The days following the discovery of Mom's embroideries were a time of fervent, almost feverish, preparation for Belinda. The Villa had been emptied of its grief and now needed to be filled with meaning. With the Wheel of the Year in hand, Belinda knew the goal was not to archive the wisdom, but to celebrate it, to give it an active, sacred space in their lives.
"We can't just make an altar on any old table," she told Elia, who watched her with a mixture of devotion and amusement as she moved a pile of books. "It has to be something unique to us, something that speaks of this land, that can host Mom's embroideries." Driven by a sudden instinct, Belinda went to a local antique and handicraft market, a cluttered labyrinth of stalls bordering an old port.
While the stalls displayed chipped ceramics and yellowed lace, her eyes were drawn to an unexpected object displayed on a wooden crate.
It was a large piece of dark wood, perhaps antique walnut or olive, meticulously cut into the unmistakable shape of Sicily. The wood was polished and worn, but its surface had been silkscreened with an extraordinary image: a Goddess. The figure was majestic, draped in flowing robes that evoked the sea, and her headdress was not a crown, but an explosion of dark, thin feathers, almost like volcanic smoke, framing a face of severe, ancestral beauty. Belinda stopped, her hands trembling slightly. It was not just an object; it was the physical embodiment of the resilience she had been searching for. The Goddess with the feathers and the shape of Sicily: it was fire and water, history and earth. The vendor, an old man with ink-stained hands, carelessly called it "the Magna Mater cutting board." After paying, Belinda clutched the object to her chest. This would never be a cutting board; it would never feel the blade. It would be the tray for her altar, the base for the rituals that Mom had silently bequeathed to her. It symbolized the active acceptance of her dual nature: the quiet guardian of wisdom (the embroideries) and the volcanic woman, with the feathers, ready to act (the Goddess).
Mabon, the Autumn Equinox, was just a few days away. The family devoted themselves to preparing for the harvest, an act that carried immense physical and emotional weight. It was time to take stock: what they had let go of (the grief) and what they had gained (the truth). Belinda and Azzurra gathered fruits (wild grapes, figs, and still-resistant pomegranates) from the Villa's neglected garden. Each fruit was a symbol of the spiritual "harvest" they had achieved. Elia, meanwhile, dedicated himself to reconstruction. With a trowel and retrieved stones, he methodically repaired the old dry-stone wall in the garden that had crumbled over time. "This is my practical Mabon," Elia said, pushing a stone into place with a sigh of satisfaction. "I didn't find gold, but I am rebuilding and healing the earth. It is my way of honouring Uncle Carmelo's dignity, the dignity he chose instead of wealth, and of closing the door on the past." His act was the opposite of destructive obsession.
On the evening of Mabon, they set up a small altar in the purified living room of the Villa. At the centre, the wooden tray shaped like Sicily with the feathered Goddess presided. Around it, Belinda had arranged the gathered fruits and the candle of reckoning, with the Mabon embroidery—which depicted the balance between light and darkness—resting on the wood. Belinda held the silver locket in her hand, a symbol of protection that now had a clear meaning. "We thank this earth, which resists. We thank for the balance that returns," she murmured, holding Elia's hand. "And we thank the silent women, Mom and Anna, who guarded this true treasure." Elia, moved, added his own gratitude: "And to Uncle Carmelo, for showing us that there is more dignity in renunciation than in greed. Our Mabon is the end of a cycle of anger." Azzurra, sitting on the rug, watched the candle flame, her face illuminated by the flickering light. She was the family's lighthouse, the living proof that darkness was never definitive.
As they shared the wild grape bread and wine, Belinda felt that her grief had finally been processed: transformed into resilience. She had her Mom's spiritual legacy, the strength of the Sun god and the Earth Goddess, and a pragmatic partner who repaired walls. Her root was not just in the ash of the volcano, but in the solidity of the Doric columns and the eternal cycle of life. As they prepared to leave the altar, Samuele approached Elia and Belinda, his tone suddenly logical and measured, as if to gently bring them back to earthly reality. "I did one last check, like a good investigator, to close all the accounts," Samuele said, showing his notes. "I cross-referenced the old Navy registers with the demolition blueprints for the lighthouse. The circular base is intact, and beneath it there is not just rock. There's an old cellar or deposit that wasn't marked on any of the cadastral registers after 1930." Belinda and Elia looked at each other, a mixture of surprise and amused exhaustion. "And what does that mean, Samuele?" Belinda asked, stroking the wood of the Goddess. "It means that if Mom and Anna used the Lighthouse for wisdom, whoever was obsessed with money might have believed it was the real strongbox," Samuele replied. "The spiritual treasure is here, on the embroideries. But the treasure that tormented the family might be underneath. It could be empty, but if something was saved from avarice... it's worth taking a look. Once Mabon has done its work and given us the strength to look forward."
Belinda smiled. She had her map for living and her Goddess. But perhaps, the earth still owed her a physical harvest as a reward for her newfound freedom. The search, though transformed, might not be entirely over.