Antonina lay motionless under the covers, under the hand-stitched coverlet that had been her mother’s when she was a girl, and listened to the soft sounds of her father showing Niccolò to the spare room. The house grew quiet, and the last of the evening light faded away behind her shuttered window, and still her mind would not rest. Hours passed, her silent tears dampening her pillow, and still she could not sleep.

She ought to have convinced her father that they needed to leave. She ought to have persisted. She ought to have been more imaginative.

Why had she never suggested they go into hiding, all three of them, somewhere else in Italy? They might have found sanctuary with Father Bernardi, or another of her father’s many friends, and done so years earlier.

She ought to have known. She ought to have convinced her father to try.

At the first glimmering of dawn she put on her robe and crept down the hall to the kitchen. They hadn’t any coffee, nor even any caffè d’orzo, but after some rummaging she unearthed a tiny packet of dried chamomile blossoms. A simple tisane, then; it would warm her through, if nothing else.

She sat at the kitchen table, warming her hands around her cup, and watched the blossoms unfold, petal by wizened petal, in the steaming water. Footsteps, soft and measured, sounded in the corridor.

“Papà?”

But it was Niccolò who came to stand at the threshold. “I believe he’s still sleeping. Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all,” she said, though she’d have preferred to remain alone awhile longer. “Would you like some of this? It’s a chamomile tisane. We don’t have any coffee.”

He smiled a little shyly. “Yes, please. My mother used to make it for us when we were poorly.”

They sat together in silence, waiting for the tisane to cool. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted after a few minutes.

“I’m sure I would feel the same way in your shoes.”

“What about you? It’s not even six o’clock.”

Another tentative smile. “I keep farmer’s hours. I can’t remember the last time I slept past dawn.” He lifted his cup, but set it down without drinking. “We should probably leave soon. And you should eat something if you can. We’ve a long day ahead.”

“I suppose I should make something for my father. He isn’t . . . he’s a very good doctor but he has no notion of how to take care of himself. What will he do without me here? And he’s sent Marta away, too.”

“He and I spoke about that last night. He told me they’ve found a room for him at the casa. That way he’ll be close to your mother, and can even care for the other residents if they fall ill.”