I can’t let Giovanni know. If he finds out, he’ll act, and whatever my father’s motives are, I don’t want Giovanni caught in them. Besides, even though he and I don't share affection, he's still my father, and I'd hate for Giovanni to unleash his wrath on him.
Maria’s raised voice pulls me back. She’s telling Dario he’s still holding the needles wrong. His head is bent, his brow furrowed, listening as though every word is vital.
I look between them, the book still open in my lap, the words unread. Maria is looking at me with the kind of expression she usually reserves for tangled yarn and burnt bread. Her hands move quickly, signing with sharp precision. Your cousin is hopeless at knitting.
I bite back a smile.
She turns to Dario, who is holding his needles in the stiffest, most unnatural grip possible. “Enough for today,” she says aloud, her tone brisk.
Dario looks up, indignant. “I’m getting the hang of it. I want to keep going.”
Maria shakes her head, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “I have other work to do.”
She reaches for the knitting, fingers poised to take it from Dario, but he leans back slightly, holding the tangled yarn just out of her reach. His eyes are fixed on the uneven stitches, his expression one of exaggerated concentration, as though the fate of the scarf depends on this moment alone.
The whole exchange is amusing, and I lower my gaze so they don’t catch the laughter in my eyes. I know my cousin too well. This determination has nothing to do with the yarn in his hands. It is entirely because of the woman sitting across from him.
Maria gives him one last look, the kind that promises she will win this battle tomorrow without even trying. Then she turns to me, her hands moving in a practiced rhythm, her signing smooth. Do you need anything from me before I go?
I shake my head lightly and sign back, No. Go ahead.
She nods once, smoothing her apron as she stands. Without another word, she moves to the door, her footsteps light against the floor as she leaves.
Dario’s gaze follows her, just for a second too long. When he realizes I’m watching, I raise an eyebrow.
My fingers move quickly, teasing. You’re interested in Maria, cugino.
His shoulders straighten, the humor slipping from his face, replaced by a flicker of seriousness. “I’m not,” he says, the words too quick, too defensive.
My brow arches a little higher, my hands answering easily, You’re not a very good liar.
His scowl deepens, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks, but he doesn’t reply. His silence is its own confirmation, though he will not admit it aloud.
I decide not to push further. There is no need. The truth sits plainly enough between us. I rise from my chair, smoothing the skirt over my knees as I do. My fingers lift, signing with an easy motion, I’m going to the garden. Will you come?
Dario shakes his head immediately, leaning back with an exaggerated air of nonchalance, though the needles are still tangled in his fingers. “I’ll stay here,” he says, his tone casual, as though it costs him nothing. “I need to perfect my knitting. Maria should be impressed when she checks tomorrow.”
The words are light, but his glance at the door is not. I see it, and the small smile that curves my lips lingers as I step away from the table. It stays with me as I walk toward the door, trailing after me into the quiet corridor.
The late afternoon sun spreads a warm glow over everything. Light filters through the trimmed hedges, turning the gravel paths pale and bright. The scent of damp earth rises faintly, mingled with something floral that drifts on the breeze.
Zoro is bent over a bed of flowers, his hands moving with easy precision as he works the pruning shears. When he notices me, he straightens, brushing the dirt from his gloves with a quick motion. His greeting is quiet, respectful, a slight nod in my direction.
I return the nod, then lift my hands to sign my complaint about a particular bloom near the edge of the path. Its white petals are curling, touched with the brown of decline. The calla lily is beginning to wither.
Zoro glances at it, his expression calm as his hands answer. Winter is coming. That’s why.
The words strike something in me, quiet but sharp. Winter has always been something I’ve dreaded. Back at my father’s estate where the garden was my refuge, whenever winter arrived, it saddened me, because it stole my joy from me, leaving bare branches and silent beds. It felt like losing the only freedom I had.
Zoro’s hands move again, slower this time, his gaze on the fading bloom. I can pluck it and put it in a pot for you. Keep it in your room. If you water it, maybe it won’t die.
The thought lifts something in me. My answer is immediate, my hands signing with more energy than I expect. Yes. That’s a wonderful idea.
He smiles faintly, a small upward curve of his mouth that vanishes almost as quickly as it came. With a nod, he turns back to his work, crouching low to tend to the flowers.
I might have stayed there, watching the shears flash in the sunlight, but his gaze shifts suddenly, drawn over my shoulder. The change in his focus makes me turn, following it without thought.
My stomach drops. Camilla.
