Oscar’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
Shit.
I turn just in time to see him approach.
“I’m here,” I say. “Just got distracted.”
Oscar stops beside me, his hands clasped behind his back. His expression is one of mild concern.
“Distracted by what, if I may ask?”
I gesture vaguely at the hedge, stepping away from the gate.
“This. It’s beautiful. What kind of plant is it?”
He follows my gaze, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to call my bluff, to tell me he sees right through me. But then his face softens with something like pride.
“Taxus baccata,” he says. “English yew. Though these particular specimens are Italian in origin—from Emilia-Romagna—Mr. Moretti’s grandfather had them imported in the 1970s.”
“They’re huge.” The hedges tower at least twelve feet high; they’re dense and impenetrable. I doubt I could work my fingers through more than a few inches.
“Si, si. They’re nearly fifty years old. Yew grows slowly, but it lives for centuries. There are yews in England over a thousand years old.” He reaches out, running his fingers along the dark green needles. “Poisonous, even—in high enough quantities. Every part of the plant except for the flesh of the berries.”
“That’s cheerful. And he can have a wall of poison in the middle of the city?”
“You’d have to really feast for the poison to be deadly,” Oscar says. “But you’re right—it’s hardly up to code. Gabriel’s grandfather and one city official or another came to an agreement decades ago. So what you’re seeing is unique.”
I reach out and touch the needles.
Oscar chuckles. “Mr. Moretti appreciates beauty with teeth. Beautiful but dangerous.”
Like everything else in this house, apparently.
“They require quite a bit of maintenance,” he goes on, gesturing down the length of the hedges toward a pair of men at work on the plants. “Trimming, shaping, ensuring that nothing grows where it shouldn’t.”
He leans forward to inspect a section near the gate entrance.
My heart stutters. Does he see the vine?
His hand hovers near it, and I hold my breath.
“Though Guiseppe does an excellent job keeping them pristine,” he finishes, dropping his hand. “He’ll be here this weekend for his monthly inspection.”
Shit. Inspection means that he might find the vine and fix the sensor. Then my one possible exit will be gone.
“Well,” I say quickly, too brightly, “they’re really lovely—poisonous or not. Thanks for explaining their origin.”
Oscar turns to me, his expression unreadable.
For a long moment, he says nothing. Then he smiles, kind and patient, something flickering underneath I can’t quite read.
“Prego, Miss Thea,” he says softly. “My pleasure.”
He gestures back toward the house. “Shall we continue? The library still needs attention before lunch.”
“Of course.”
I follow him across the lawn, forcing myself not to look back at the gate.
