“Sigfrid.” He takes a step toward me. He is holding his shirt, and it is wet, so he must have washed it. Now he grips it in one hand and holds out the other. “But my friends call me Fred.”

His words are English, of course, but my father, who dealt with international buyers, taught both Tory and me some German, English and even French.

I know enough to take his hand. “How are you?”

“Better, thank you.” He seems embarrassed now, but smiles. “I think you saved my life.”

Probably, yes. “I took the bullet out.” It hadn’t lodged deep, but barely missed his spine, so perhaps providence also saved him. “And brought you to our estate. You were in poor state.”

“Thank you. It took great courage.”

Not courage at all. I feared, if he were found by anyone else, it would rouse suspicion.

Bring the Germans to our door.

And then they might find Tory and discover his recent activities. I will do anything to protect my brother.

But I am now wondering if, in my fear, God has provided an answer.

Fred looks around the grotto. I wonder if he sees what I see—our entire future, our cash crop in barrels, waiting, aging, but also hidden from those who would steal it. The grotto extends further into the hill, of course, and I hope he doesn’t look too far, wander past the bend.

The grotto is quiet, save for our voices, swallowed by the sandstone, and for that, I am thankful.

“Where am I?”

“Estate Mattucci. Outside Lucca. You were in our fields.”

He nods.

A pause as his gaze searches mine, a question in his expression.

“You are safe here.”

His chest rises and falls. Then, he nods.

It is then I realize I’m holding the porridge. I set the wooden tray on a nearby cask. “You must stay in the grotto. There are German patrols.”

I don’t mention the request. Not yet. Not until he is ready to travel.

“Thank you.” He picked up the bowl of polenta, a piece of the crusty bread. “And yes, I will. I’m sorry.”

I want to know more. Where is he from? How did he arrive here?

“Let me see your wound.” My voice is my protector, it betrays nothing of my thoughts, my fears.

He draws in a breath, but nods and turns, showing me my handiwork in his back. It is inflamed, of course, but his body seems to be fighting it. “I will make you a poultice. It should take down the swelling.”

“Are you a doctor?” He dips the bread into the polenta.

“No. But my mother is an herbalist—or she was. And I’ve doctored my brother’s wounds.”

With the bite of bread, he makes a sound deep in his chest, almost a growl, except in pleasure. He swallows. “Heaven.”

Then he smiles, full on, something bright and beautiful.