“You look better already, miss,” she says, refilling my water glass. “There’s a little color in your cheeks.”
I set down my fork and look up at her. “Maria, how long have you worked here?”
“Twenty years come October,” she says, settling into the chair across from me like she’s relieved to have a real conversation. “Started when Dante was just a little boy.”
“That’s a long time. You must have seen a lot of changes.”
“Oh yes. This house has known joy and sorrow both.” She refills my glass again, though it’s barely empty. “Mr. Moretti, he’s a good man, but he’s been alone too long.”
“Alone?”
“Never married. There was a woman once—Dante’s mother—but she never loved him back. She broke his heart when she left.” Maria’s voice drops to a whisper. “When she died, he blamed himself for not protecting her better, even though she never really cared for him. He’s carried that pain ever since.”
My stomach tightens. I don’t want to think of Alaric as someone capable of heartbreak, someone who loved and lost. It makes him human in ways that complicate everything.
The sky is still gray when I drag myself out of bed. I pour coffee from the thermal carafe Maria left last night and position myselfat the window. At exactly eight-thirty, a white catering van pulls up to the gate. The driver swipes a card, the gate opens, and the van disappears around the side of the house.
Twenty minutes later, it reappears and leaves the same way.
But today, there’s a second van. This one belongs to a floral delivery service, and when the driver gets out, I see my opportunity.
She’s about my height, wearing dark pants and a company polo shirt. When she opens the back of her van to unload arrangements for what I assume is some kind of event, she accidentally knocks over a container of plant food that spills all over her clothes.
I watch her curse and brush at the stains, trying to clean herself off with napkins from her van. When that doesn’t work, she grabs a towel from the back and tries to scrub the worst of it off. Finally, she gives up and heads toward the house, probably to ask the kitchen staff if she can use a sink to clean up properly.
“Lionel,” I call sweetly. “I’d love another walk in the gardens today. Yesterday was so peaceful.”
“Of course, miss. Give me a few minutes to get clearance,” he answers from outside my door.
While he’s gone, I change into the darkest clothes I can find and tie my hair back in a ponytail that matches the delivery woman’s style. When Lionel returns with approval for my walk, I’m ready.
The gardens are busy this morning—staff preparing for some kind of event, gardeners trimming hedges, the kitchen team setting up outdoor service stations. In all the activity, one more person in dark clothes won’t be noticed.
“What’s all this for?” I ask Lionel, gesturing to the workers arranging chairs and decorating archways with white flowers.
“Steve Moretti’s wedding,” he says, watching a worker test the sound system. “He’s Mr. Moretti’s cousin. Well, distant cousin. They’re using the east courtyard for the ceremony tomorrow.”
“How lovely. Do you think I’d be allowed to attend?” I try to sound wistful, like a lonely woman hoping for some social interaction.
Lionel gives me a small smile. “Sorry, miss. Too many outsiders, too many variables. Wouldn’t be safe for you.”
Shit.
“The roses are lovely, though,” I tell him, leading him toward the far side of the garden, away from the service entrance. “Could we sit by that bench over there? I’d like to rest for a moment.”
“Sure thing.”
I settle on the marble bench and point to an elaborate topiary display about fifty yards away. “Is that supposed to be a swan?”
Lionel squints in the direction I’m pointing, taking a few steps away from me to get a better view. “I think it’s supposed to be a peacock, actually.”
“Oh, you’re right. How silly of me.”
The moment his back is turned, I slip away.
Moving quickly but casually, I make my way toward the service entrance. The delivery woman’s van is still there, back doors open, spare shirt hanging on a hook inside.
I approach the van slowly, my heart slamming against my ribs. I grab the shirt with trembling hands and duck behind the van to change. The fabric smells like fabric softener and coffee. My fingers fumble with the buttons—I’m shaking so badly I can barely get dressed.
