This is a place of churches. Standing in the kitchen yard, it is easy to see cupolas on nearly every hill. It is not so easy to see the fading paint on the walls of them and the tippling slates of those roofs from there, but Juliet and I have taken walks to these places. Up close they look to have leaned a little into the wind with the days, and the slow course of seasons has made them shabby. This is a place of churches, but bit by bit the goers are leaving to time, or greener lives. The parishes have been finding other means to fund themselves. Marco has bought a doorbell.

It is ancient, or seems so, even after polishing. It weighs a tremendous amount. Marco has had to have men come to build a small belfry for it into the roof over the front door, and they have been working for days with stout beams and fat planks to hold it. It is on the porch, now, and it gleams in the sun. Marco says that it is quite spectacular when rung.

It is not so much that he wishes harm on anyone who would ring the front doorbell. I think he was more enamored with the thought of a graceful disincentive. He said it is a very elegant solution. I could only see men with cases, staggering at the door, samples spilling across the planking. Juliet shrugged.

We are in one of the smaller churches, Juliet and I. It is cool and dark here. There is no one else, but the floor has been well swept, and while there is not a great deal of decoration what there is of it is in good repair. One candle burns in the corner. We sit for a moment, and there is nothing to kneel on but the floor.

"Listen," Juliet says. It is peaceful here, and the sounds of the world fade at the doorway. Her breath is gentle, and I cannot hear my own. She reaches for my cheek, reaches up to brush her lips to mine. I can barely feel them pass.