Chapter 6 Neve - Age 22
The markets stretched along the cobblestone like a patchwork rug; crates of figs and peaches, strings of tomatoes hanging like jewels, fresh bread cooling on linen cloths. Voices rose and fell in melodic Italian, a song in itself. It smelled like sun-warmed fruit and olive oil and summer.
I moved through the stalls with my knitted crossbody bag bumping against my hip, my savings tucked inside—small, tight, and counted twice to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake. The morning was already warm. My jeans stuck to my legs, but I didn’t care.
It was one of the first days I’d allowed myself to simply… exist outside of four walls.
It had taken me months to adjust to this world after leaving the convent.
I’d locked myself in a rented room because I didn’t know how to function without someone telling me when to eat or sleep.
The convent had been both the only home I’d had and a place I’d needed to escape before it swallowed whatever was left of me.
I’d spent weeks trying to decide who I was without prayers, bells, and schedules.
Days of wondering if stepping outside meant risking everything all over again.
Weeks convincing myself that living in fear wasn’t really living.
But eventually, hiding had stopped being survival and started feeling like a slow death. So I’d forced myself out.
I’d found a tiny one bedroom bungalow style home—barely larger than my old room at the convent.
Cheap. Damp. Cramped. But it was mine. I’d paid the rent for it with almost everything I’d saved from cleaning work and odd jobs the convent had found for me.
What was left in my bag now wasn’t much, but it kept the rent paid for one more month.
It was either take that chance or stay hidden until the money disappeared and I ended up broke, alone, and nowhere.
So there I was, walking through the crowded market in Tuscany, trying to remember what normal looked like. Trying to pretend I belonged there. Trying to breathe air that wasn’t tainted by the past.
For the first time in a long time… I wasn’t hiding. I was just moving.
And for now, I had to believe that was enough.
My dark curls fell past my shoulders, wild as ever, and I tucked a strand behind my ear as I stopped to admire a jar of honey.
A wolf whistle cut through the market noise, loud enough that a few people paused mid-step.
“Bella!” a man shouted from the stall to my left. He leaned forward over his baskets of fruit, elbows planted, chest puffed like he was performing for a crowd. His smile was too wide and too certain of itself. “Come here, amore. Let me show you something sweet.”
I laughed and kept walking.
People moved in loose clusters, shifting around me without really seeing me.
But he saw me.
“Eh! Don’t be shy,” he called again, louder. “Beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be walking around alone.”
Another vendor mumbled something at him in annoyance, telling him to behave himself.
I gripped the strap of my bag a little tighter and angled myself toward the next row of stalls.
Too many eyes shifted in my direction. The world narrowed and I could feel the edges of panic rushing up my throat. My chest tightened the way it always did when a man raised his voice, dragging me too far back into the past.
I turned, ready to slip into the next row and disappear. But someone stepped directly into my path.
A woman. A Romani woman, judging by her skirt, her jewelry, the scarves wrapped around her arms. A gypsy.
Her olive skin was warm and sun-kissed, her long dark hair braided loosely down her back, and her green eyes… God. They were the first thing I really saw. Shrewd, bright, impossible to look away from. Eyes like she’d already read your past and was halfway through your future.
Her eyes flicked past me, locking on the man who wouldn’t shut up. The disgust on her face was immediate.
“Oh, basta,” she muttered, loud enough for him to hear. “You scare off customers more than you sell anything.”
He bristled. “Mind your own business, strega.”
She stepped forward like she was ready to bite him. “Touch this girl with your voice again and I’ll hex your entire bloodline.”
The man paled, and it was a sight to behold. He muttered something, gathered a few scattered pears like he needed a distraction, then sank behind his stall.
The woman kept watching him until he fully disappeared from view. Only then did she turn to me.
Her eyes raked over me slowly, not in a threatening way, but like she was checking for signs of trouble. She saw my fear—she must have, because she clicked her tongue once, irritated, like she’d already decided what she wasn’t impressed with what she saw.
“You,” she pointed directly at me, “come.”
I blinked. “I—what?”
“Inside.” She jerked her chin toward her tent, but didn’t wait for an answer.
Before I could say anything, she reached out, grabbed my arm, and dragged me straight into the tent.
“Sit,” she ordered, shoving me into a velvet-draped chair. The tent was dim, warm, and smelled of wax and incense. Dozens of candles glowed from every surface. Crystals hung from threads. Cards were stacked in neat little towers. It felt like stepping into someone’s head.
“You could’ve just said hello,” I mumbled.
She ignored that completely. She sat opposite me, elbows on the table.
“Sit properly. Your aura is a mess.”
I blinked. “I didn’t know I had an aura.”
“Oh, you do.” She waved a hand as if swatting at smoke. “It’s loud. It’s tired. And it’s in love with danger.”
My pulse stuttered. “I… think you have confused me with someone else.”
Her green eyes flicked upward, and she smiled like she knew every secret I’d never planned to confess.
“No. I could see that you had survived some trauma.”
I didn’t breathe for a second. She already had the deck in her hands. Her long fingers carried numerous silver rings. She shuffled once, a clean and practiced fold, then began laying cards down.
She turned over the first card with a casual flick of her wrist, like she’d done it a thousand times and already knew what she’d find beneath.
“I can’t pay you!” I blurted, half rising from my chair, already twisting toward the exit.
“Friends don’t pay,” she stated, catching me by the sleeve and tugging me gently but firmly back into place.
“I really do have to go,” I insisted, even though the words felt weak, flimsy, transparent.
She laid the card down face up between us, then lifted her gaze to mine—steady, knowing, strangely patient. The look made my stomach flip.
“You have nowhere else to be, child,” she murmured, as if she wasn’t guessing, but certain.
Her eyes skated back down to the card sitting between us.
The Tower.
A cracked stone spire, lightning tearing it in two.
She made a low sound in her throat. “Your past.”
“I don’t want to talk about my past,” I muttered.
“I don’t need you to talk.” She tapped the card. “This speaks for you.”
The second card.
The Moon.
Shadowed water. Hidden things. Half-light.
“Your present. You pretend to be fine. But you aren’t. You walk in sunlight but you are still drowning.”
My fingers curled around the edge of the table.
At the third card, she paused and smiled slowly.
The Lovers.
But not the gentle, romantic kind.
The card showed two figures bound by something invisible, standing back-to-back, both reaching for each other without turning.
“This is your future.”
I scoffed, rolling my eyes to hide the way my heart pounded. “I don’t want a man.”
“Oh honey…” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “He isn’t a want.”
She tapped the card once, her green eyes locking onto mine.
“He is a fate.”
A reluctant smile pulled at my mouth. “Is this where you tell me he’s tall, dark, and brooding?”
“No.” Her grin was wicked. “This is where I tell you he is going to ruin your life… before he saves it.”
I actually laughed for the first time in days.
She grinned back, triumphant, and I knew I’d just made my first friend in Tuscany.
The candles flickered, and for one brief, uneasy second, I swore one flame bent toward the Lovers, as if fate had heard her and was already intervening.