to the tree. She placed the snake in a hole that must have been dug before they’d arrived, and pushed dirt into it. With her hands raised, palms up, she incanted,
We bring the serpent unto you
Oh, powerful Diana
So that you will grant us
Strength, prosperity, and peace.
When Serafina had completed the burial, she stood up and walked toward Raffaella. She took her hand and led her to the tree. “This is Il Noce, the sacred walnut tree. This tree has for centuries held the power to bless or curse anyone who goes near it.” She plucked a walnut from the branches and held it up. “It has been known to infect the mind of those who have slept under it, rendering them mad. But it has also protected those who ask of it from evil spells and spirits.”
She then held out her left hand, and Raffaella held out her own left hand. Serafina took it, turned it palm up, and covered it with her other hand.
“Raffaella, I welcome you to our coven, nostra covo di streghe. Here, in this sacred boschetto, we worship Diana, Goddess of the Hunt. I ask you now if you wish to join us.”
Raffaella stood a long time with her hand between Serafina’s, but for how long, she didn’t know. Everything seemed to stop—time, movement, the very air around her were all suspended, seemingly just for her.
The voices of her parents blew through her head, cautions and condemnations, in the name of the Roman Catholic Church, to avoid and denounce the evil sorcery that plagued humanity. But looking at Serafina’s face and seeing the compassion, love, and devoutness there, Raffaella knew that her parents had been wrong. There was no evil here.
Her hand warmed, and as she stared into Serafina’s eyes, a sparking, almost burning sensation spread up her arm and down into her chest. Her torso vibrated as if her insides were being infused with knowledge and familiarity. She nodded. “Yes.”
Her mind, answering a call that her ears did not hear, shut out everything around her. She closed her eyes and turned her head upward. The lightness she felt was terrifying only for a second, then freeing, then joyful.
And then she knew. She knew that this was where she was supposed to be. In Benevento. Honoring Il Noce. With Serafina.
When she opened her eyes, Serafina was facing her, dark eyes holding fast to hers. Raffaella lifted her hands to Serafina’s face and held it gently. She leaned in and softly kissed her lips. At last, she was sailing freely.
Raffaella raised her hand to the tree and touched it. A gripping energy seeped out from the bark and entered her skin, and she knew that it was welcoming her. The energy reached her chest and she took a deep breath, allowing it to enter her lungs. She was renewed, and she was happy.
Raffaella reached under her cloak and into the pocket of her skirt. She took out the walnut and placed it in Serafina’s hand, closing her fingers around it.
Serafina put her hand on Raffaella’s arm, gently turning her. “You will stay with me?”
Raffaella smiled. “Yes, I will stay with you.”
Serafina smiled as well. “It’s fitting that you ended up at the Church of Santa Sofia that first day we met. Sofia, in Greek, means wisdom, and all you needed was the wisdom to see who you really are, to open your eyes to your destiny.”
“And you knew, didn’t you?”
Serafina nodded.
Raffaella put her hands on Serafina’s face and kissed her cheek. Serafina led her away from the walnut tree, through the worshippers, and onto the road home.
Bio:
R.G. Emanuelle is based in New York City. She is the author of novels, novellas, and short stories, as well as co-editor of several anthologies. Her degree in English and Literature propelled her into publishing, where she spent twenty years as an editor, writer, and typesetter. She currently works as a freelance editor. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found cooking or developing recipes, as she is also a culinary school graduate.
OVUNQUE SIAMO 