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She moved toward the staircase. I followed, though every step away from Demitri seemed to pull something tight behind my ribs. At the foot of the stairs, I looked back. He was still watching me. His body was angled toward Zeno, but his attention remained fixed on me. For one reckless moment, I imagined walking back. I imagined reaching for his hand in front of them both. Instead, I turned away.

The staircase curved around the entrance hall, each step shallow and worn at the centre. Stella climbed without difficulty. I followed more slowly, one hand sliding along the polished banister.

Behind us, Zeno spoke.

“We have a great deal to talk about.”

“We do.”

“And a decade to account for.”

Their voices carried upward beneath the vaulted ceiling.

Stella reached the first landing and continued along a corridor lined with arched windows. Dusk pressed faintly against the glass, turning the gardens outside into a landscape of silver shadows. “You’ll be comfortable in the east rooms. They overlook the olive grove.”

“That sounds beautiful.”

We passed a console table covered in framed photographs.

I slowed.

Most were of Zeno and a woman with long dark hair and bright, defiant eyes. In one, she stood beside him beneath a canopy of flowers, her white dress caught in the wind. Zeno was not looking at the camera.

He was looking at her. The same expression he had worn downstairs filled his face. That faraway devotion. That terrible certainty.

Ayla. His hellion.

There were other photographs scattered among them. Ayla laughing beside a lake, one hand raised to shield her face from the camera. Ayla sitting barefoot on the stone steps outside the house, a large dog sprawled across her lap. Zeno standing behind her at some formal gathering, his hand resting at her waist while she looked over her shoulder at him.

In every picture, he touched her. Sometimes it was only his fingers against the small of her back. His hand closed around hers. His shoulder pressed to hers while other people crowded around them. Small points of contact. Quiet claims. As though even in a photograph, he needed to know exactly where she was.

I stared a moment too long. Stella stopped several paces ahead and looked back.

“She’s beautiful,” I whispered.

Stella’s expression softened.

“She is also stubborn, reckless, and entirely incapable of following sensible instructions.”

A faint smile tugged at my mouth.

“Zeno called her a hellion.”

“He was being polite.”

The smile escaped before I could stop it. It felt strange on my face. Unfamiliar.

Stella continued walking. I followed as she turned into another corridor.

“This is the east wing,” she announced. “It’s quieter than the main part of the house. Signora Ayla prefers to place guests here where they can have their privacy.”

The corridor ended at a pair of carved wooden doors. Stella unlocked one and stepped aside. The room beyond was larger than my entire apartment had been.

I stopped at the threshold.

A wide bed stood against the far wall beneath a linen canopy. The sheets were white, the coverlet a muted blue-grey. Two armchairs faced tall glass doors that opened onto a narrow balcony. Beyond them, the olive grove stretched into darkness.

The furniture was old, the wood polished but marked with age. A carved wardrobe occupied one wall. Beside it, another door stood open to reveal a bathroom lined in pale stone.