Free Three-Cornered Halo by Christianna Brand

woman had been there, standing silently before the glass coffin beneath the hanging table; but she had been some gaunt tourist, not a patch of firm, rounded flesh on her such as Tomaso delighted in, and he had given her not another glance. But then she had stretched out her hand to a candle and he had seen again the opal ring.
    Child of a long line of goldsmiths and jewellers, direct descendant of a painter of genius, Tomaso di Goya loved all lovely things; son of a strolling gipsy mother, he must for ever act a part. He affected no glimmer of recognition but, softly moving, stepped forward and lighted a candle, slipped money into the box, stood back, and, eyes closed, murmured a prayer. Only when he lifted his head again to look reverently up at the crumb-scattered table, did he give a great start, an exclamation of happy astonishment. Ecco! La Senorita! La Senorita del Opale! Bowing and flourishing and clicking his heels, he kissed the chill knuckle above the opal ring. A thing of beauty! Miracoloso! He had recognised it—she recollected his remarking upon it yesterday, aboard the vaporetto?—and he had recognised it again as she moved her hand in the candlelight.…
    Just offering up ones own little personal glow-worm of prayer to their dear Santa Juanita.
    Ah, but not ‘Santa’ Juanita, said Tomaso, mounting immediately upon the hobby-horse of his present discontent. Not even ‘Beata’ Juanita. His High and Mightiness the Grand Duke decreed otherwise; and so she, the poor one, the blesséd one, their island angel, must lie here patiently (a thing she would most assuredly never have done in her lifetime) and see herself passed over while the infinitely lesser fry of other lands jockeyed successfully for position in the heavenly hierarchy.… He broke off, however, he begged her pardon; the Senorita could not be interested in what after all was purely a matter of Juanese politics.
    â€œHardly politics, Senor di Goya? This is surely a question for the Church alone?”
    That was all the Senorita knew about it, said Tomaso bitterly. If it were left to the Church, Juanita would have had her rights long ago. It was well known that the Arcivescovo prayed day and night for nothing else; the Patriarch it was true was in the Grand Duke’s hands, and alas! the Obispo also, who would replace the poor old Archbishop when he died—but, left to themselves, they would have been as enthusiastic as any in San Juan. Only the Grand Duke, for dark and desperate purposes of his own.… Off galloped Tomaso on the hobby-horse, hell-for-leather, once again: the profit to San Juan, the rights of the people, the yoke of the tyrant, the deserts of Juanita, the impossibility of resistance in Rome once the truth became known there, the table, the miracles.…
    Try as she would, Winsome could sort out from the long list of miracles, not more than three that could really stand up to the name.
    Tomaso shrugged immensely. With goodwill on all sides, these matters arranged themselves. A little exaggeration here, a little discretion there.…
    â€œYou mean make up a miracle?”
    He threw wide his expressive brown hands, his shoulders up to his ears. No need to do that. Simply take some old episode, burnish it up a little—what did facts matter? they all knew well enough that Juanita had been a saint. “It is not of importance, Senorita, by what means Rome comes to the same conclusion.”
    â€œI was only thinking,’’ said Winsome, “that if you were going to do that, it would be better to have a new miracle altogether: now.”
    His hands dropped, his shoulders dropped—his jaw dropped. He stood staring at her, a very caricature of stunned amazement. “A new miracle—now?”
    â€œThat would drive your Exaltida into doing something, wouldn’t it?” said Winsome, briskly.
    For Winsome, also, thought it mattered very little by what means the Church of