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EPILOGUE
One month later…
Lilyana
“Come on,” I say as Arman leads me through the long grass. “Just tell me where we’re going.”
“All in good time, tsvetok.” He smiles at me over his shoulder. “Almost there.”
It’s taken a while to finally get away from home; with Arman standing in for Vlad as pakhan, there was a lot to do. Our family’s associates were falling over one another to make amends after what happened, but it was important for us to keep our guard up as things were still tense. It’s calmed down now, but vigilance is the price of safety.
We arrived in Tuscany yesterday, at my mother’s family villa. Morgana’s parents usually look after it, but as soon as we arrived in the G5, they hopped in and returned to visit their daughter in New York, leaving us alone. Arman told me he’d bought a place of our own out here, and when it’s fixed up, we can visit whenever we want.
I was excited to see it at first, but now I’m somewhat worried. What kind of house doesn’t even have a road to it?
We emerge from the overgrown field onto a dirt track, and I hear running water. Arman points. “There. That’s it.”
The building is a derelict watermill cottage built in old gray stone. The roof is non-existent, but the walls look sound.
“Come and take a look, Lilyana.”
Arman helps me over the uneven mess of the garden and through the space where the front door should be. There are remnants of life here—broken crockery, scraps of fabric, a splintered rocking chair—but it’s clear it hasn’t been anyone’s home for some time.
“This house wasn’t expensive, for obvious reasons,” Arman says. “The village hall records have no one listed as deed holders in the last fifty years, so I bought the land come visto, as seen. I paid way more than it’s worth on the open market, and everyone was happy.”
“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,” I say, looking at the cloudless blue sky through the open roof space, “but it needs a lot of work.”
He takes my hand. “Come back outside. There’s something you need to see.”
We head into the garden, and Arman takes a picture from his pocket. He looks at it with a frown. “Face the house and move a bit to your left. Bit more.” I shift as he directs, and he gives me a thumbs up. “Perfect. Now look at this.”
He puts the photo in my hand. It’s tattered and faded, but the cottage is instantly recognizable, and it’s heartening to see it in good shape. Whoever took the picture was standing in the same spot I am now.
“Aw, that’s great,” I say. “Who are the people in the picture?”
Arman smiles tenderly at me. “You tell me, my love.”
I look again. A woman stands on the step, her beautiful face captured in an infinite smile. Nestled into her skirt is a little girl, no older than five, with wide gray eyes, just like mine.
“It looks like me,” I whisper. “And Mama. It can’t be.”
“This is a photo of your grandmother, Anna, and your mother, Stefania, when she was a child.” Arman puts his arm around my waist. “The cottage belonged to their family, but when your mother was sold into marriage by her father and taken to the USA, Anna lived here alone, pining for her daughter. The locals who remember your Mama told me some stories about her.”
I’m overwhelmed. It’s like I’ve traveled through time and been delivered to the halcyon days of my Mama’s childhood, long before Sergey forced her out of her homeland into his bed. And it was Arman who brought me here. The love I found and the love I lost are both here in this place, swelling my heart and healing me.
“Come with me,” Arman says. “Let’s go back inside.”
In the lounge, the chestnut parquet floor is cracked and dry, with pieces missing. The late afternoon sun streams through the broken window, and I notice a dark shape, like the shadow of something invisible. I clap my hand over my mouth as I realize what I’m looking at.
“The piano.” I point at the place where the sun couldn’t bleach the wood. “It was right here. Mama’s piano, the one she brought with her to America. The one that’s now in my family home.”
“Yes.” Arman points to the rear of the house. “Come out here and take a look.”
I walk through the remnants of a small kitchen, smiling at the rusted pans and bent utensils. These things belonged to Anna and her little girl; despite their decrepit state, it comforts me to see them.
We reach a stable door, and Arman opens it into a garden. Under a bench beside the door, I notice some dilapidated gardening tools and, beside them, a miniature trowel and shovel, just the right size for a kid. There’s a small stone bridge over the stream, covered with moss, and beyond, the famously picturesque Tuscan hills. But that’s not what I’m staring at.
The view that has me spellbound begins five feet before me and spreads to the very boundary of the cottage garden—a carpet of fluted white flowers with droplets of crimson at the center.
