Chapter 2 At the Edge of His World #2
"There you are. I was looking for you."
"Your mother had me arranging flowers."
"Of course she did." He sets down his glass and crosses to me, taking my hands in his and examining my fingers. "You have a leaf in your hair."
"Do I?" I reach up to find it, but he beats me to it, plucking a small green fragment from somewhere near my temple and holding it up for inspection.
"Evidence of your crimes."
"Flower arranging isn't a crime."
"It is when you're supposed to be getting ready for a party." He's smiling, teasing, but there's something underneath it that I can't quite read. "Are you feeling better today?"
"I'm fine. The queasiness has mostly passed."
"Mostly?"
"It comes and goes. I think it's just stress."
"I should change," I say. "Your mother suggested I freshen up."
"You look fine to me."
"I have flower debris in my hair, apparently."
"I like you with flower debris in your hair. It suits you."
"I'll be quick," I say, and I go upstairs to change.
***
The guests begin arriving just after seven, a steady stream of familiar faces from the neighboring estates and the old families that have been part of the Rosciano circle for generations.
I stand beside Leon in the entrance hall, greeting each arrival with the practiced smile I've learned to wear at these events, and I try not to notice how many of them direct their real attention to Vera, who stands slightly behind us like a shadow with perfect posture.
"Don Leon, how wonderful to see you," says Signora Benedetti, an elderly woman with sharp eyes and sharper opinions. "And this must be... your wife."
The pause before wife is barely perceptible, but I hear it. I always hear it.
"Signora Benedetti," I say, extending my hand. "Thank you for coming. I hope the drive wasn't too long."
Leon is pulled away by one of the men wanting to discuss something about the groves, and Signora Benedetti turns to follow the conversation, and I am left standing in the entrance hall with my hand still slightly extended.
But I don't retreat. Not yet. There are more guests arriving, more hands to shake, more conversations to navigate.
A younger woman I don't recognize comes through the door with her husband, both of them looking slightly overwhelmed by the grandeur of the entrance hall.
New neighbors, I think, from one of the smaller properties on the eastern border.
They have the uncertain look of people who aren't sure they belong here.
"Welcome," I say, crossing to them before anyone else can. "I'm Ysabel. You must be from the old farmhouse near the eastern border? I heard someone had finally taken over the old farmhouse."
The woman's face lights up with relief at being recognized, at being spoken to like a person instead of an interloper. "Yes, we moved in three months ago. I'm sorry, we haven't had a chance to introduce ourselves properly. Everything has been so busy with the renovations."
"Renovations are endless," I say. "My parents have a small farm on the border of this estate, and my father swears he's been fixing the same fence since they moved in."
She laughs, and her husband relaxes beside her, and for a few minutes we talk about the challenges of old properties and the stubbornness of Sicilian plumbing and the way the afternoon light hits the hills in a way that makes all the frustration worth it.
It's easy, this conversation. It's the kind of talking I know how to do, the kind that builds bridges instead of walls.
"If you ever need recommendations for local suppliers," I tell her, "the market in town has wonderful produce on Thursdays. And there's a ceramics shop that does beautiful work, if you're looking to furnish the place."
"That would be wonderful. I've been completely lost trying to figure out where to find anything."
"I'll write down some names for you before you leave."
Then I hear Vera's voice behind me. "Ysabel, darling, could you check with the kitchen about the canapés? I think they're running behind schedule."
I turn to find her standing with a pleasant smile fixed on her face, Leon beside her with a man I recognize as one of the more important landowners from the neighboring region.
This is an introduction that matters, the kind of connection that affects the estate's standing and Leon's reputation.
The kind of introduction I should be part of.
"I was just speaking with our new neighbors," I say. "Perhaps one of the staff could check on the kitchen?"
"The staff are quite busy with service, I'm afraid. And you know the kitchen so well." Vera's smile doesn't waver. "They respond to you better than they do to me."
It's a compliment wrapped around an insult wrapped around a dismissal, and I can see Leon registering it, can see the slight tension in his shoulders as he processes what his mother has just done.
For a moment I think he might say something, might insist that I stay, might introduce me to the important landowner as his wife and partner.
Instead he says, "I'm sure it will only take a moment. We'll find you when you're back."
The landowner is already talking again, drawing Leon's attention, and Vera has positioned herself smoothly between me and the conversation.
I could insist. I could plant my feet and refuse to be sent away like hired help.
But the new neighbors are watching, and the room is full of people, and making a scene would only confirm what everyone already thinks about the servant's daughter who doesn't know her place.
"Of course," I say, and I go.
The kitchen is fine. The canapés are on schedule. The head cook looks at me with barely concealed confusion when I relay Vera's concerns, and I see the question in her eyes: why is the Don's wife checking on the food service?
On my way back to the sitting room, I nearly collide with Tommaso, who is carrying a fresh tray of water glasses. He steadies himself and then looks at me with the expression I know so well, the uncertainty of a man who watched me grow up in this house and doesn't know what to call me now.
"Signora," he says, then hesitates. "Ysabel. I mean..."
"Tommaso." I put my hand on his arm, briefly, the way I would have when I was fifteen and he was teaching me how to polish silver properly. "You can call me whatever feels right."
"It doesn't feel right to call you anything," he admits. "You're the Don's wife now. But you're also the girl who used to sneak extra bread from the kitchen and blame it on the cats."
"There were a lot of hungry cats in this house when I was young."
He laughs, quiet and real, and something in my chest loosens. "Do you need anything, signo... Ysabel?"
"Just some water, if you have it. I've been talking so much my throat is dry."
He hands me a glass from his tray, and I take it gratefully, drinking half of it before I remember I'm supposed to be a gracious hostess and not a woman dying of thirst. The water helps settle the faint queasiness that's been lurking all evening, the persistent unease that won't quite leave me alone.
"The new neighbors seem nice," Tommaso offers. "The young wife was asking about the flower arrangements. She wanted to know who did them."
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her the Donna arranged for everything." He pauses. "I didn't know if you wanted me to say you helped with the lilies."