A man was standing before them—a young man, half silhouetted in the sun. He wore a blue Italy soccer shirt and jeans that looked as if they had been faded by time, not design. He carried a bundle of books under his arm. He was slim, and not tall, no taller than Lucia was. He had red hair, and his face had a weakish chin and a rounded profile, a smooth curve that proceeded from his long nose to his brow—which was high, she saw, and covered in freckles. He was young, perhaps not yet eighteen . . .

She was staring. She recognized him, of course. She dropped her gaze, hot.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—”

Pina snapped, “Who are you?”

“My name is Daniel Stannard. I’m a student. I attend an expat college in the Trastevere. I’m studying for my bachelor’s degree. My father is American . . .” He had an accent, a slightly singsong American intonation to his Italian.

Pina smiled. “Why should we care, Daniel Stannard? Have you a habit of bothering girls in the park?”

“No—no. It’s just—” He turned to Lucia. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

Pina laughed. “That’s your best line?”

Lucia said, “Hush, Pina.”

Daniel said, “I mean it. At the Pantheon—about a week ago, I think. I remember seeing you—I’m sure it was you—in the colonnade . . .”

“I was there,” Lucia said.

Daniel hesitated. “I kept wondering if I’d see you again.” He turned to Pina defiantly. “Yes, I know it’s corny, but it’s the truth.”

Pina tried to stay stern, but she laughed. She muffled it with her hand.

Tentatively Daniel sat on the bench, next to Lucia. “So—you’re sisters, right?”

“We’re related, yes,” said Pina.

“The lady you were with last week—who was that, your mother?”

“An aunt,” said Pina.

“Kind of,” Lucia said, and she was rewarded with a glare from Pina.

Pina said, “And you say you’re a student?”

“Of politics, yes. My father’s a diplomat here, with the American embassy. He’s been stationed here for six years. He brought over the family to continue our schooling. I arrived age eleven . . .”

And so you are seventeen, Lucia thought. “Your language is good,” she said.

“Thank you . . . My school was international, but most of the classes were in Italian. What do you do?”

“She’s still at school,” Pina snapped. “After that, the family business.”

He shrugged. “Which is?”

“Genealogy. Record keeping. It’s complicated.”

Complicated, yes, thought Lucia. Complicated like a web in which I’m tangled. And even the little you have just been told about me isn’t true. For I am lined up for a new destiny—not genealogy or record keeping—something dark and heavy.