Chapter 14
LILIANA
Maria’s voice is sharp with mock impatience, and it makes me look up from the book in my lap.
She is sitting across from Dario, a skein of deep green yarn in her lap, her hands moving quickly as she demonstrates a neat row of stitches. Dario’s fingers, much larger and far less disciplined, fumble over the needles, his movements uneven.
“You’re pulling too tight,” she scolds, reaching forward to adjust his grip.
“I’m trying,” he says, his tone quiet, almost meek, which makes me bite back a smile. Dario does not take corrections from anyone, except, it seems, from Maria.
I sink back against my chair, watching the exchange.
It doesn’t take much to see what’s happening.
I know my cousin too well. Dario is smitten, and that’s why he sits there, patient under Maria’s careful instruction, letting her chastise him like a schoolboy.
He could have walked away long ago, but he stays, obedient and focused in a way that is almost comical.
Maria shakes her head, muttering something about stubborn pupils.
Her hands move quickly, undoing the mess he’s made.
I turn my gaze back to my book, though my eyes don’t follow the words on the page.
The sound of their voices blends into the background, comfortable and warm, something that feels like it belongs here.
I try to focus on the lines in front of me, but the words refuse to stay. My thoughts drift, circling the changes of the past weeks. Dario lives on the estate now. Giovanni made it happen. I still don’t know what convinced him, but he tolerates my cousin now. I couldn’t be more grateful.
It feels easier with Dario here. He fills the quiet in ways that don’t weigh me down. He makes himself useful by helping in the stables, running errands for the staff, fixing whatever needs repair. I see him in the courtyard sometimes, sleeves rolled up, a rare smile breaking across his face.
I’m not alone here anymore. That feeling surprises me most of all.
The staff has warmed to me. It’s slow and steady, but I can feel the shift. They no longer just greet me with polite deference. There is familiarity now. In the kitchen, they’ve started letting me for as long as I want.
Sometimes they let me help with small dishes. I’ve learned to make caprese salad, bright with basil and mozzarella, and bruschetta brushed with garlic and oil. Yesterday I tried frittata, watching the eggs puff just right in the pan.
Yesterday morning, I made breakfast for Dario and me. It was simple—scrambled eggs, fresh bread warmed just enough to crisp the crust—but it was mine. I had put it together with my own hands. The satisfaction stayed with me the rest of the day.
I’ve begun to take on small responsibilities, things that make me feel settled in my role here.
Just yesterday, the head housekeeper brought me a selection of fabrics for new curtains for some of the guest rooms. I spent an hour going through the textures and colours, imagining how they would fall in the rooms. When I made my choice, it left me with a quiet sense of fulfillment.
It’s strange to realize I want to tell Giovanni about these things. I want to see his expression when I describe them, to see if he understands how these small pieces fit into the life I’m learning to live here.
He’s been gone for almost a week. Tomasso came back two days ago, but Giovanni hasn’t.
The absence is cutting in ways I didn’t expect.
I miss him. I miss his presence in the halls, his voice, the warmth of his touch.
I miss the ease that’s begun to build between us, the quiet that feels less like distance now and more like understanding.
It's a small victory that I'm warming up to him—my husband.
This morning, Tomasso came to check in on me over breakfast. His expression was sharp as always, but there was a teasing glint when he looked at me. He glanced at my plate, then at me, and commented that I was looking pale. He made a joke about me missing my husband already.
I suspect Giovanni asked him to return early for my benefit, to keep an eye on me. The thought doesn’t unsettle me the way it should. I'm starting to really settle into the belief that he truly cares for me, and as such, he's obligated to protect me.
I teased Tomasso back, signing something that made him shake his head and smile faintly. It’s easy to be at ease with him. There’s no pressure, no formality that feels heavy.
Still, the ache remains. I miss Giovanni. One of these days, I’ll cook for him. Something simple, something that will surprise him. The thought makes me almost look forward to his return more than I already do.
I didn’t expect to feel so settled here. It is more than I imagined, more than I thought I would be allowed. I am safe, and the safety feels like a solid thing I can stand on.
Except my father is trying to threaten that safety.
