No.
I’m dressed and rushing downstairs as fast as I can, but I know from the stone of dread in my gut that I’m too late. I throw open the front doors, startling the pair of guards there.
It’s early morning, white fog clotted on the cobblestone drive, obscuring the green hills, the river, the town, the mountains. I could be in a dream for all I can discern.
“Signorina,” says one of the guards softly, touching my arm. “You must go in. It isn’t safe.”
“Santo…” I can’t make myself say it. My throat is thick.
“He is gone,signorina.” There’s pity in the guard’s voice. “You must go in. It is too cold.”
“Daniella!” Sabine’s scolding voice is a welcome, grounding reality. She’s already flinging a coat over my shoulders, already dragging me inside. “You’re not wearing shoes or socks! Do you mean to catch your death? In, in, that’s it.”
The doors close behind us, and I crumple into Sabine. “He’s gone.”
“There, there. No need to cry. He will be back. The master always comes back.” But I detect a hint of fear in her voice as she leads me into the parlor and settles me on the couch, burying me in throw blankets and hailing a maid to build up the already-roaring fire. “Why the tears, Dani? Here I thought you disliked Santo terribly.”
I look away. “I guess I had a change of heart.”
“Why do you sound so mournful? This isgoodnews.” Sabine; cold, stern Sabine, settles on the couch beside me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “Look at me, Dani. I know this is frightening. But Santo can handle it. He’s handled everything so far, even after being dealt an impossible hand.”
I nod. “I know. I know.” But even as I say it, I’m only more afraid. Where has he gone? What is he doing? What changed yesterday, that he had to leave so suddenly? Something is wrong—he said so himself. And I can feel it in my bones, a cold, marrow-deep dread. Something terrible is going to happen. I just know it.
Sabine studies me, searching my eyes. Then she releases me and looks hard into the fire.
“What?” I press. “What is it? Do you know something?”
“No. It’s not that.” She wrings her old, small hands in her lap.
“What is it?” I’m searching for anything, any kernel of hope or comfort. “Sabine. Please, tell me.”
“It’s only—I haven’t seen the master like this in a very long time.” She worries her lip, wrinkled brow furrowed. “He was always a solitary boy, you know. It was good Vittorio took up the Amata mantle; for so long, no one though Santo capable of doing it. He was always on the move, always a man of action. I feared, his whole life, he would never find a reason to settle. To let himself be happy.”
My throat is tight, my cheeks aching. “What are you saying?”
“Whatever is between you—duty, passion, anger—it’s enough. It’s changing him, little by little. Making him a better man.”
Tears burn down my cheeks. “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t say that. I can’t bear it.”
“You should be pleased,” says Sabine, frowning, looking almost hurt by my deference.
“I’m not supposed to feel anything for him,” I say, the realization hooking me beneath the ribs. “I’m not supposed to care.Thisis why I’m not supposed to care! He’s my enemy, Sabine. I may be his future wife, his future family, but…”
“But what?” Sabine grips my hand, too hard.
“But I can’t fall in love with him.” I taste salt on my lips. A tremor of fear grows through me. “I can’t, Sabine. Because I’ll lose him. I might lose him right now. And it would be easier if I hated him.” I stand, pulling free, throwing the blankets from my shoulders. “I should hate him.”
Sabine stands as well, gripping my hands in hers, looking at me with bright, feverish eyes. “Let yourself, Dani. There is something between you, against all odds. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s not. But whatever it is, it may very well keep both of you alive.”
I search her face, not understanding. “What do you mean?”
“I mean thatyouhave given Santo a reason to live, when all he’s wanted to do for a year is die in pursuit of revenge. I am grateful to you. I will always be grateful to you. You got to him when no one else could.” Her face is set with grief.
And my heart is pounding, thundering in my ears. Because that can’t be true.Ican’t be the tenuous thread that keeps Santo waking in the morning, fighting for his life.
Can I?
Last night, he seemed, for the first time since I met him, truly happy. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same.
