“How may I help you?” she asked, silently cursing him for his curiosity—and herself for stupidly falling asleep. “Nico is in the fields with the other men,” she lied. Now she had to pray he wouldn’t insist on her fetching him. He wasn’t far, only in San Zenone for a few days, helping his widowed aunt with the haying on her farm. She ought to have told Zwerger the truth, for what if he—

“Would you believe it is you I’ve come to see? Only a friendly visit, I swear. Merely to see how you are settling in to life in this rustic place. It must be quite a change for a Venetian like yourself.”

“I’m from Padua. I only moved to Venice for my schooling.”

“Why Venice? There is a school of nursing in Padua, is there not?”

What should she say? This wasn’t a topic she and Nico had ever discussed. “Yes, but I . . . I started late in the year and there were no places left, and in Venice there was a place for me. At the hospital. And I was able to . . . to start right away.”

He nodded, his expression blandly agreeable, as if this all made perfect sense to him. “What was the urgency?”

“I . . . I needed to go to work,” she stammered. “I had stayed on at the orphanage for too long. I had to . . . to find my own way.” Lies piling upon lies—how would she ever keep them straight?”

“I see. That was very enterprising of you. Leaving the only home you had ever known.”

“What else was I to do?”

This question he ignored. Instead he examined the immaculate material of his uniform, flicking away imaginary specks of lint, and when that was done he turned in a slow circle, his eyes squinting even beneath the shade of his cap, his mouth pursed tight.

Presently he returned his attention to Nina. “What was your maiden name? I meant to ask the last time I was here.”

“Marzoli.”

“Not a common name in this part of Italy.”

“My parents were from Rome, or near to Rome. At least that’s what I was told. I never knew them.” Lies upon lies.

“And the name of the orphanage where you grew up?”

“Why do you need to know such a thing?” It was stupid to question him, but the words flew out of her mouth like starlings from the stable loft.

“Idle curiosity, no more. I often come across children whose parents have died or fled. It’s worth knowing of a safe haven for such innocents.”

“St. Anthony’s.”

“Of course. Yes. I remember it from my time in Padua.” His cold eyes swept over her once more. “You appear well. Am I correct in thinking you are in the family way?”

“Yes.”

“My felicitations. Your husband must be delighted.”

“He is.” When would this torturous conversation come to an end?