He has tried to reach me again. The message came quietly. I suspect he doesn't want Giovanni to find out. It pleases me that he somehow fears the presence that he wields.
I refused his invitation, of course. Just as I did before. I don’t want to see him. I know he doesn’t want to see me for reasons that would matter. He wants something. That’s the only reason he'd ever come looking for me without Giovanni's knowledge.
I can’t let Giovanni know. If he finds out, he’ll act, and whatever my father’s motives are, I don’t want Giovanni caught in them. Besides, even though he and I don't share affection, he's still my father, and I'd hate for Giovanni to unleash his wrath on him.
Maria’s raised voice pulls me back. She’s telling Dario he’s still holding the needles wrong. His head is bent, his brow furrowed, listening as though every word is vital.
I look between them, the book still open in my lap, the words unread. Maria is looking at me with the kind of expression she usually reserves for tangled yarn and burnt bread. Her hands move quickly, signing with sharp precision. Your cousin is hopeless at knitting.
I bite back a smile.
She turns to Dario, who is holding his needles in the stiffest, most unnatural grip possible. “Enough for today,” she says aloud, her tone brisk.
Dario looks up, indignant. “I’m getting the hang of it. I want to keep going.”
Maria shakes her head, her mouth pressing into a thin line. “I have other work to do.”
She reaches for the knitting, fingers poised to take it from Dario, but he leans back slightly, holding the tangled yarn just out of her reach. His eyes are fixed on the uneven stitches, his expression one of exaggerated concentration, as though the fate of the scarf depends on this moment alone.
The whole exchange is amusing, and I lower my gaze so they don’t catch the laughter in my eyes. I know my cousin too well. This determination has nothing to do with the yarn in his hands. It is entirely because of the woman sitting across from him.
Maria gives him one last look, the kind that promises she will win this battle tomorrow without even trying. Then she turns to me, her hands moving in a practiced rhythm, her signing smooth. Do you need anything from me before I go?
I shake my head lightly and sign back, No. Go ahead.
She nods once, smoothing her apron as she stands. Without another word, she moves to the door, her footsteps light against the floor as she leaves.
Dario’s gaze follows her, just for a second too long. When he realizes I’m watching, I raise an eyebrow.
My fingers move quickly, teasing. You’re interested in Maria, cugino.
His shoulders straighten, the humor slipping from his face, replaced by a flicker of seriousness. “I’m not,” he says, the words too quick, too defensive.
My brow arches a little higher, my hands answering easily, You’re not a very good liar.
His scowl deepens, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks, but he doesn’t reply. His silence is its own confirmation, though he will not admit it aloud.
I decide not to push further. There is no need. The truth sits plainly enough between us. I rise from my chair, smoothing the skirt over my knees as I do. My fingers lift, signing with an easy motion, I’m going to the garden. Will you come?
Dario shakes his head immediately, leaning back with an exaggerated air of nonchalance, though the needles are still tangled in his fingers.
“I’ll stay here,” he says, his tone casual, as though it costs him nothing.
“I need to perfect my knitting. Maria should be impressed when she checks tomorrow.”
The words are light, but his glance at the door is not. I see it, and the small smile that curves my lips lingers as I step away from the table. It stays with me as I walk toward the door, trailing after me into the quiet corridor.
The late afternoon sun spreads a warm glow over everything. Light filters through the trimmed hedges, turning the gravel paths pale and bright. The scent of damp earth rises faintly, mingled with something floral that drifts on the breeze.
Zoro is bent over a bed of flowers, his hands moving with easy precision as he works the pruning shears. When he notices me, he straightens, brushing the dirt from his gloves with a quick motion. His greeting is quiet, respectful, a slight nod in my direction.
I return the nod, then lift my hands to sign my complaint about a particular bloom near the edge of the path. Its white petals are curling, touched with the brown of decline. The calla lily is beginning to wither.
Zoro glances at it, his expression calm as his hands answer. Winter is coming. That’s why.
The words strike something in me, quiet but sharp.
Winter has always been something I’ve dreaded.
Back at my father’s estate where the garden was my refuge, whenever winter arrived, it saddened me, because it stole my joy from me, leaving bare branches and silent beds.
It felt like losing the only freedom I had.