His gaze is kind, but sharp too—like he can see the desperation I’m trying to hide. “If you’re looking for something to do, my great-grandmother, Svetlana, always welcomes company. Theold woman has a sharp wit. You might find her entertaining if you’re feeling charitable enough to push her wheelchair through the garden.” His smile turns a little wry.
The suggestion sends a flicker of purpose through me. “Where can I find her?”
“East garden,” he says, gesturing toward the terrace. “Follow the steps down. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” I say earnestly.
He tilts his head, studying me for a moment longer. “Don’t let Sandro’s mood scare you off,” he says finally. “He’s not easy, but…” He shrugs. “You might find there’s more than meets the eye with my brother.”
Why do people keep saying that?
Before I can answer, Miko heads off in the direction Raf and Sandro went, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat. Whatever the reason, my marital struggles will have to wait until later, when Sandro is less opposed to my company.
Squaring my shoulders, I inhale deeply, glad for a chance to make myself useful, to feel like I belong. And if I’m lucky, this will help me keep from spiraling into the feeling that I’ll never be enough.
I follow the terrace steps down toward the east garden, the air growing warmer as I inhale the scent of freshly cut grass. Sunlight spills across the garden that’s still in full bloom despite the late-summer heat. It’s a riot of color—roses, peonies, lavender—and in the middle of it all, a fountain that casts glittering water into the air.
That’s where I find Svetlana. Even seated in her wheelchair, she radiates presence. Her white hair is coiled into a perfect bun, her gaze, milky and clouded with cataracts, still cuts through the sunlight like ice. A shawl of deep burgundy drapes over her narrow shoulders. Her hands, though lined with age, grip the armrests with strength.
Her gaze snaps to me as my feet crunch over the gravel pathway. “You must be the new bride,” she says in thickly accented English, her voice as sharp as the edge of a blade.
“I am,” I say, smoothing my dress with nervous fingers as I approach. “I’m Evi.”
“Evi.” She tests my name like she’s tasting it. Then she tilts her head. “Well, come closer, child. Don’t hover like a frightened bird.”
I do, my pulse hammering as her eyes sweep over me. It feels like she can see straight through me, like she knows all my secrets—the ache in my chest, the fears I carry.
“You’re prettier than I expected,” she says at last. “Prettier than he deserves.”
I blink, startled into a small laugh. “Thank you?” I say uncertainly.
Her mouth twitches like she’s suppressing a smile. “Do an old woman a favor and push me?” she says, gesturing to the handles of her chair. “I don’t like to sit still.”
Neither do I. Moving behind her, I grip the handles and roll her forward. The metal is cool under my palms.
“Do you come out here every morning?” I ask as we make our way slowly down the gravel path.
“Every morning I can,” she says. “I like to see the flowers before the men fill the house with their schemes.”
I glance down at her, but she’s staring straight ahead, her expression unreadable. “It’s a beautiful garden,” I offer.
She snorts. “It used to be my husband’s pride. Now it’s mine. He’s dead, and the flowers are still here. That tells you everything you need to know about men.”
I bite back a smile. “Maybe.”
She twists slightly to glance up at me. “Why are you here, Evi?”
The question catches me off guard. “Because I married Sandro,” I say automatically.
Her eyes narrow like she’s waiting for something more. “That’s what you did,” she says. “Not why you’re here.”
I look away, focusing on the path ahead. I don’t have an answer that wouldn’t make me sound weak. Because my family wanted it. Because I had no choice. Because I thought maybe, somehow, I could belong.
Svetlana chuckles softly, the sound as dry as autumn leaves. “You’ll figure it out,” she says. “Or you won’t. But don’t expect anyone else to give you purpose.”
Her words settle heavy in my chest, but not unpleasantly. They’re like a spark catching tinder—painful but warm.
I push her farther down the path, into the dappled shade of a towering, ancient tree, and for the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a small sense of direction, a fragile thread of purpose.
