She nodded, a little embarrassed not to have thought of it before. “That makes sense. I had better go and wake him.”

“You do that,” he agreed, “and in the meantime I’ll make us some breakfast. Do you have any bread?”

“A little, yes. It’s in the box on the shelf. And there’s a jar of apricot jam in the cupboard.”

Antonina hesitated outside her father’s door, listening, before tapping on it lightly. “Papà? Are you awake?”

“Come in.”

He was awake, and dressed, and had just slipped his feet into his shoes. Rather than stand and watch as he struggled to lace them, she went to kneel at his feet and helped him, one last time, with the troublesome task.

“Thank you,” he said, ever courteous, but he made no move to rise, nor did she stand. Instead they simply looked in each other’s eyes, memorizing beloved features, letting the silence speak for them.

“Will you promise me something?” he asked at last.

“Anything, Papà.”

“You must try your best to fit in. I know it will be unfamiliar, but you must try. Eat the food they give you. Do the work that is expected of you. Never complain.”

“Do you think it will be awful there?”

“Not at all. Life in such places is simple, of course, and without most of the modern conveniences we take for granted here. But you’ll be safe, and that’s what truly matters to me and your mother.”

“I’ll be so lonely.”

“That I doubt. Signor Gerardi is an intelligent and educated man, and he feels certain his family will like and accept you. Don’t forget that Father Bernardi will be nearby, too.”

“But I won’t be with you and Mamma,” she protested, still unable to accept his assurances.

“Only if you chart the distance on a map.” He took her hands in his, kissed them, and pressed both to his heart. “Since the day you were born, my Nina, you have been here. And here you shall remain.”

“Oh, Papà,” she whispered, blinking back fresh tears. “Please don’t—”

“Signor Gerardi will be wondering what has become of us,” he interrupted, ever so gently. “Will you help me up?”

She nodded, swallowing back the plea that still trembled on her lips, and helped him rise. Then she followed him back along the corridor to the kitchen, her steps marked by the echoing lament of her heart. Too late, too late, too late.

Niccolò had cut the bread into slices and spread them with the jam. “Good morning, Dr. Mazin.” He waited until her father was seated and had helped himself to a slice of bread and jam before taking the smallest slice for himself.