Paulina’s Italian home was similar to her French one only in its size and the number of rooms. Rather than being separate from any other dwellings, this was a home built tightly between similar homes on a curving, narrow street where there was a continual bustle of people. But Amala quickly became accustomed to the sounds from the street, realizing it was conversation and laughter among neighbors who gathered to visit, sometimes sitting together to share wine and bread, or occasionally a meal. On sunny days, the children played in the street, and their laughter floated through the open windows.

Just as in France, Paulina was fluent enough with the language to be able to interpret for Amala, who knew much less Italian than she did French. But with time she learned enough to exchange minimal conversation with the local people. She enjoyed walking into the center of the village to shop and explore. She enjoyed the food and the quaint cafes and restaurants where they often dined. And she especially enjoyed the people. She quickly realized that in Italy most of the people had darker skin and hair, which made her blend in more easily. Anyone looking closely at her or hearing her accent would know immediately that she wasn’t Italian, but she still didn’t stand out nearly as much as Paulina with her pale skin.

“Perhaps you will find a handsome Italian husband, hmm?” Paulina teased more than once.

Amala humored her with the teasing, but she sincerely felt no appeal in permanently settling here. It certainly was a lovely place to enjoy an extended stay, but she was finding herself longing for England and for home.

Just as she had done in France—and at home—Amala filled her spare time with reading novels or other books from which she learned about places and people and other things that fascinated her. Paulina introduced her to new books and new authors, and she discovered new adventures and experiences through the written word. The books she loved best were stories that somehow touched on her own sorrows and joys; even if her life had nothing in common with any particular plot that she read, being able to relate to the dilemma and poignancy of a character’s experiences moved her deeply.

Letters continued to go back and forth between Amala and her family. Kat spoke of a few different gentlemen suitors who had been giving her a great deal of attention, and she wrote detailed descriptions of the many social functions she had attended. Henry’s name came up, but not in any way that implied even a hint of what Amala feared most. She prayed it would remain that way.